Page 12 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Gabrielle

I couldn’t wear pants.

And that was all I ever wore. Even in the summer, I wore light, flowy, linen slacks. I didn’t do dresses—because that just reminded me too much of the past—and I had this mad hate-on for my knobby knees and thick ankles. So I didn’t own a pair of shorts.

But the burns on the tops of my thighs refused to allow me to wear anything that even remotely grazed them. So I was forced to borrow a few pairs of linen shorts from Raina and wander around the house looking like a chubby ankled burn-victim.

Because yeah, my thighs blistered. Badly.

“We’ll just keep applying the burn ointment and they should be better in a couple of days,” Danica said, sitting across from me on the sectional in my living room while I reclined on the longer portion.

Our daughters were busy giggling in the kitchen and filling the house with the mouthwatering scent of chocolate chip cookies.

Damon didn’t say a word to me when he came into the house, but just sulked off to his bedroom like a moody teenager.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I said, grabbing a cream-colored throw pillow and covering my face. “I never spill anything. And I snorted a laugh and spilled scalding hot tea all over my lap. What is wrong with me?”

Silence.

And it lasted long enough that I peeled the pillow away from my face to glance at Danica. “What?”

My cousin checked on the girls in the kitchen over her shoulder before leaning forward toward me and bringing her voice down.

“I mean … if you’re going to get flustered and klutzy, that’s the man to cause it.

He is very nice to look at. Albeit a little young, but … ” She shrugged. “He’s old enough .”

I stared at her in horror. “Shut your mouth.”

She sat back in her seat and smirked, crossing her leg over the other. “I’m just saying …”

“Well, you can just not say another word. I met him when he was fifteen,” I said that last bit on a hiss. “It might be legal, but it’s still …”

“It’s still?” she probed.

I squirmed on the couch, then covered my face with the pillow again like some tween unable to regulate her emotions.

Maverick had barely been on the island for a day and already my entire personality—which I had carefully crafted over the years—was unravelling faster than a cheap sweater snagged on a nail.

“You can’t say that it’s wrong , because you know deep down that it’s not.”

I pulled the pillow away enough to glare at her. “Enough.”

Danica smirked. “I’m just saying …”

“Yeah, and you can stop.”

“Who wants cookies?” Laurel announced, coming over to us with a plate. Sam was in the kitchen rolling the balls for the next batch. “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Ooh, I’ll have one,” Danica said, reaching for one.

“I’m good, honey,” I said.

Laurel pouted. “You never eat any sweets, Mom. It’s so annoying.”

“Go ask your brother if he wants one.”

My daughter rolled her eyes, but acquiesced and went down the hall. A gentle knock on her brother’s door preceded her soft voice. “Damon, we made cookies. Do you want some?”

“Go away.”

“Ugh.”

“Damon,” I called from my spot on the couch, hating that I was parenting from the sofa, but not really feeling like moving because my burns still screamed at me. “Be nice.”

“No, thank you!” he practically hollered.

I pressed my thumb and index finger to my forehead. “That child is going to be the end of me with his moodiness. Here I thought Laurel would be the hormonal rollercoaster, but it’s Damon.”

“It was easier when the kids were at the same school,” Danica added. “Laurel knew what was wrong and could fill you in.”

Nodding, I sucked in a long, slow breath through my nose. “I know he’s upset with me for saying he had to finish his homework before he could play video games with Maverick, but I feel like there’s more to it. It’s not like I said no.”

Danica shrugged. “I wish I could help you. I’ve just got a severely anxious nine-year-old who has about one panic attack a week in school, requiring me to pick her up early. We’re still on a waitlist for a freaking child therapist via video chat.”

I frowned, then offered her a sympathetic half-smile. “I’m sorry. I know it’s rough on both of you. Poor kiddo.”

“I just want to help her. Get to the root of her anxiety. Medicate her if we have to. I mean, I’m on anti-anxiety meds. It’s not something to be ashamed over. They’ve helped me a lot.”

“Give Grayson a call. See if he can squeeze you in. He’s not a pediatrician, but he might have some insight. Or maybe Justine? At the very least, you could discuss getting her on a low dose of the same medication as you since you seem to have no side effects. It might help?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I might have to.” She cast another glance into the kitchen at the girls.

“Last week’s panic attack was exhausting.

