Page 44 of Ruled Out

So, I went for blueberry pancakes this morning. I’ll hand you this round; they are superior and an excellent pre-shift breakfast.

Mia’s text comes through just as I’m getting ready to board my flight back to Dallas. The thought of going home for four days in the bye week is anything but the rest and recuperation the break in the NHL schedule was originally designed to provide. And based on the phone call I took from Mom last night, I’m about to walk into hell and a whole lot of painful memories. Each step I take toward boarding the plane, my lungs find it harder to inflate.

But hearing from the girl I want to kiss more desperately than I need air right now somehow has me smiling like a fucking Cheshire cat as I hand over my boarding pass to be scanned.

Me

There’s an even better pancake house I go to with the boys on cheat day. I’ll take you there when I get back.

What are you doing, Jessie? You’re supposed to be staying away from her, not fucking taking her out.

S

You’re heading home right now then?

My chest deflates when she doesn’t accept my offer to take her out.

Me

Yeah, about to board, so I gotta go.

Stay away from her. Keep her safe.

Though my body doesn’t get the memo from my brain as my fingers type out another message before I switch my cell to airplane mode and pocket it.

Me

I’ll text you when I land. Have a good shift at work.

I pulloff my black hoodie when I step into the Dallas air. It’s only fifty-eight, but the climate is a whole world away from Seattle.

When I played for the Destroyers for a grand total of one season, the team paid for a rental, and I planned to buy a place for myself in the city, using my signing bonus. That never happened though. Somehow, my parents managed to spend every last dime in a matter of months, and when my season hit a tailspin and my drinking increased, I knew I was on my final warning. Good thing I didn’t commit to anything since I’d have another expense in a city I had no reason to be in.

Heading for the pickup zone, I put my bag in the open trunk and climb into a taxi, hesitating as I consider what destination to provide. Mom is my priority, but the selfish part of me wants to head straight to my hotel, grab a shower, and make for the bar. I despise myself for thinking about it, especially when it’s not even one in the afternoon.

“Where are we heading then, buddy?” The driver eyes me through the rearview mirror.

I pull at the back of my neck. Going “home” shouldn’t be this fucking difficult. “South Boulevard–Park Row,” I finally say on an exhale.

The driver nods once and narrows his eyes in question.

I know he recognizes me but is working to keep his reaction hidden. There are two kinds of people when they see a famous athlete from their hometown. The squealers, who don’t know what to do first—jump up and down, grab their friends, or take a photo and post it on their social media. Then there’re people like this guy right here—the play-it-cool types.

But I know what he’s thinking:Why in the hell is Jessie Callaghan heading to the worst part of Dallas in his bye week?

The streets pass by in a blur for the entire twenty-five-minute drive, and when we pull up outside the house I hoped I’d never have to see again when I moved out for college, I’m hit with a repeated realization.

Nothing has changed.

I remember when I was ten, and my dad told me if I painted the front porch, he would pay me twenty dollars. To me, that was like winning the lotto. Three entire days, I worked in the summer heat until I could barely move my wrist. The day I finished, I couldn’t wait for him to get home from whatever bar he was at and show him. The money could buy me more candy than I could carry, but it was his pride that I was really craving. His acceptance of me.

For once, I just wanted his hand around my shoulder instead of in between my ribs. Yet that was exactly what happened when he got back home that night. It was almost dark when he flew into my bedroom and pinned me against the wall, screaming at me that the finish was shit, that I’d missed parts. He pulled the twenty-dollar bill he’d been waving in my face for days and slammed it flat against my forehead, still screaming in my face.

I never did get the money. Instead, I’d gotten an even bigger beating for being a “useless little prick.”

I climb out of the taxi and hand the driver some cash, pulling my bag out of the trunk.

The front yard is overgrown, and the old tan leather couch that was in my baby photos still sits out front—Mom’s favored smoking spot. The porch hasn’t been touched since that day, and as I take the couple of steps and pull open the screen, I don’t know what’s going to give out first—the wood beneath my feet or the door barely hanging on its hinges.