Page 9 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

The Promise

Chance

“Come on,” I grunt under my breath, willing my legs to keep moving. Sweat drips from my forehead, stinging my eyes, but the burn in my muscles is good. Familiar. It keeps my mind from wandering too far into the guilt and doubt that’s been plaguing me since I moved here almost a month ago.

More than once, my mind drifts to my excruciatingly hot coworker.

Anthony is the kind of guy who’s hard to ignore, even when he’s being a bit grumpy.

He’s a few inches shorter than I am, but where most of my size and definition are in my legs and ass—thanks to years of hockey conditioning—Anthony is built like an all-around athlete: Legs, ass, chest, and arms. He’s compact muscle from head to toe, wrapped in tanned, nearly olive skin that glows under the shop lights.

His dark hair looks like it started the day perfectly styled but has since been tousled by him constantly running his hands through it. His nervous energy is fucking adorable.

The man is stunning. And those beautiful lips. I’m pretty sure he’s Italian, which is my weakness. Boston has no shortage—and I’ve had my fair share. I’ll have to ask on my next shift. You know, for research purposes.

But it’s the eyes. Not only are they a gorgeous light hazel that contrasts perfectly with his skin tone and dark hair, but they’re also full of mystery, depth, and something darker I haven’t quite pinpointed yet. Pain, maybe?

It’s probably best I try to ignore my attraction to him anyway. I’m fresh out of a situationship no one back home knows about, and I don’t even know if Anthony is into guys. Honestly, I’m kind of afraid to ask. He seems a little buttoned-up.

I’m going to see if I can get him to relax a bit with my undeniable charm, sharp wit, and impeccable sense of humor. I mean, I am me , after all.

Adjusting the speed on the treadmill for a cool-down, I grip the handrails and catch my breath, staring at my reflection in the dark window. My face is flushed, my hair damp and messy. I swipe my towel across my face, grab my water bottle, and head back to my apartment.

The shower is a welcome relief. I let the hot water wash away the tension in my shoulders, scrubbing the sweat and salt off my skin. By the time I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, I feel human again.

In the kitchen, I get to work making eggs, toast, and a protein shake.

I pour myself some coffee, inhaling its rich, bitter scent, and set everything on the new dining table I had delivered.

While eating, I check my work schedule for the upcoming week and open the same email I’ve looked at a hundred times over the past few days.

I scroll through the pictures and break into a smile. Am I really going to do this?

Fuck it. Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and text my neighbor, Lexi. She was one of the first people I met when I moved into the complex, her sassy personality making her impossible to ignore.

Lexi’s a beautiful creature. She’s freaking blessed genetically. She said her father is from Kenya and her mother is Puerto Rican. She then proceeded to tell me the reason she runs her mouth is because she’s ‘Blurtorican’. I immediately needed to be friends with her.

But seriously, she’s stunning. Perfect light brown skin and bouncy curls that brush her shoulders and a smile that’s disarming.

And her full-sleeve tattoos? They’re works of art.

Both arms are covered in intricate designs crawling up her shoulders to the base of the back of her neck.

All geometric shapes blending seamlessly with florals and abstract art. I need to find out who does her ink.

She’s fun and leaves no doubt she is not to be fucked with. We became fast friends.

Me: Feel like running an errand with me in about 2 hours?

The reply bubble comes up instantly.

Lexi: Does this involve snacks?

Me: Snacks are negotiable.

Lexi: I’ll allow it. See you in 2 hours, loser.

After cleaning up my breakfast dishes, I grab my phone from the table.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s time for a video call with Ma.

The phone feels heavier in my hand than it should as I take my coffee out into the living room and settle on the couch.

Sundays are always for Mom. It’s a rule I insisted on before I left Boston.

We text every day, but Sundays? Sundays I need to talk to her. To see her face.

I pull up her contact and hit the video call button. She comes through after a couple rings.

“How’s my baby boy?”

