CHAPTER 25

BEING BURNED BY HOT BACON GREASE IS DEFINITELY NOT ON MY KINK LIST

KAYDEN

The smell of bacon as soon as I open my door is a reminder that my mom is still here. I don't know how many times I woke up to that smell in the years after Dad left. Bacon and frozen pot pies were the only things she would cook. Always in the microwave, and never for me. Eventually, the smell just became part of the house—a suffocating, omnipresent reminder of what Dad did to her.

She's been here three nights. Three nights and three mornings without that nauseating smell. Until today. This is the most time we've spent together since I was eighteen, and she hasn't once tried to pull me back under. I should be happy.

It's also been three nights with Emory. I can't believe how quickly I've gotten used to having someone next to me in bed. How quickly I've grown to expect those mossy green eyes staring at me when I wake up. Of course, that stare probably means she's plotting ways to murder me for putting her through this. But she wasn't there this morning, and the bed seemed emptier than it's ever been. Empty like it will be every morning once this is over.

I do my best to breathe through my mouth as I walk out to the living room where I find Mom. She's sitting on the couch, shoulders hunched and face buried in her phone. It makes my stomach knot. This isn't just the same smell. It's the same pose I saw every day for years while life went on around her. While I grew up despite her. She hasn't changed at all, and I want to be sick.

But unlike all those days before, this time she notices me. She smiles and turns her attention to the kitchen, and I follow her gaze. To Emory standing at the stove. And I know what Mom expects.

I pad silently up to Emory and wrap my hands around her waist from behind. She jumps just as I press my chin against her shoulder. Even without the heels she almost always wears, she's slightly taller than me, and I never knew how hot that could be. I didn't know how hot a lot of things could be until I met her.

"Sorry," I whisper. "Mom's watching us."

Emory must force herself to relax because her body goes just a little softer in my arms. "So you're saying there would be a witness if I poured this hot bacon grease on you like you deserve for sneaking up on me like that?"

"Hmm, being burned by hot bacon grease is definitely not on my kink list. Sorry." I turn my head just a little and see Mom's attention still fixed on us, the smile still playing across her lips. "Sorry about this too." Before Emory can say anything, I kiss the crook of her neck. My eyes close as I feel her pulse under my lips. If I didn't know better, I would think it speeds up just a little as I kiss her. But I do know better. It's all fake. I make a loud pop as I pull away so Mom will be sure to hear.

"I will be so glad when your mom is gone, and we don't have to do this anymore."

I wish I felt the same way. I'm twenty-six, and I've never liked having a woman spend more than one night in a row. Not even Hannah, when I tried to convince myself I could settle for her. Before I broke her the way Dad broke Mom. But the thought of Emory leaving drains every bit of emotion from me. I never knew how hollow my life was until she came here. And I don't know how I can ever go back to that.

"What if you…" I close my eyes, letting the warmth of her body on mine build my courage. "What if you stayed?" The words are as quiet as a breath, and I hope Emory won't hear them. But when her body tightens, I know she does. And I know her answer. It feels like someone reaches inside me and squeezes everything out of my heart.

"I mean, just in the guest room." Asking her was a mistake, and I try desperately to cover for it. "Obviously. Not like this. We'd barely even know the other was here."

"Kayden, I don't know if that's a good idea. This is already?—"

"Oh, you cooked breakfast for me, babe?" I interrupt her—loudly to cut off the words I know are coming next. Emory's right. I should have never thought it, let alone said it. "You know I love when you surprise me with breakfast."

Emory spins and studies me with narrowed eyes. After a second, or maybe a hundred of them, she opens her mouth, and my world drops. Is she really going to make me hear it? But before she says a word, she glances over my shoulder. "Just like I love a man who does the dishes. Which you always do, don't you… babe? "

Mom snickers behind me. I took care of everything around the house when I was growing up—I didn't have a choice—but I hated doing dishes. I would let them pile in the sink all week long, hoping that Mom could pull herself back together just long enough to do this one thing for me. But she never did. "Of course, I do. You know I would do anything for you. But I don't have time to eat or do dishes now. I have a busy morning."

"Oh, you do?" Emory asks. "That doesn't at all seem like a convenient excuse to get out of doing them."

"It's not." I lean in so she's the only one who can hear me. "Leave them for me. I have practice this morning, but I'll do them when I get back." It's technically true. I do have practice, just not for the Sting. But I can't let her know about this. I've already let myself get too close to her.

"Be back in a couple of hours," I announce as I walk toward the elevator. "See you two then."

As the doors open, Emory growls, and I chuckle. But then I hear my mom's hushed voice. "He's always had a problem saying 'I love you,' honey. Don't let it get to you."

I'm only two steps inside the elevator when she says it, and I freeze. I want to go back and defend myself. I want to tell her that the words don't matter. Actions do. Taking care of her for eight years after Dad left is what mattered. Those three words Mom whispered to me at night when she thought I was asleep? Empty promises.

How many times did I look for her in the bleachers, never finding her? How many times did I have to ask my friends' parents for rides to practice because she couldn't leave the house?

I never once blamed her for being like that. I knew exactly whose fault that was, and I still hate him for it. But I blamed her for not even trying. For not realizing that I was a kid who needed his mom.

So no, I couldn't tell her I loved her because I saw just how meaningless those words were.

I wish I could tell her that now, but before I turn around, the doors close behind me and the elevator starts to descend. I know I wouldn't have been able to tell her anyway. The words would have stuck in my throat the way they always do. Even if they did come out, nothing would have changed. Words can never change the past.

Still, her words echo in my head as I pull up outside the rink, and my insides are just as twisted as when she said them. But the instant I step out of my SUV, the welcoming sting of late November air hits my face, and the chaos of kids gathering around me makes me forget everything.

"Morning, Coach B." They greet me. "What are we doing today?"

I sling the equipment bag over my shoulder and look at them. "Laps. Lots of laps." I laugh as they groan. "But then we're going to do some edge work to make you all more agile. And maybe, if you don't complain too much, we might work on our wrist shots at the end of practice." It's amazing how quickly the groans turn to sounds of excitement. "Oh, Noah and Sophia? Before I forget, remind your parents about those permission slips. Otherwise, you won't be able to travel to Provo with us for the game next weekend. "

"We'll tell them, Coach B. Again." Sophia rolls her eyes as she walks ahead of me toward the door to the rink. "Adults these days. So irresponsible."

No matter what I feel before these practices, I can't stop smiling once I'm around the kids. I'm not Kayden Bouchard to them. Not anymore. The novelty of that wore off after the first few practices. I'm not the top scorer in the league. I'm not the superstar center who's determined to take his team to the finals this year after just barely missing out last year. I'm just Coach B.