Page 22

Alex

I don’t know whether to fire the middle-aged man who handles all of my deals or give him a raise for convincing me to come back to Pennsylvania rather than driving up to Vermont.

The jury is still out as he slides over the paper from Gilette.

“I already sent you the e-contract that I need you to sign online,” Kyle tells me, not even looking up from his phone.

The man has so much gel in his hair that I’m concerned about how close he’s standing next to the open flame that the kettle is on.

There isn’t one day since I met Kyle as a junior at Lindon University where he hasn’t applied a copious amount of that shit in his hair, making me wonder if he has stock in it.

He reached out after watching a few of my games and saw the same thing a lot of people did—potential.

Especially potential to make money.

When the kettle starts screaming, I push up from the stool and grab two mugs from the cupboard above the oven. “Milk and honey?” I ask, pouring the hot water over the tea packet.

He makes a thoughtful noise that I take as a yes. After preparing both of our drinks, I set his down in front of where his eyes are still plastered to his cell and sit back down in front of the printed contract. “Why Gilette?”

“Because people are always talking about your jawline,” he answers plainly. “And if these online influencers can get a deal with the company and get featured in commercials, then so can a rising NHL player. It’s a good fit.”

I don’t get online much, but I have seen the odd videos that have gone viral about my “sharp, masculine jawline” that women seem to deem lickable. It’s flattering, I guess. Strange, but flattering.

My eyes scan the contract until it meets the number they’re offering me. “Is this for one commercial?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounds offended as he lifts his eyes from his phone. “That’s for a commercial they want to run during pre-season and an online campaign. Which includes a photoshoot that we’ll schedule as soon as you sign your name. It’ll run for the next year.”

I hate getting my picture taken, but I know that’s par for the course. And the number staring back at me is a good ass number. A substantial one that could fix a roof. Maybe even replace the whole thing, which my childhood home desperately needs.

“See, this,” he says, shaking his phone with a grin on his face, “this is what you need. A gimmick. Something to make people love you.”

My brows pinch. “What are you—?”

He shows me his screen, halting my words.

I stare at the picture of Bodhi Hoffman with his arm wrapped around Olive’s waist. She’s squished between him and her older brother in front of a line of claw machines.

The image is posted to Hoffman’s Instagram page and already has three-hundred thousand likes and an ungodly number of comments that range from sweet to fucking ugly.

“This is gold for Hoffman,” my agent tells me, looking impressed. “He’s only ever been photographed with models or bottle blondes that look like the only thing they eat are ice cubes.”

He chuckles at his own joke, not seeing the lack of humor in my face. Has that gel gone to his head or has he always been a jackass?

“Maybe you need to—”

“No,” I cut him off before he can finish that thought, shoving the phone back at him. “Absolutely fucking not. And Henderson’s sister isn’t a goddamn gimmick. Have some fucking respect, Kyle.”

His eyebrows dart up his forehead. “Christ. I didn’t mean to strike a chord.

I forgot you went to school with them.” I’m silently still shooting daggers at him.

“Look, I meant no offense. All I’m saying is that this guy is all over the media right now.

People are talking about him, and there’s no such thing as bad press. ”

He might not have meant offense, but he didn’t mean anything good by it either. “I’m not using anybody as a gimmick to gain followers. I don’t do that bullshit.”

My eyes go back to his phone, fighting the urge to twitch. Does Olive hang out with Hoffman often? I’m surprised Henderson would even allow the guy to touch his little sister. He’s always been overprotective when it comes to her, not that I blame him. If I had a sibling, I’d be the same way.

Kyle shakes his head. “Fine. Let’s just forget that I said anything. If you’re good with that agreement, sign the papers and I’ll move forward with the Gilette campaign. I may have even got something brewing with Celsius.”

My nose scrunches. “I hate Celsius.”

“Well, for the right amount of money you can pretend it’s your favorite drink,” he answers simply.

“So sign the contract and we’ll get the ball rolling on the next thing.

You’ve got limited time before you have to start pre-season training, which means no sneaking off to God knows where.

I need to know about it beforehand so it doesn’t mess with the sponsorships I’m trying to land. ”

“What are you, my keeper?”

