I’m late. This week’s goal was to work on punctuality, but the universe is conspiring against me.
My dance class went over time, so I had to cram a twenty-minute drive into a measly eight minutes. I’m surprised my car even covered that much distance within such a small time span since it’s on its last wheels.
I promised my little brother, Teague, that I’d be on time today. Another broken promise to a little kid who deserves so much more. With my father out of the picture and my mother bedridden, Teague is my responsibility. An eight-year-old, adorable, bad-mouthed ball of responsibility. But I wouldn’t trade that responsibility for anything in the world.
When I pull into the massive parking lot, somehow every spot in the vicinity is occupied. Sure, Riverside is a big hockey city, and if you arrive at the arena after three o’clock, you’re guaranteed to endure some traffic, but this is preposterous. And my brother is inside that teeming sardine can, where a simple “I’m here” text won’t be enough to compel him out of the door.
If I’m going to get my brother home, cook him dinner, and get back to the studio for my final dance class of the night, I’ll need to run in and get him. Right now, that’s looking like the equivalent of voluntarily running into crossfire. But I have no choice.
Whipping my head around, I try to search for the nearest “parking space” that won’t get me a ticket or my car towed. I can’t park against the
sidewalk because there is no fucking sidewalk, and I can’t park in front of the rink with my hazards on because I’d be blocking the mouth of the parking lot entrance. I’m panicking. It’s a mild panic, but panic, nonetheless.
And then, breaking through my figurative haze—and a literal foggy one
—is a single spot calling to me from the hockey team’s reserved parking spaces. Home to the Riverside Reapers. One of the best professional hockey teams in the league. And Riverside’s pride and joy. We got close to the playoffs last season, and now everyone and their mother thinks we’re going to win this season.
Look, I’m not blind, I know what the signage says—RESERVED
PARKING. But I’ll be out in less than five minutes. I highly doubt a team member is going to arrive in the next five minutes, find that I’m in his designated parking spot, and get me towed. Plus, this is the closest spot to the arena.
Kiss my ass, time management class I should probably be attending! I’m in control, and I’ve got this.
I pull haphazardly between the white-painted lines, kill the engine, and jump out of the car quicker than I think I’ve ever moved in my twenty-two years of life.
My threadbare shoes squelch in puddles of murky rainwater, and crushed autumn leaves disintegrate into muted hues of fiery crimson against the soaked pavement. The sky is the color of dragon’s breath, with nebulous clouds shrouding the parking lot in a disquieting darkness—one that makes the rink look a lot more foreboding than usual. Cold licks up my spine, raising goose bumps on the exposed flesh of my arms as I try to circulate some warmth with my palms.
I push through the double, weatherproofed doors and into the arena. My eyes start to tear up, and my nose stings from the acreage of subzero ice in front of me. To say that the rink is packed would be an understatement.
Hundreds of skates and little legs. A cacophony of shouts that ricochet off the tall, hollowed walls. Pucks zinging around like miniature missiles.
I bear the chill of the atmosphere, wishing I’d had a chance to slip on a jacket before entering the goddamn arctic. Dance attire wasn’t made for a hockey rink. All I have on is a black bralette and booty shorts, and despite them covering all the necessary areas, I still feel like I’m going to contract hypothermia.
“Teague!” I shout from behind the plexiglass, waving my arms overhead like a lunatic.
My brother glances in my direction and says goodbye to his friends before skating over to me. The messily illustrated fire symbol on his helmet sticks out in a snowscape of white, and he steps off the ice with his hockey stick gripped tightly in his gloved hand.
“You’re late,” he says, jutting his lower lip out.
“I know. I’m sorry, Squirt.” I sit him down on a nearby bench and start to untie the laces of his skates, all while he glowers at me with sharp eyes.
“I ran over time. It won’t happen again.”
Teague sheds his gloves, then removes his helmet, unveiling a mess of sweat-slicked spikes on the top of his head. “You always say that. And it always happens.”
My fingers falter in the polyester strings. I feel terrible. I do always say that, and nothing ever changes. I’m trying to juggle so much at one time.
Teague is my main priority, but so is keeping a roof over his head and food on the table.
With some expert detangling and tugging, I manage to yank his skates off, mentally chastising myself for being the worst sister on the planet. With a feathery exhale, I rise to a stance, gripping a fistful of laces. “I know you’re mad, T, but we really have to go,” I tell him, unable to ignore the disappointment seeping into his expression.
He doesn’t argue with me. He doesn’t say much of anything, actually—
which is unlike him. My brother’s usually a bundle of untold stories waiting for an ear to listen. But I don’t push him to talk to me, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I burst out of the rink, fumbling for my keys as he slogs behind me, when I’m accosted by the blinding sight of a bright red Jaguar sitting horizontally behind my car, boxing my little Honda in.
No, no, no.
A scream thunders from my throat, loud enough to garner shocked looks from families milling about the parking lot. “Fuck!”
