Page 10 of Forbidden Hockey

“We don’t have a lot of money,” he explains, tightly, but that’s all he offers.

Her razor-sharp gaze lands on me. It’s what makes her such a tigress in the boardroom, and it’s terrifying. “Don’t you feel bad at all? Sucking up all his money on expensive hockey equipment, getting rewarded with cake,” Mom says with disgust laced into every word.

It’s like an explosion on the inside. All the pieces of me blown apart, too many to put back together—some already lost to the nothing. I jolt and take a shaky breath.

“H-Hunt said we had the money for hockey,” I offer in a raspy tone, doing my best not to fucking cry like the baby she thinks I am.

“We? You don’t have shit, kid. Do you work for it?”

“No, but?—”

“That’s enough, Mom,” Hunt says, standing. “I’m gonna grab my checkbook, give you the money you wanted, and then I’m driving you home.”

She wanted money. Is that why she’s here?

Hunt leaves, and I’m alone with her, shaking. I hate that she thinks I’m just a burden. A burden for her, a burden for Hunter. But I’m still worried about her. “W-What do you need money for, Mom? Is there something wrong with the house?”

She has a good job. Without us to take care of, she should have more than enough money.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, you fucking brat. You have him all to yourself now, all his money too. How did you do it? How did you convince him to leave?”

“I-I-I…” All that comes out are useless stutters. It’s not pain that stabs, it’s pain that lingers, a slow grinding in the marrow of my bones. It crushes down, relentless, as if the earth has shifted, and I’m pinned beneath it.

Am I taking advantage of Hunt? No. Can’t be. I’ve tried to get a fucking job multiple times. He won’t let me. But my mouth can’t form those words either. I stand up, body clenching, trying to remind myself I’m not on the ice, but it feels like I am. The adrenaline’s the same, and I want to ram something into the boards, anything to get rid of this feeling trapped under my skin.

She stands up, too, taking a defensive position. “You gonna come at me, you little shit?”

“What? No! I’d never … I …” I can’t deny that there’s probably aggression on my face, but not for her. I’d never hurt her, even if she’s being fucking horrible.

But then she’s in my face, screaming at me. It’s loud, and my brain can’t process it fast enough.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I repeat.

Her hand winds back, and I brace for impact, but it never comes. Hunt catches her wrist, stepping between us.

“Here,” he thrusts the small rectangular paper at her. “Now you’re gonna get the fuck outta my house.”

“That’s all you’re giving me?” she says, twisting her lips, staring at the check. “Was it because you already spent it on his fucking hockey gear?”

“Get your shoes on,” he says.

There’s warm wetness on my face, and heat burns my cheeks. Hunt looks me up and down but keeps his face hard.

“Clean up, bud, and set dessert for two. I’ll drive her and her car home. I’ve got a cab on the way to her place that’ll bring meback.” Even with his granite expression, I detect the softness in his tone.

“Okay,” I say in a watery voice, wiping at my face.

He makes it back in record time, silent as he slices the cake and puts a piece on each of our plates.

“I gotta learn to make this,” he says, after taking a bite.

“Why does she hate me?” I whisper.

Hunt takes a breath, letting it fall out of him. “She doesn’t hate you. She isn’t well.”

“Why did she need money?”

He seems to mull that one over. He places his fork down. “I haven’t been honest with you, Dirk. I didn’t want you to…” his voice cracks, “I was trying to preserve the memory of who she was for you.”