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Logan’s opened up a world of possibilities for her through their extensive inpatient program, which is why I didn’t mind writing them a big check for her stay. Working my ass off for her is the only way I can show that I love her—that I’m here no matter what.

If Mom could support me with a big smile on her face as we lived paycheck to paycheck, I could do this for her. Finally.

As soon as I walk into the room, Mom turns to me with a big smile spreading across her face.

Her dark brown hair has patches of silver that remind me she’s in her fifties.

She looks as small as I remember—petite and…

frail. But she’s gained some weight back so her collarbones and cheeks aren’t so distinctive, which means they’ve had better luck feeding her than I’ve managed over the years.

God only knows I could only do so much before threatening to take her in to get a feeding tube. I’m positive that isn’t even legal, but the threat worked for a while. Even if it was one piece of toast or a few mouthfuls of soup, it was better than nothing.

She stands, opening her arms. “My boy.”

I’m typically not a hugger, but I don’t know how badly I need one until her skinny arms squeeze around my torso.

“I missed you,” she says into my chest.

I close my eyes and fight back the heavy emotion that swarms my throat. “I’ve missed you too, Ma. It’s good seeing you.”

She pinches the side of my waist before pulling away with a frown. The movement makes wrinkles form at the corners of her mouth that match the lines crinkling the skin by her eyes.

“How much exercise are they making you do? There’s hardly an ounce of fat on you. And you’ve bulked up.”

My lips threaten to curl upward. “That’d be all the training we go through. It’s part of the job. It was bound to happen.”

She pats my stomach and pulls out her chair before sitting down. “Well, you need to eat more. You’re too skinny. Remember the grilled cheese I used to make you? You loved them.”

This time, I don’t fight the smile. Because when was the last time my mother sounded like a mother?

“Yeah,” I murmur, easing into the chair as I think about the charred grilled cheeses she used to make me with canned tomato soup. The bread was almost always burnt to an inedible crisp, and the soup was watered down, but she tried.

And when she tried…well, there was no better feeling in the world. “I do remember.”

And I’m glad she does too.

*

People probably think making the twenty-three-man roster for the Penguins, or any NHL team, would make you locked in.

Confident. And that’s usually what I like to portray.

Cool, calm, collected, with a mixture of cocky.

Because not only did I get scouted, but I got drafted, signed a seven-figure contract, and made the tight cut for the season because Coach Pelfrey believes I can add something to his team.

Normally, I don’t think twice about my ability on the ice.

When I’m out there, I’m in the zone. Focused. As soon as my blades touch the ice, it’s like I’m a different person. Nothing outside of the rink matters; only the scoreboard. I fixate on the best offensive play to get the puck to the goal, and I’m damn good at it.

Anything outside of the ice…

Well, that’s where my skillset wavers.

My palms sweat as I move the curtain back to check out the crowd of journalists gathering in the room that’s set up for our press conference.

I’ve had to do my fair share of post-game interviews but nothing as extensive as this.

There have to be at least fifty or sixty people out there who want to know what comes next now that my first season is over.

The usual junkets are half the size, so it’s less pressure when the cameras are pointed at you.

It makes me want to vomit.

Public speaking has always been one of my weaknesses. I barely scraped by in Lindon when it was a required course. The torture I went through every week to deliver a five-minute speech in front of fifteen kids was astronomical, and it barely feels like it prepared me for this.

“You’ll be fine,” Jesse Clarkson, the center and captain of the team, says from behind me, smacking my shoulder in comfort when he sees the panic on my face.

I let the curtain drop back down to block my view of the men and women seating themselves. “Did Coach say why I’m taking Moskins’ spot?”

Not everybody on the team even comes to these things, and Thomas Moskins, our right wing, knows what he’s doing better than I do.

The rugged twenty-something-year-old may come off as a total dick whenever we’re on the ice or in the locker room, but he saves face when cameras and microphones are pointed in his direction.

His charm wins the public over, which makes me wonder what they’d think of him if they knew the vulgar way he talked about them when the press wasn’t around.

