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Miller’s head cocks, trying to gauge whether he believes me or not.

Some of the guys smack me in amusement, others grin wryly like they enjoy the perks of our job as much as I’m implying I do.

The women. The attention. It’s nice at times, I can’t deny that.

But the easy sex isn’t high on my priority list like it seems to be for some of the others.

Have I indulged? Yeah. At Lindon, the guys at the frat house said I should consider charging the girls that stayed the night in my room a fee since there were frequent visitors.

That died down when Olive and I got involved because she proved to be more worth my while than any of those others combined.

I could talk game with her, banter and get it dished back.

She wasn’t like the others, and I liked it.

Way too much.

But now my time is better spent training, working out, and focusing on things beyond how to get off when I need relief. My hand does the trick just fine when I feel pent up.

For the rest of the night, I nurse my drink, order one more, and then cut myself off. I know what repercussions will happen if I don’t.

One other server comes upstairs while Belle is otherwise occupied, presumably with our captain after he disappeared, and she doesn’t hide the hungry look she gives more than one of us as she passes out food and drink refills.

Her tits are on full display in the deep cut of her tight dress and her lips are thick and painted with the type of invitation any of us would probably accept in a heartbeat if she made the first move.

I sure as hell would if I decide to down another scotch.

Something feels off, though.

And whatever that inkling is rising in the pit of my stomach has me unsettled. “I think I’m going to head out,” I tell the guys, tapping Berkley to move so I can slide out of the booth.

“You good?” he asks.

I lift a shoulder. “Beat. That’s all.”

Whether he buys it or not is beyond me. I slap his hand and wave a few of the guys off, heading down the stairs and toward the back exit that we came in earlier. The alleyway the door leads out is dark, with only a single small light lit as the door clicks closed behind me.

I pull out my phone when it vibrates in my pocket with the false hope that Olive’s name will be displayed across the screen.

Instead, dread drops my stomach when I see Logan Hospital’s number on it.

“Alex speaking,” I answer, trying to even my tone. I know if the hospital is calling, it’s probably not a good sign.

“Alex, it’s Pam,” the head nurse greets. Despite her calm voice, I know she’s not calling to make small talk.

“Did something happen?”

She clears her throat. “There was an incident,” she says softly. “Unfortunately, visiting hours this week will be cancelled for her until we can get her on the right medication. I’ll let you know when you can come see her.”

Closing my eyes, I pinch my nose. I’d cleared my schedule already, but what was I going to do? I knew Mom needed help, and me forcing my way in when she wasn’t in the right state of mind wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. We’ll get it right, but it takes time. Some medications take months to figure out if it works or not. The last one we tried was too hard on her kidneys. We’re close, though. I can feel it.”

Teeth grinding, I murmur, “And the therapy sessions? Has she been talking?”

Her sigh is light. “Unfortunately, she’s still closed off during them. We’ve found that it helps when family comes with them. Perhaps the next time you come we can schedule you for that. Maybe she’ll speak more openly knowing someone is there who she trusts.”

I’m not the one who needs it, so it’s on the tip of my tongue to say no. But if it helps Mom… “I don’t know. Can I think about it?”

“Of course. I know none of this is easy.”

Wetting my lips, I nod to myself. “Just help her. Please.”

“We will,” she promises before I disconnect the call.

I don’t realize anybody is behind me until Clarkson bumps my arm. “You good?”

I stand a little taller, trying to feign nonchalance. But something tells me the captain can see right through it. And God only knows what he heard. “Better than ever. In fact, I think I might take some time off to visit old friends.”

Clarkson scratches the side of his cheek, above the long scar stretching across the right side of it. He got a blade to the face during his first year in the NHL that almost took out his eye. I always thought it made him look intimidating, but that’s not who he is at all.

He’s not a big talker, but he asks, “You sure everything is all right? I don’t know what that was about, but it sounded serious.”

I glance at my phone, which is white knuckled in my grip. “From what I saw in there, you might want to worry about yourself, Cap.”

It’s a dick thing to say, but I don’t want to spill my guts to him or anybody else.

Patting his shoulder, I walk out to the street where my car is parked along the curb.

Clarkson doesn’t try stopping me.

*

The dilapidated single-story ranch used to look picturesque once. But now the sky-blue siding is chipped and rotting, some of the black shutters have fallen off, and the flower boxes that used to hold colorful plants only have dirt, dead bugs, and fallen leaves in them.

Gripping my steering wheel one last time, I kill the car and get out.

It’s been a while since I’ve been here, and the last time certainly didn’t add any happy memories when I tricked my mother into getting into the car with me to go to Logan’s.

But it was rare that there were good moments at this place anyway.

Using one of the spare keys on my chain, I unlock the door and cringe at the loud squeal of the hinges as I push it open.

It smells musty despite hiring somebody to come do a thorough cleaning after Mom was admitted.

I make a mental note to get somebody here to check on the place every so often.

Maybe spray an air freshener inside every month.

I walk into the living room and fight the frown as my eyes settle on the faded reddish-orange stain on the carpet beside the coffee table.

“You need to eat something,” I tell the woman whose been plastered to the couch for two days straight. Setting the bowl of tomato soup down onto the table, I say, “Come on, Mom. I made your favorite.”

She eyes the bowl with a frown, then rolls onto her other side and pulls the blanket further up her body. “I’m not hungry.”

I swipe my hand down my face and glance at the time on my watch. I’m going to be late for practice. Again. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, and you only ate half a piece of toast. You need to eat something else.”

Suddenly, her hand darts out and smacks into the bowl of hot liquid, sending it flying off the table.

I stare at the splattered mess on my shoes, jeans, and the floor knowing it’s not going to clean easily.

“I said I’m not fucking hungry! Why won’t you listen to me?

