Page 10 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

“I was too young to remember any of it. And it wasn’t much talked about by my dad.

He suspected she knew before she took the trip that she wasn’t coming back,” I tell him, trying to convey by tone alone that I don’t want an amateur therapy session about it.

My mother wasn’t a presence in my childhood home.

My dad didn’t keep pictures of her on the walls or lull me to sleep with stories of how wonderful she was.

As I grew older, I was able to ask my grandmother some questions about her, but her knowledge was limited to that of a mother-in-law who only knew my mother for a few short years. I’ve never known much about her, which means, I never grew much connection to her.

Sadly, she’s just a name to me…Nimii. A blank memory. Everything I know of her is a fantasy I’ve made up in my own mind. Often, I’ve wanted to look for her, but I’m not sure where to start.

I’m also terrified of what I might find.

If she’s been living happily with a family full of healthy, well-adjusted children, how would I feel about that?

I’m not sure I want to know. It’s one thing to have grown content without a mother you never knew.

I imagine it’s something else entirely to know that she wanted a family, just not one that you were a part of.

“Your mother’s family is Mi’kmaq?”

“Yeah, I don’t know any of them, though. Apparently, she wasn’t close to them. Dad said none of them showed up for their wedding or contacted him about me after she left.”

“You’re close with your dad?” he asks, and now I am uncomfortable. Because, no, I’m not close with my dad. And that’s not something I want to discuss. My past is not high on my list of conversational topics, even with people I’m close to.

“Was this trade harder because of Isla and Cillian?”

Tyson’s gaze narrows on me, registering my redirect. For a second, I think he’s going to call me out on it, but he doesn’t.

“Yes, and Coach Cole. History isn’t always so easy to ignore. Plus, I wasn’t sure if the other guys would distance themselves in favor of keeping Cillian comfortable.”

“You were in love with her, weren’t you?”

“It felt like I was,” he says after some hesitation.

“Isn’t that all the definition you need? If it feels like love, it’s love.”

“Because love is just a feeling?”

“Isn’t it?” I ask with a smile, because we’re still doing the question thing.

“Is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt it. Not like, romantically, anyway.”

“Are you always this insightful?”

“No.” I laugh. “You were right when you said I’m curious, though. I don’t like not knowing things.”

“On that note, let’s get installing a security system under our belt,” he says, draining his mug and standing up. I get the feeling he’s deflecting now. Since he let me get away with it, I’ll do the same for him.

Within two hours, we’ve completed the task. I set it up on the Wi-Fi and my phone, while Tyson placed the sensors and motion detectors, saying I’m too short to reach.

I snarked at him for that, but he’s right. I’m far shorter than him. They never look that big on the ice when you’re watching from the stands or on television. But almost every guy on the team is six foot or taller.

Conversation didn’t wane while we worked. Tyson chattered a lot about his family, especially his sister, who seems very important to him. He worries about her, and I find it sweet. When I was young, I wished I had a sibling. A big brother to protect me from the shadows under the bed.

I’d bet his sister never had those thoughts. I bet she felt safe.

After we’re done, he goes home to change, which gives me the chance to shower and dress in real pants before we go to lunch.

When I get in his truck, he waits to start the engine until I’ve got my seat belt fastened.

I never ride in a car without one, but I’m still amused by how adamant he is about it.

“You’re a gentleman at heart, aren’t you, Tyson?”

“What do you mean by at heart?”

“I mean, I don’t know how gentlemanly it is to bring a different woman home every night. But it is gentlemanly to help your neighbor with her alarm system and make sure she’s got her seat belt on correctly.”

“How much of my business can you see from your tiny house across the street?” he asks, once again blushing some.

“I don’t mean to be nosey, but your friend’s house basically takes up the whole view from the front of my house. It’s hard not to notice the visitations,” I say. “Besides, I don’t judge other people’s sex lives.”

“You just said it’s not gentlemanly to screw a different woman every night,” he accuses.

“Shit, Tyson. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound like some kind of insult,” I stammer.

“Kit,” he says softly, picking up my hand. “I’m teasing. It’s fine.”

“Both hands on the wheel, please,” I say, pulling my fingers away. “Sorry, I told you I can be awkward. I’m not always good at reading people.”

“You do just fine,” he says, looking at my other hand gripping the door handle. “Does being in a car make you nervous?”

“Only because it’s the first time. Once I know how you drive, I’ll either be okay, or never ride with you again.”

