Page 47 of Golden Goal

“What’s up?” I sit down, trying to hide the nerves in my voice. Is he sick? Is Jill sick? They look the same they always do. A little older, but still as healthy and happy as usual.

“Mason called.”

My heart stops for a second. It’s never anything good when my brother calls. “H-he what?”

“He called. Last week.”

“Oh.” I study my hands suddenly, very interested in the small cut on my thumb. “What’d he say?”

“A lot. Becca, he sounded the way he used to.” That gives me pause, and I meet my dad’s eyes, wondering if he means what I think he does. “He’s been sober for over a month.”

I try not to get my hopes up. Mason’s been to rehab more times than I care to remember. Usually, his sobriety lasts a couple of weeks before he’s back to his old habits. I’m not sure he’s ever lasted a month before.

“That’s good.”

“He asked about you. Said he called you but hadn’t heard back. Asked me if I had any idea why you haven’t returned his call,” Dad says.

I close my eyes, remembering all the hurtful things Mason said the last time we talked. How it was my fault he was an addict. That I should have known better, being the older sibling. That I shouldn’t have introduced him to my then boyfriend’s little brother, because that was the gateway to his drug addiction.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to him.” My voice cracks with emotion.

Jill clears her throat, and I blink open my eyes. “Maybe now isn’t the time to talk about this.”

My father nods.

I stand, needing a moment to collect myself. “Be right back.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder before all but running out of the room and into the kitchen.

Blinking rapidly to stop the tears that are threatening to fall, I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with tap water. I take a few steadying inhales before gulping the water down. Setting the empty glass down, I lean against the counter and hang my head. Someone comes up behind me, but I don’t move from where I’m staring down at the sink.

“Are you okay?” Jill asks, rubbing my back.

I shrug, sucking in a breath. We’re silent for a few seconds, her rubbing circles on my back, and me trying to collect myself.

“Every time I talk to Mason it ends badly.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, but think about it. He sounds better. Your father didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know. I’m going to get changed so we can leave.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Jill.”

“Sure thing, doll.”

After getting changed into my Storm jersey, and grabbing everything I need, I sit on the chair I vacated earlier and pull on my sneakers. “We should go so we can beat traffic.”

“We’re ready whenever you are,” Dad says, standing.

The drive to the arena is quiet, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Parking and getting through security is a quick process, especially with my employee badge, and pretty soon we’re walking down the aisle to our seats at center ice, in the 200 level.

“These are great seats,” Jill says.

“They are,” Dad agrees.

As much as I’ve come to love sitting close to the glass, it’s not the best place to see all the action. That’s why I picked these seats. We’re higher up and will have a better view of what’s going on. What I didn’t take into account is that we’re sitting directly across from the Storm’s bench. I don’t have time to contemplate my choice and what it might mean because both teams take to the ice for warm-ups.

“Your team’s goalie is intimidating.”

“Huh?” I turn to my stepmom, unsure if I heard her correctly.

“I swear he’s watching us.” She points toward the ice.