You and him never listen to me!” she yells, grabbing the tissue box and throwing that at me too.

I block my face with my hands so it doesn’t hit me. “Mom, calm down. I’m just trying to look out for you. I know you’re sad—”

“He’s dead, Alexander! If he didn’t leave us, he’d be alive right now. If he stayed—”

“Stop,” I cut her off, feeling my throat thicken with emotion over Dad. “Just…stop.”

Tears pool in her eyes. “I miss him.”

I kneel down, using some of the tissues to try soaking up the mess. Quietly, I murmur, “I miss him too. But Dad wouldn’t want to see you like this. You know that.”

We’re quiet as I try cleaning up the best I can while thinking about the penalty my coach is going to give me for being late.

Last time, I had to make up the drills I missed and add three sets of reps to our normal workout routine on the ice.

The time before that, I had to help clean the locker room, which was made of nightmares.

Maybe if I were honest, he’d go easier on me.

But that would mean opening up about my home life, and I have no intention of doing that.

I’d take the consequences, no matter how much my body burned afterward.

By the time I’m done, I walk into the living room to see if she’ll try eating a piece of bread. Anything. But she’s sleeping soundly, and it’s the only time she looks peaceful.

Disposing of the dirty dishes into the sink, I sigh at the bright stain on the carpet and decide there’s nothing more I can do.

So, I leave her note about the food in the fridge and go to practice.

Coach Maher makes me skate fifty laps and threatens to sit me out during our next game.

Shaking off the memory, I walk over the soup stain in the beige carpet and head toward the kitchen. The ceiling has a large water stain on it, and I can hear the faint drip, drip, drip coming from the crawl space above.

“Great,” I grumble, knowing I’ll have to get someone to deal with that before it becomes a bigger problem.

I don’t know how old the roof is, but I know Mom has been told at least twice in the past five years that it needs to be redone.

One of the neighbors helped me patch it a few times when small leaks happened around the chimney, but they were temporary fixes at best. It was only a matter of time before the beams would rot and loosen, creating a larger issue than the one staring at me in the face.

Heading toward my childhood bedroom, I stop at the door before it and hesitate to turn the knob. The door jamb is still damaged, stirring old feelings in the pit of my stomach from when I had to break into the room. But I don’t want to think about that—the final straw that led us here.

There were a lot of moments inside this room that made it hard to enter.

One time when I checked on Mom inside, it smelled like garbage and body odor, and she’d destroyed almost every piece of clothing she had in a rampage.

She’d gotten fired from work because of her attitude and tardiness, causing her to go a week-long tangent of highs and lows that I could barely tolerate.

At one point, I went to Dad’s house. But I knew I couldn’t stay because Mom needed me.

I wish I told him how bad it’d gotten.

He would have helped.

At least, he would have tried.

Letting go of the doorknob before I can open it, I back away and walk into my room.

The old hockey posters on the wall range from the Boston Bruins to Tampa Bay Lightning—both signed by my favorite players on each team.

There are signed baseballs in display cases on the shelf from the games my father took me to as a kid, memorabilia from annual vacations to Cape Cod and Long Island scattered on my desk, and old clothes in my dresser that stopped fitting me when I hit puberty.

Mom has gone on too many rampages to count, but she’s never touched my room.

Not even after I left to live at the frat house off campus.

She’d call all the time to tell me she missed me, and on really bad days she threatened to sell all my stuff if I didn’t come home, but she never did.

Even at her worst, she remembered who she was and how much she loved me.

Swiping my hand over my dusty blue comforter set, I move the curtains out of the way and stare out the window.

The backyard is as overgrown as the front, reminding me that I need to hire a landscaping company to keep up with it.

If I were smart, I’d pull the push mower out of the back shed and do it myself while I have the time.

But this isn’t where I plan on spending the night.

Grabbing my keys from the kitchen counter, I give one last spare look to the lackluster home I grew up in before locking the door behind me. It’s the first time I can breathe since stepping inside, leaving the walls full of memories behind me.

Giving a fleeting wave to the neighbor across the street, I slide into my car and drive to the bar with an OPEN sign flickering in the window.

When I walk in, the owner looks at me with her brows so far up they almost disappear from her forehead. “Surprised to see you here, superstar.”

I offer Judy an easy smile. “I have a little time to kill and wanted to check up on a few things.”

“Things,” she muses with a knowing grin. “Or people?”

I walk over to the bar where she’s stacking glasses on the shelf. “Both,” I reply.

Judy chuckles. “She’s not here, honey.”

“She’s not working tonight?”

She stops what she’s doing and leans on the bar. “Olive is visiting family for a few weeks. It’s just me, Jeff, Kayleigh, and the temps I hired on for the summer.”

Visiting family. I slowly nod. “In Vermont?”

Judy hums. “That is where her family lives,” she remarks, going back to stacking. She glances over her shoulder. “You got family there, too, you need to check on?”

My lips twitch at the pointed question. “I just might.”

Before she can respond, there’s a familiar, “I thought that was you,” coming from behind me before someone grabs my shoulder.

Tristain Badger grins, holding out his hand for me to clasp in greeting. “Hey, Badger.”

“I thought you weren’t coming until before pre-season?” he asks, taking the spot beside me.

I lift a shoulder. “Changed my mind. I’ve only got the weekend. Thought I’d pop in and see some people.”

His eyes light up. “She ain’t here.”

I play dumb. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Judy laughs abruptly from behind the counter before she sets a bottle of Bud Light in front of me and my former teammate.

I spend the rest of the night catching up with Badger and getting hit on by college girls.

But they’re not the ones I came here to see.

Snapping a photo of the bar, I send it to Olive without a caption.

Within minutes, I see bubbles appear at the bottom of the screen.

But she never texts me back.

I grin.

Because now I know she wants to.