Page 2

“Hey, Mama.” I press a quick kiss to my mom’s cheek.

Her shoulders are stooped, and her face is drawn in exhaustion, but she’s still at the stove making dinner.

Even though I want to shower and crawl into bed after a brutal practice, I take the wooden spoon from her and shoo her over to a chair. “I’ll take over with this.”

“Thanks, Lukie.”

Grunting, I peer at her over my shoulder. My mom is the only person on the planet I’ll let get away with calling me that.

At the table, she pulls off her sneakers and rubs at the bottoms of her feet.

The sight of her after a long day at work always makes me second-guess not entering the NHL draft last summer. With the kind of money I’d be making, I could’ve easily retired her. But she was resolute in her argument that I finish my degree first. My agent wasn’t happy when I delayed another year, and he’s been on my ass more than ever since then, making sure I’m at the top of my game. In my eyes, another year of experience at the college level will only help me. But his argument is that teams are starting to veer toward younger players—ones they can mold into what they need, ones who don’t have the additional four years of habits to break.

I shove that worry aside quickly. Otherwise I’ll induce an anxiety attack.

I don’t care about being filthy rich, but I do care about taking care of my mom.

My dad left when I was a baby, and though he popped in and out sporadically over the years, my mom raised me all on her own. All I want now is to help her. The first thing I’ll do is pay off this house. Then I’ll take care of her bills so she can slow down and appreciate life.

When the Hamburger Helper—a staple in our household—is done, I pick up one plate she’s already set out and scoop a helping onto it. Fork in hand, I set her dinner in front of her. Then I head for the hall.

“Luke, you should eat,” she calls after me.

Without looking back, I wave a dismissive hand. “I want to shower.”

The instant I’m locked in the bathroom, I grip the counter and take several deep breaths. I should eat. With the number of calories I burn, I need it. But after today’s encounter, my brain is muddled and spinning in circles. If I eat now, I’ll probably throw it up.

The last thing I should be thinking about is Bertie Carthwright, a girl a billion light-years out of my league for so many reasons, but especially because she’s practically old-money American royalty. Her family is most well-known for their Carthwright Chocolate Bar. But the company they’ve owned for generations has branched out far beyond the candy-making industry. I know because I googled it after I met her during freshman year. After reading article after article, I spiraled even worse than I am now.

I turn the shower on, and while the water heats, I yank my shirt off and drop it into the laundry basket.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like the guys on my team who hook up regularly and don’t want to be tied down. Sure, I’ve had one-night stands here and there—Bertie was one, after all—but I want a girlfriend. And I want more than just sex. I want a deep connection. To eat dinners with my girl. Cuddle on the couch. Talk about the mundane shit.

If the guys knew, they’d roast me for the rest of my life.

I worry about making it into the NHL and only attracting women who want me for my money. I want someone to love me , not what might be in my bank account.

When the water is warm, I strip out of my jeans and briefs, then step inside. It’s routine now, to duck as I do, since I’m inches taller than the height of the shower nozzle. I showered after practice, but there’s no way I can relax until I do it again when I get home.

I was diagnosed with OCD in high school. It doesn’t always manifest in ways the world thinks it does. For me, it’s things like having to shower when I get home from practice, even if my hair is still damp from my post-practice shower. It was my high school hockey coach who first suspected something. I’m not even sure what clued him in, but since he has OCD, too, it probably made it easier for him to put two and two together. He spoke with my mom and me about it, and while I know it was an added stress for her, she got me to the right doctors.

My compulsions aren’t as bad as they used to be—back then, there were days they would downright consume me—but they’re still there, and they get worse if I’m stressed.

After the shower, I change into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Then I pad into my room, unsurprised to find a plate of dinner covered in foil waiting for me.

My chest tightens. Dammit. I hate that my mom worries so much about me.

She believes it’s her job to worry about me and not the other way around, but all I want is to ease her stress. Her hovering doesn’t bother me in the way she probably thinks it does. It doesn’t annoy me, but it does make me feel guilty. It’s hard not to hate that even after raising me on her own for eighteen years, she still feels the need to look out for me.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pick up the plate. I take a few bites, then set it down again. It’s all I can manage.

After I’ve put my plate in the fridge, thankfully avoiding my mom and her concern, I lock myself in my room and reply to the group text with my team. Then, lying back on the bed, I scroll through my text messages until I come across Bertie.

After she told me she wasn’t interested in a relationship, and I told her I wasn’t interested in just being a hookup, it didn’t feel right to text her, even though I genuinely like her as a person, so I stopped. I worried she might think I was hoping to get her to change her mind and date me.

She said no, and I respect that.

But I am worried about her after running into her in the dining hall today. The moment she came in, she was on my radar. I’m hyperaware of that girl. It’s like the air shifts when she’s around me and I know she’s there. All it took was a single look to know she was upset. Then her douchebag ex had to go and make things worse.

