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I also don’t know how to respond, so I just stand here, staring at him.

Nowthe pause between us is awkward. I decide to steer us back into safer territory. Not that any territory with Camden is safe. It all seems strewn with dangers like quicksand and sudden lava flows.

“Level with me—what are the odds that Liam will give up on his hockey obsession?” I cross my fingers dramatically, and Camden smirks. “I mean, I’m his biggest fan and supporter, but I am also well aware he isn’t, how should I say …coordinated.”

“Before today? I might have said the odds were stacked in favor of him quitting.”

“You think he’smorelikely to stay now that he’s had his arm sliced open?” I gape at him.

“It’s less about the injury and more about how he handled himself. You should be proud. He’s a really good kid.”

I find myself leaning forward, suddenly eager to hear all the details I didn’t get earlier because I was too busy being furious and then passing out at the sight of blood. “What makes you feel like he’ll stick with hockey after that?”

Camden considers for a moment. I’m biased, but he has a really niceconsideringface. “I’m sure players in every sport feel this way, but hockey really does take a different kind of mindset. When Liam got hurt, he wasn’t concerned about his injury. He only wanted to make sure the kid who hurt him wasn’t traumatized. Liam smiled at the boy and told him that it’s just part of hockey.”

Camden pauses, probably trying to figure out what to do with me since I’m actively trying to hold back tears. I cry so much more than I used to, and often for the weirdest, stupidest things.

Though I guess this isn’t stupid. It’sawesome. One of those moments when the pride in my kid feels powerful enough to crack open my chest.

“Liam has a long way to go with skating,” Camden says. “But mentally, he’s got something you can’t teach. Something most kids don’t have. So, if he’s determined, yeah—I could see him continuing in one of the youth leagues.”

I sniff. “That’s … cool. Thanks for telling me.”

“Did you not want him to play hockey?” Camden asks.

“I don’t know.”

He pauses for a long moment, looking like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something. “Is it because of me?”

The answer is much more complicated than that, but avoiding Camden and thoughts of Camden is certainly a part of it. “He’s just never shown any interest in sports before …”

You, I think.

“Now,” I say. “Before now. I thought he’d try it, realize he’s better at academics, and then give up.”

“He seems pretty dogged when he knows what he wants.” His gaze holds mine steadily. “Or doesn’t want. Not unlike his mother.”

Before I can even register the compliment, Camden starts to walk away. “We should probably get back downstairs and find Parker.”

This time, I don’t stop my eyes from wandering.

CHAPTER8

Camden

When you walkinto your house after a game, thinking about the woman who has occupied most of your thoughts for months and nearlyallof them for days, nothing will obliterate those thoughts faster than finding someone standing in your kitchen in their underwear.

Especially when that person is a sixty-three-year-old man, and his underwear consists of saggy boxers so well-worn the fabric is almost sheer. At least he’s wearing a shirt. A white one—Why do people ever wear white clothing by choice?—with yellowing armpits and a hole by his shoulder from which back hair sprouts in a little tuft.

“Hey, Mike,” I say. “I’m home.”

“Cam!” He turns with a smile and surprise in his eyes. Despite his clothing choice, his face is clean shaven, as always, and his silver hair is neatly combed back. He frowns when he sees what I’m wearing. “Did you have a game tonight?”

Back in the day, Mike would never have missed one of my games. But I didn’t tell him about tonight—or my three other games since he arrived—because he would have insisted on coming. And while I did worry about him here alone during the games, I would have worried more about him in the Summit.

“Nah,” I say, hating the taste of the lie.

We beat the Dingoes three to one tonight, no thanks to me. I’m not a star defenseman, but more of a grinder—a player who won’t get a lot of points or a lot of notice because I’m generally doing all the right things, quietly. Until this season, in which I’ve been noticeable for all the wrong reasons. I wouldn’t be shocked if I’m a healthy scratch and sit out for at least one of our upcoming road games. There are guys who would love my spot, and I’m well aware that I’m not fighting hard enough for it. I just can’t bring myself to care. My head is in too many other places at the moment.