“Past trauma with a car accident?”

“Nope, just one of my quirks,” I say, trying to sound casual about it.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” he says. “Quirks are good. They make us interesting. Imagine if we were all the same, it’d be like living in some sort of Stepford world.”

“Aren’t you too young to know about Stepford living?” I ask.

“Technically, sure. But I love horror. Movies, books, you name it. I read Rosemary’s Baby on a plane to hockey camp as a teenager. It sent me down an Ira Levine rabbit hole. Besides, I’m an old twenty-nine years of age.”

“That’s hardly even old by hockey standards.”

“You’d think so, but they’re drafting younger and younger these days. Soon enough, we’ll have sixteen-year-olds in the league.”

“I can’t argue. The average age in the NHL is twenty-eight.”

“Is it?” he asks, carefully looking for traffic before taking a right turn.

“Yeah, and peak is between twenty-seven and twenty-eight. Unless you’re a defenseman, then it’s about a year older. But you’re a forward, so you’re past your prime. Statistically.”

“Well, shit.”

“Sorry,” I say, once again feeling like I said something I shouldn’t have. I scoot farther toward the door, turning to look at the window instead of at him. “It’s not like it means anything, though. Not really. Gretzky was thirty-eight when he retired.”

Of course, not every player is a Wayne Gretzky, but I keep that to myself.

Tyson is an excellent player when he’s on his game.

I looked at his stats the other day—his first few seasons were far above what’s expected of the average player.

When he was dating Isla, he was considered one of the hottest new players in the league.

His performance has fallen over the last two seasons. I don’t know if it had to do with Isla, but if he loved her, it would make sense. Personal lives take a toll on your work life. Or so I believe. I’ve never had much of a personal life to contend with.

“Don’t apologize, you’re only speaking the truth. It’s a good reminder that I need to keep my head in the game and on my career if I want to keep playing. Which I do, for as long as I can, anyway,” he says. “What are some of your other quirks?”

“I spew facts and data at random and often without forethought or consideration,” I say, and he laughs. “Do you have quirks?”

“Of course.”

“Like what?”

“My favorite thing to do when I’m stressed out is eat an entire pint of ice cream,” he says, and I turn back to look at him skeptically. That’s not weird at all. But then, he continues, “It has to be rocky road, and I have to eat in a bath that’s so hot my skin turns red.”

“Why?”

“The ice cream is nostalgic, it’s my dad’s favorite and he never goes a night without eating it. The hot bath…maybe so I can feel something other than my thoughts.”

“Is this something you do often?”

“Nah, I don’t get stressed out easily. But when I do, I get messy. That’s what Lottie calls it.”

“You and your sister are close?” I ask.

“We are. She’s my best friend. Has been since she was born,” he says.

I picture him as a little boy, peeking over her crib to watch her nap, or holding her hand while they walked in a park. He seems like the type to have been overly protective.

“What’s another quirk of yours?”

“I don’t like quiet. I don’t mean sound as much as just in general. I need constant stimulation. It’s why my house is busy. Maybe you caught on to that already,” I say.

“I assumed by the fact that you had the television on, and I could hear music playing from somewhere else in the house.”

“My bedroom,” I say with a nod. “I almost never turn music off in there.”

“Even when you sleep.”

“Especially then,” I say quietly. It would play softer when I lived with Willa, but then, I wasn’t alone. Now, it plays a little louder. Loud enough to drown out the world. To silence the memories. At night, in bed, trying to fall asleep is when I feel most alone in the world. When I’m vulnerable.

Tyson doesn’t say anything else as he pulls into a parking space at the restaurant.

He doesn’t move to exit the car right away, either.

Instead, he reaches his hand across the center console to place it on the seat right next to mine.

Not holding my fingers as he did earlier, but giving me the option, if I want it.

Silently, I think he’s telling me he’s here if I need him, while also telling me I can keep to myself.

It means a lot that he understands. I’ve never been diagnosed with anything else, but surely, I’m more neurodivergent than just my ADHD.

Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to cope with my triggers and trauma.

Willa is the only one I’ve ever opened up with completely, and that took me a long time.

She understood, too, and gave me the space to get there in my own time.

I may never get to that level of comfort and trust with Tyson. Or with anyone else. I don’t know, but it’s still nice to have someone else that doesn’t push me to be what I can’t. I appreciate it more than he could know.