With a sigh, I grab my book off the table beside my bed. Reading is one of the things that helps my OCD most. Though it might’ve become a bit of a compulsion, too. Often, I lose myself in working to see how quickly I can finish a book or in considering how many I can read in a week, a month, a year.

Right now, though, it isn’t enough to distract me from my phone, which continues to taunt me from beside me on the bed. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I set the book down and text her.

Me: Hey, I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay.

I hold my breath, waiting for a response. A minute passes. Two. Each time the screen darkens, I swipe to wake it again.

Finally, those little bubbles that tell me she’s replying appear.

Bertie: Define okay.

I’m considering how to respond when another message pops up.

Bertie: If okay means eating an entire bag of Doritos while watching One Tree Hill, then I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic.

Heart aching for her, I go with a simple response.

Me: That bad, huh?

Those dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

Bertie: I’m just being whiny. I should’ve expected them to ditch me.

I hold my phone, thumbs positioned over the display, contemplating how best to word what I say. I don’t want to make her feel even shittier than she already does.

Saying you deserve better parents or sounds like they fucking suck won’t help.

Me: Maybe it’s a sign that better things are coming to you for the break.

Bertie: Like what? A deal on delivery pizza and my vibrator magically possessing the ability to never need a charge?

Bertie: I’m REALLY sorry for the vibrator comment. I might’ve gotten into the whine. Oops.

Bertie: Wien

Bertie: WINE

I’m grinning at my phone like a lunatic. She’s fucking adorable.

Me: I am sorry they ditched you. It was shitty of them.

Bertie: What can I say, they’re shitty parents.

I read over her message a few times, a lump in my throat, before I respond.

Me: Sometimes people who become parents are kind of clueless about how to do the job. There isn’t a handbook.

Bertie: If I ever become a mom, I don’t want to be like mine. Is that horrible of me?

Me: Based on what your mom sounds like, not at all.

Bertie: I want to be there for my kid. Stick their scribbled drawings on the fridge and cry when they go to their first day of school and pack lunches and go to school plays and… I just want to be THERE, ya know?

I do. And I know how lucky I am to have a parent who has always been there for me, despite how hard she works. Even now, she never misses a home hockey game. It wasn’t cheap, keeping me outfitted in hockey gear as I grew up. She had to get a lot of my stuff secondhand. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever know how much she sacrificed so that I didn’t have to go without.

Me: Yeah, I know what you mean.

Bertie: Now that you know how shitty my family is, tell me about yours.

Smiling at my phone, I roll onto my side. I’m not even sure why I’m smiling like a fucking goober except that I’m talking to Bertie. Something about this girl makes me downright giddy.

Me: My dad has never really been in the picture. He’s popped up from time to time over the years, but I’ve never viewed him as a fatherly figure. He gives off more of a fun uncle vibe, I guess. My mom is amazing, though. She got pregnant at eighteen and raised me on her own when her family wrote her off. She’s my best friend.

Bertie: My first instinct is to tell you that it’s incredibly cheesy that your mom is your best friend, but honestly, I’m jealous. You’re lucky to have her.

Me: I know it. Who did you have, B?

Even though she’s not here with me, I swear I can hear her sigh.

Bertie: I had myself and my dolls, and once in a while, I had a good nanny.

Bertie’s family might have more money than I can comprehend, but right about now, it’s hard not to feel like I’m the privileged one. Money is great and all, but being genuinely loved and cared for is better.

Me: That’s… kind of sad.

Bertie: It’s totally pathetic, but you asked, and it’s the truth.

Bertie: Sometimes I think if I didn’t call my parents, they’d forget about me entirely.

Me: I’m sure that’s not true.

Or maybe it is. But I don’t want to agree with her. She’s clearly already wallowing in her feelings. There’s no use making it worse.

Bertie: It totally is, but it’s okay.

Bertie: Actually, it’s not okay, but it is what it is. When I have kids, I’ll make sure they know how special and loved they are.

My heart breaks thinking about little Bertie just wanting love and affection from her parents and receiving none of it. It’s probably a miracle she turned out to be so sweet and kind.

Me: I’m sure you’ll be a good mom one day.

Bertie: Thanks. I’m going to go now. You’re making me cry.

Fuck. My heart cracks right down the middle at the thought.

Me: I didn’t mean to.

Bertie: Oh, I know. I always cry when I’ve had too much to drink. I’ll be better in the morning. Promise.

Me: Is it okay if I check in with you tomorrow?

It takes several minutes for her reply to come in. While I wait, anxiety threading through me, I worry I’ve pushed her too far. My mind has started to spiral inside my head when a message finally comes through a few minutes later.

Bertie: Sorry, I think I dozed off for a second there. But yes, that’s fine.

Me: Cool. Go to bed.

Bertie: I will and thanks for talking to me. I do feel better.

Me: Anytime.