I know. Still scared.
Roman
Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.
But I don’t go home.
I drive to the hospice facility because suddenly I need to see my mom, need to sit beside her and remember what actually matters when everything else is falling apart.
She’s sleeping when I arrive, breathing steady and even.
I sink into the chair I’ve worn smooth over the past weeks and just watch her.
“I think I just ruined my career,” I tell her. “Told off the team doctor. It was the right thing but probably really stupid.”
She doesn’t answer. She hasn’t really been lucid in two days.
But talking to her helps anyway, even if it’s just me talking to myself.
“Roman thinks he can fix it. He’s probably already planning something overprotective and well-meaning.” I reach for her hand, careful of the IV. “You’d tell me that standing up for what’s right is always worth it. That a player’s well-being matters more than someone’s feelings.”
Her hand is cool in mine. Fragile.
Every time I hold it I’m aware that these moments are numbered, that soon I’ll be sitting beside an empty bed remembering the weight of her hand in mine.
“I love you,” I whisper. “And I’m going to be okay. Even when you’re gone. Even when Winters comes after me. I’m going to figure out how to be okay.”
I stay another hour before exhaustion drives me to Roman’s apartment.
He opens the door before I can knock, like he’s been waiting.
He pulls me inside, wrapping me in his arms. “How’s your mom?”
“Sleeping.” I lean into him, suddenly so tired I can barely stand. “How was the rest of the game?”
“We won. I got an assist.” His arms tighten. “But I was thinking about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You went to war with Winters, drove an injured player to the hospital, then went to see your dying mother.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to not be fine.”
And just like that I’m crying.
Real, ugly crying into his chest while he holds me and doesn’t try to fix it or tell me it’ll be okay or offer empty platitudes.
“I’m so tired,” I admit between sobs. “Of all of it. Mom dying. Winters. Trying to be good at my job when I can barely function. I’m so fucking tired, Roman.”
“I know.” His hand rubs circles on my back. “But we’re going to handle it.”
“You can’t fix this one.”
“Watch me.”
The way he says it makes me pull back to look at him. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing you need to worry about right now.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. Shower. Bed. We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow.”
“I smell like hospital.”