“No, but I’m the man who helps put money in your bank account,” he points out, tucking his phone away. “And frankly, my friend, you could use it. This place isn’t cheap, and neither is your mother’s arrangements.”

There’s no arguing with him there, even if I hate him bringing up my mother.

He’s met her before, and while she was on her best behavior, he knows her history.

I had to be open with him when we were doing contract negotiations.

More money meant better treatment. I wasn’t a greedy fucker for selfish reasons, and I think Kyle respected that.

“Fine,” I begrudgingly relent. “I’ll sign the contract when you leave. When can they transfer the money?”

I’m not hard up for cash, but it wouldn’t hurt to pad my bank account a little. Especially with the list of shit I need to get fixed back in Lindon nagging me since I drove back to Pittsburgh.

Kyle checks his watch like he’s got somewhere important to be. And he probably does. I’m not his only client. “I’ll make sure they deposit it within the month. I should get going. Don’t forget to sign that contract ASAP.”

I wave him off and listen to the front door click closed behind him. My eyes go to his untouched tea, and I sigh to myself. Finishing off mine, I pull out my laptop and find the documents he sent me to apply my signature to.

There are a lot of things I should be doing. I need to get my workout in and check on Mom. If I were smart, I’d work on meal prep so I don’t find myself DoorDashing like I have for the past week because I’m too lazy or too tired to cook.

But when the silence engulfs me, my mood darkens. And the feeling…yeah, it sucks. I blame Kyle’s comment and that stupid fucking picture I wish I hadn’t seen. Because even if Olive isn’t mine, she sure as hell feels it.

“Don’t,” I tell myself, pushing up and dumping out Kyle’s drink. I stare as the liquid slowly disappears down the drain, my shoulders tensing when a strong sense of déjà vu hits me.

“What are you doing?” I yell at Mom as she rampages through the kitchen. There’s food everywhere—on the floor, the counters, and the crevices in between.

She grabs more items from the fridge and starts tossing them. “I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

I catch the pitcher of lemonade I just made this morning, spilling some of it on myself but managing to avoid the glass shattering on the hardwood floor. “Mom, stop. We don’t have enough money to buy more groceries right now.”

“Is that all you care about?” she asks, eyes narrowed as she turns to me. “Do you care about me at all, Michael?”

Michael ? Christ. “It’s me, Mom. Alex. Not Dad. And you know I care. Can you please put down the yogurt?”

I watch as her eyes narrow a fraction more before she makes her next move. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough. She throws the container of Greek yogurt onto the floor like she’s spiking a damn football. The contents splatter everywhere. On her. On me. On the wood.

All I can do is stare at what she’s done.

At the cereal that I’ll no longer be able to have for breakfast before slipping out for school.

The fruit trampled that I can forget bringing with me for after practice.

The milk that she loves having at night with her tea.

And the yogurt that I’d just bought in hopes of making parfait, which is one of the few things I can get her to eat even on her bad days.

All gone; at least one hundred dollars of food wiped out. Fucking great.

That’s when I notice the blood on her hand.

“Mom.” I rush over and pick up her arm, examining the tiny cut that must have happened when she broke one of the containers with leftovers in it. There isn’t a lot of blood, but I still walk her over to the sink and turn on the water.

“It’s nothing, Michael,” she insists, her voice lighter than before.

I don’t bother correcting her this time. She doesn’t fight me as I help her wash out the cut to make sure it’s not deeper than it appears. The color in the sink is a mixture of red and brown from whatever she spilled on herself.

I ask, “What happened?”

Because something triggered this. I know it. She’d been fine when I went to school this morning. We had eggs and toast together at the table. She kissed my cheek and told me to have a good day. I’m not sure what occurred between then and now, not even twelve hours later.

Then, in a voice that sounds so broken I almost don’t recognize it, she whispers, “It’s our anniversary. You forgot.”

Blinking away the memory, I watch as the dark amber color washes away with the running water in the sink basin.

Mom had moments where she thought I was Dad a lot in the beginning. I’m not sure why, and thankfully, that faded with time. But it’s been hard. Him leaving is a betrayal that cut her deep. Deeper than I can heal, apparently.

Turning off the water, I clench my eyes closed and squeeze the bridge of my nose. “No,” I murmur. I won’t think about that.

She’s getting help.

She’s going to get better.

One day.