Clarkson drops his hand. “His experience is why it’s your turn.

We all have to be part of these once in a while.

You’ve been getting a lot of airtime from the past few games you’ve played.

Your name is spreading. People want to learn about number forty-three and what you’re about.

Coach is giving you the chance to be heard before they take over the narrative.

Because, trust me, they will. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

The media likes to speculate about every aspect of our lives, but they have less to say when we set the record straight first. This is good exposure for your career all the way around, especially if you’re seeking endorsements.

Companies don’t want to take risks on people who might create bad reputations in the media. ”

My agent, Kyle, suggested that we start putting feelers out there to see what endorsers would be interested in me in the off season.

Which would include a lot of potential ads, commercials, and who knows what else.

But it’s money, and that’s one thing I could use more of now that I’m paying to help Mom and to keep the house we grew up in on top of my own expenses here.

My apartment in Pittsburgh isn’t lavish like some of my teammate’s places, but it’s a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

I’d rather stretch my dollars as much as I can, not invest it all in a temporary home.

“What if there are things I don’t want to talk about?” I ask him, thinking of my mother. “I know how some of these people work. They’re vultures. Doesn’t mean I owe them an explanation to every question.”

Clarkson’s eyebrows dart up. We don’t talk that often, so he’s probably wondering why I’m seeking his advice now.

But it’s nothing personal. I’ve always been private.

I barely saw the friends I had at Lindon unless it was a frat event that I was required to be at or games with my teammates.

A lot of people thought I was too stuck up to invest my time in them, but I just had too much other shit going on that took priority.

“You can choose not to comment,” he finally tells me. “But that might do you more harm than good. That’s how speculation starts.”

I can feel the hard rhythm of my heartbeat pounding in my chest as my ears ring, reminding me that I’m minutes away from getting in front of people who want nothing more than to take a deep dive into my life.

Any chance I could pass these responsibilities off in the past, I did.

Happily. But, apparently, Coach Pelfrey isn’t going to give me that opportunity today.

The only person who helped me get through the presentations at Lindon U is the same girl who hasn’t texted me back since I reached out three days ago. I needed one of her famous pep talks—the blunt ones that would make me laugh and distract me from why I’m a fucking mess to begin with.

I typed and deleted at least five different messages to Olive over the past few days. But I didn’t send any of them because I didn’t want to be the guy who begged for somebody’s attention. If she were any other girl, I wouldn’t need to.

But she’s not.

That’s why I’ve always liked her.

And now I’m here hoping my pit stains don’t seep through my button-down and suit jacket that I spent way too much money on when Kyle told me I’d need decent game-day and interview outfits.

I can only imagine the viral photos that would hit the internet tomorrow if I was soaking through this custom Armani.

Clarkson takes a quick look past the curtain, lifting his hand to wave at somebody who must see him from the crowd.

His smile is formal and polite. Not the type of friendly one he shoots most of the team when they’re bullshitting in the locker room.

“The guys and I are going out after this. Belle’s Place.

It’s this older style club. Think 1920’s.

Exclusive. Quiet. We like to hang there to decompress after these.

I’ll text you the address if you’re interested. ”

My eyes snap to him, making him chuckle at my disbelief.

“We’re not as bad as you think,” he muses, lips curling higher into a half smirk.

“I think most of the team just wanted to see what you’d do if they iced you out.

No pun intended. You never really seemed that open to hang out with any of us longer than you needed to, so the guys thought it’d be good to feel you out. ”

I’ve noticed the distance some of them went out of their way to put between us.

At first, I thought I was being hazed as the new kid.

After a while, I stopped noticing. I had enough on my plate.

As much as I wanted to get along with my team, I wasn’t going to put all of my energy into making friendship bracelets.

“I didn’t think any of you liked me. I started wondering whose ass I had to kiss to get an in. ”

“Definitely Miller.” Smith Miller is our goalie—a fucking beast too. “Though, he prefers his dick sucked. It’ll get you farther if you really want in on the inner circle,” he answers casually.