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And, dammit, that’s what I’m doing.

As soon as we stop outside the visitor’s lounge, I spot the woman I’m here to see through the narrow glass window in the door. She’s where I get my brown hair and blue eyes, tan skin, and stubborn attitude from. Everything else is my father’s genetics. The shape of my nose, the squareness to my jaw, the distinct cheekbones, and my height. I suppose you could argue I also get my determination from him since he was hell-bent on making a better life for himself by divorcing Mom when I was twelve.

Their separation was fairly anticlimactic. No drama. Minimal fighting. They had split custody, and I was given the choice over who to live with. Had I wanted to go with Dad? Fuck yeah. He’s the person I got my love of hockey from. We used to sit together and watch the Bruins kick ass every season. He’s the one who bought me my first Bruin’s jersey that started the collection of paraphernalia that hung on my bedroom wall growing up. I told him I was going to play for Boston’s team one day, and he said he believed in me.

Deep down, though, I knew somebody needed to be around to take care of Mom. And if he was leaving, that meant I had to stay in case she had one of her many episodes that Dad decided he was too tired of dealing with.

I get it. Everybody has their breaking point, and he found his after fifteen years of marriage. I stopped being angry at him a long time ago for the responsibility placed on my shoulders. It’s not like Mom or Dad ever expected me to be the man of the house, it was just what I knew needed to be done. And because I’d let go of the resentment I had toward him, I got to spend a lot of time with him during my visits at his house enjoying everything we did. Hiking. Going to the batting cages. Hockey practices with him cheering me on in the crowds. Watching sports games and rooting for our favorite teams.

If I stayed mad, I would’ve felt guilty for the rest of my life when we got the call about the car accident that took his and his wife’s life. It was accidental and quick, but that didn’t make the loss hurt any less. The only thing Mom and I can be grateful for is that he probably didn’t feel a thing.

So, here I am. Twenty-four, playing for a hockey team that I never rooted for in my life. All so I could get my mother into the best care facility for her condition.

I didn’t know anything about why she was the way she was growing up. I thought it wasmewho triggered her. She hadher ups and downs that sometimes were hard to deal with, but she was rarely violent, and she always supported me through whatever I wanted to do even though I could tell she struggled. Her being diagnosed as bipolar didn’t change how much I wanted to help her. If anything, it made me work that much harder to gain her the resources we couldn’t afford before.

Logan’s opened up a world of possibilities for her through their extensive inpatient program, which is why I didn’t mind writing them a big check for her stay. Working my ass off for her is the only way I can show that I love her—that I’m here no matter what.

If Mom could support me with a big smile on her face as we lived paycheck to paycheck, I could do this for her. Finally.

As soon as I walk into the room, Mom turns to me with a big smile spreading across her face. Her dark brown hair has patches of silver that remind me she’s in her fifties. She looks as small as I remember—petite and…frail. But she’s gained some weight back so her collarbones and cheeks aren’t so distinctive, which means they’ve had better luck feeding her than I’ve managed over the years.

God only knows I could only do so much before threatening to take her in to get a feeding tube. I’m positive that isn’t even legal, but the threat worked for a while. Even if it was one piece of toast or a few mouthfuls of soup, it was better than nothing.

She stands, opening her arms. “My boy.”

I’m typically not a hugger, but I don’t know how badly I need one until her skinny arms squeeze around my torso.

“I missed you,” she says into my chest.

I close my eyes and fight back the heavy emotion that swarms my throat. “I’ve missed you too, Ma. It’s good seeing you.”

She pinches the side of my waist before pulling away with a frown. The movement makes wrinkles form at the corners of her mouth that match the lines crinkling the skin by her eyes.

“How much exercise are they making you do? There’s hardly an ounce of fat on you. And you’ve bulked up.”

My lips threaten to curl upward. “That’d be all the training we go through. It’s part of the job. It was bound to happen.”

She pats my stomach and pulls out her chair before sitting down. “Well, you need to eat more. You’re too skinny. Remember the grilled cheese I used to make you? You loved them.”

This time, I don’t fight the smile. Because when was the last time my mother sounded like a mother?

“Yeah,” I murmur, easing into the chair as I think about the charred grilled cheeses she used to make me with canned tomato soup. The bread was almost always burnt to an inedible crisp, and the soup was watered down, but she tried.

And when she tried…well, there was no better feeling in the world. “I do remember.”

And I’m glad she does too.

*

People probably thinkmaking the twenty-three-man roster for the Penguins, or any NHL team, would make you locked in. Confident. And that’s usually what I like to portray. Cool, calm, collected, with a mixture of cocky. Because not only did I get scouted, but I got drafted, signed a seven-figure contract,andmade the tight cut for the season because Coach Pelfrey believes I can add something to his team. Normally, I don’t think twice about my ability on the ice.

When I’m out there, I’m in the zone. Focused. As soon as my blades touch the ice, it’s like I’m a different person. Nothing outside of the rink matters; only the scoreboard. I fixate on thebest offensive play to get the puck to the goal, and I’m damn good at it.

Anythingoutsideof the ice…

Well, that’s where my skillset wavers.

My palms sweat as I move the curtain back to check out the crowd of journalists gathering in the room that’s set up for our press conference.