Literally, the only thing that even remotely helps right now is her climbing into my lap and squeezing me as hard as she can.

It’s the deep pressure that she needs to regulate her parasympathetic nervous system, but it also keeps her from hurting herself.

” She leaned forward again and whispered. “I caught her self-harming.”

My eyes went wide, and I brought my voice down low so the girls didn’t hear us. “What?”

She nodded again. “Biting the heels of her hands, her fingers, and pulling on her hair until clumps started coming out. Then she’d shred the hair.” Danica’s green-hazel eyes, with the intricate whorls of browns and golds, welled up with tears. “It’s so scary, Gabs.”

I reached my hand out toward her and she sunk to her knees beside me, taking my hand. I gave her a squeeze. “We’re here for you. Don’t keep this to yourself.”

My cousin swallowed hard as one tear slid down her cheek.

“Why didn’t you tell us it got this bad?”

Shaking her head, she wiped the tear away, keeping one eye on the girls. “I just … I thought it would pass.”

“You need to talk to someone. Get your phone out right now and call Dr. Malone’s office. Grayson has a daughter, and even though he’s not a pediatrician, he’s not an idiot either. Maybe he has some recommendations.”

Nodding, she swallowed again and let go of my hand, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans to grab her phone. Standing up, she gave me one small, hesitant smile, then went to my bedroom to go make the call.

“Is Maverick coming back later, Mom?” Laurel asked from the kitchen.

“I’m not sure, honey. It depends what he and your brother have decided.”

A spiral of unease coiled through me at the thought of seeing Maverick again.

He flustered me. And I never got flustered.

I didn’t want to see him again because I didn’t want to risk spilling anything else on myself, or worse.

But I also hated the idea of not seeing him.

He brought my son out of his dungeon and was just a positive presence in our home. And that was only after one visit.

After a moment, Danica returned, a modicum of relief on her pretty face. She slid down to the floor beside me again. “Apparently there is a new nurse practitioner on the island. Specializes in children. She starts next week. They’ve got us coming in as one of her first appointments.”

“See,” I reached for her hand again, “it’s all going to work out. That’s so great. We definitely need more medical professionals on the island. Poor Grayson and Justine are worked ragged. And with only three nurses, they all must be exhausted.”

Danica exhaled and nodded. “Yeah, I think it’ll be good. We just have to make it through this week.”

“We will. Together.”

Maverick didn’t end up coming back over to play video games with Damon, and unfortunately, that just set my kid off into the worst mood imaginable.

A proverbial thundercloud rumbled over his head when he finally decided to grace us with his presence.

I brought out a bunch of turkey-vegetable soup I had frozen in the freezer from after Christmas, and Laurel helped me make grilled cheese sandwiches.

It was still all homemade, it just wasn’t fresh .

Like Damon’s ass was filled with rocks, he slumped himself onto the couch as Laurel and I worked together in the kitchen. His face reminded me of a horse it was so long.

“Did something happen at school today?” I asked, buttering the last slice of bread before assembling the last sandwich and placing it on the griddle with the rest of them.

No response.

“Damon Alexander Campbell, I asked you a question. And I deserve a response. Don’t be rude, please.” It wasn’t very often I had to bust out my mom voice, but when I did, and when I tossed in their middle name, my kids knew I wasn’t messing around.

He glanced at me—well, more like glared at me. “Nothing.”

“Nothing, what? Nothing happened? Or nothing you want to talk about?”

“Nothing happened,” he gritted out, his eyes drifting back to his phone.

Growling, I stomped out of the kitchen—well, stomped was a bit generous, because the skin of my thighs hurt with every move I made—and I snatched his phone out of his hands and glowered down at him.

“Now, I understand that you’re a moody, hormonal teenager, and for the most part, I allow you a wide berth when it comes to your moods.

But you’re being disrespectful and rude.

Did something happen at school to cause this shift in your mood, or do I need to call the principal? ”

“It’s nothing. Just let it go.” He reached for his phone again, but I held it out of his grasp and shook my head.

“A phone is a privilege, not a right. And right now, I’m revoking that privilege. What. Happened?”

He rolled his eyes. “Brad Vasser said our family was in a cult.” He stared at my knees, not at my face.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Finally, he glanced up at me. “Is that true?”

“Where does Brad Vasser get his information?” I asked evenly.