I break into a smile. Her Boston accent is mild, like mine, but hearing it gives me a small, comforting piece of home. “Hey, Ma. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “Busy with the garden. The tomatoes are taking over again, and I had to wrestle the neighbor’s cat out of my hydrangeas yesterday, the little shit.”

I chuckle, settling onto the couch. “Sounds about right. How’s the weather?”

“The leaves just started changing. It’s nice, but you know, it’s almost September, the cold is coming,” she says. “Never mind our weather. How are you holding up with the heat out there? You surviving?”

“Barely,” I admit. “It’s like living in a fuckin’ oven, Ma. I keep waiting for it to cool down, but my neighbor told me that doesn’t happen here until, like, November.”

“November?” she exclaims. “I’d melt before then. And language, Chance.”

I laugh, shaking my head. The world I come from isn’t exactly prim and proper, but she always tries to get me to tone it down.

“Sorry, Ma. But didn’t you just call the neighbor’s cat a little shit?”

“ You’re a little shit,” she fires back with a laugh.

“I’m your favorite.”

“Yes, you are. You’re also an only child, Chance.”

She chuckles, the sound warm and familiar, but I catch something underneath it. A strain, subtle and unmistakable. I know it too well. I lived it for twenty-one years. That house is toxic.

The guilt starts to trickle in.

“How have things been with him?”

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to make my stomach churn with worry.

“Everything’s fine, don’t concern yourself with any of that,” she says finally.

“Ma,” I press, my tone firmer now. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

“I am telling you,” Ma insists. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. The man’s barely home anymore.”

The guilt I’ve been carrying since I left roars to life, heavy and suffocating.

“Ma, I—”

“No,” she interrupts gently. “Chance, stop it. You didn’t abandon me. I told you to go. You needed to get out, to get away from situations and people that were holding you back. It was time.”

“But—”

“Chance,” she says again, softer this time. “You were always protecting me. Always stepping in. But it’s not your job. I’m your mother. I’m supposed to protect you .”

“Ma,” I insist quietly, “if anything happens, if you ever need me, you call. Day or night. Murph’s only a few minutes away. He’ll handle it, okay?”

“I know, honey, and I will. But listen, you promised me you’d get out. That you’d go find your heart. That you’d live the kind of life you know he wouldn’t allow you to here. I’ll call Murph myself if I need to.”

“I did promise you I’d get out Ma, but I also said if he even looks at you wrong, I’m coming back.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is stronger. “No, Chance. The promise I want from you is that you won’t do that.”

I give her a sigh. I love my mother, but I’ll never understand why she stayed with him.

For years now, my presence became a barrier my father couldn’t ignore after one particularly violent incident showed him exactly what I was capable of.

He’s been quieter and more subdued in the six years since that night, which was the primary reason I felt somewhat at peace with leaving.

Still, I couldn’t shake the unease, the feeling that his temper might resurface the moment I wasn’t there to keep it in check.

To ease my mind, I asked Murph to keep an eye out for her. I may have walked away from day-to-day involvement with The Doves, but they are brothers and sisters for life.

The conversation with Ma shifts back to lighter topics.

She asks about my job at the record store, whether I’m eating enough, and if I’ve decided on joining a hockey club so she knows whether to ship my gear.

I tell her I haven’t decided on hockey yet.

I reassure her it’s not that I don’t want to make it work out here.

I just want to focus on pursuing other things first. New beginnings, new interests.

But the heaviness lingers, unspoken, hanging between us like a shadow. We both wish things were different.

“I love you, Ma,” I say as we wrap up the call.

“I love you too, my baby boy,” she says, her voice warm despite everything.

“Promise me one last thing before we hang up.”

“What’s that, Ma?”

“Promise me you’ll never, ever come back to Boston.”

“Ma—”

“Promise me, Chance.”

I pause, the words catching in my throat. “I promise.”

“Good. I’ll come visit when the weather sucks here.”

When we hang up, I sit there for a while, staring at the darkened screen.

The guilt doesn’t fade. I feel powerless .