Okay, think, Cali. Just…just go inside and ask the owner to move his car. And also pretend like you didn’t drop the F-bomb in front of your eight-year-old brother.
I set Teague’s skates down before grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at me. “I’m going to be right back, okay? Please, please
stay here. This will only take a minute.”
“Why can’t I come with you?” he whines.
“It’ll be less stressful for everyone if you stay here. And I mean it, Teague.”
My brother opens his mouth, but no protest comes out.
My eyes flit over the obnoxious license plate as I scoff at the sheer idiocy of the personalized words emblazoned on the aluminum. Of course this person would be the biggest asshole out of Riverside’s three hundred thousand population.
I turn on my heel, march back into that godforsaken rink, and politely ask the attendant at the front desk if he could be so kind as to call out the license plate to the red Jaguar parked illegally out front.
With a sigh, his monotonous voice bellows over the loudspeaker, “Will the owner of the red Jaguar please come to the front? I repeat, will the owner of the red Jaguar please come to the front? Uh, license plate: HUGE
STICK.”
Impatience cracks through me and sizzles along my ribs. I’m going to show this dipshit that he messed with the wrong woman. He couldn’t wait a few seconds before boxing me in? Seriously? The world doesn’t revolve around him.
A few minutes pass before there’s any movement in the sea of hockey helmets, and then, sauntering over is a man nearly half a foot taller than me.
He’s dressed from head to toe in hockey gear, exuding a nonchalant air about him that triggers that fight response boiling inside me.
He has the decency to take off his helmet, and what I’m greeted with is a handsome face, much to my misfortune. Shaggy, brown hair parts down the middle, a few strands falling into green eyes. His long, dark lashes tickle his brow bone, his seemingly flawless face complete with a chiseled jawline, angular cheekbones, a set of pouty lips, and a nose too straight to belong to a hockey player. He has a face made to be seen, a face that could cure cancer, a face that could do some serious damage to me if I don’t treat this situation with the utmost caution.
“This better be important. I’m in the middle of practice,” he snaps, pinning his arms over his chest. A muscular-looking chest. Or maybe that’s just his hockey padding.
Who does this guy think he is? He’s acting like he’s a goddamn gift from the gods and I should be blessed for simply existing in his presence.
The attendant immediately livens. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was your car, Gage. You want me to deal with this lady?”
Excuse me?
Gage shakes his head, glaring down at me from his stupid, towering height. “I’ve got it, Ernie.”
From the parking lot to the rink, I’ve had plenty of time to gather an arsenal of insults for the douche in front of me, and I’m ready to send those suckers flying like bullets from a machine gun. “You boxed me in, you fucking prick!” I shout, torrents of anger pouring through my veins as opposed to the usual trickle.
“Whoa, there. You’re the one who parked in my parking space.”
“I was only going to be a minute!”
“You can read, can’t you? Those spots are reserved for team players.
And last I checked, you’re not on the team, sweetheart.” Gage gives me a condescending head tilt that makes me want to pop said head off his spinal cord.
I’m fully aware of the audience we’ve amassed from the volume of our altercation, but I couldn’t care less if someone gets my meltdown on camera. This dick needs to be knocked down a peg.
“I’m just asking you to move your car. I have somewhere to be, and none of this would be happening if you just waited for me to move.”
His tone drips with sickly sweet sarcasm. “Oh, I’d love to stop what I’m doing right now for your benefit and move my car. In fact, I’ll ask Coach to stop practice until we get this whole thing resolved. Do you want monetary compensation for your time too?”
A growl rumbles in my throat. “You think the world revolves around you just because you’re a hotshot hockey player?” I hiss.
“You think the world revolves around you just because you’re a stuck-up brat?”
That’s it. I’m going to kill him and make everyone in the rink a witness to murder.
“Move. Your. Car. Before I shove it up your ass and gun it.”
Gage steps closer to me, magnetizing grin and all—perfect, blindingly toothy, with just the right amount of confidence to churn a storm of butterflies in my stomach.
He’s so close to me that I can feel his breath plume over my face, can smell the intoxicating hint of pine in his cologne, can practically anticipate
his touch on my skin if he moved slightly north.
“She has a bark,” he drawls, impressed.
Our eyes clash for a moment—a world of arctic blues and forest greens meeting each other for the first time—but I smother the attraction cresting inside me. Any nonviolent feelings will be immediately terminated upon discovery.
Don’t get too close, Cali. Long-term Gage exposure could result in radioactive poisoning.
My glare has enough venom in it to paralyze a single person, and it’s reserved for Gage only.
“You couldn’t handle my bite.”
Something in him changes. It’s fleeting. And thanks to being up close and personal with him, I can see how blown his pupils are, how the brown from his inner irises have somehow widened in diameter underneath the harsh, recessed lighting, drowning out the previous green.
“Wanna put that theory to the test? I love a girl who bites.”
Something about the way he just said that makes the lower half of me tingle. That shouldn’t be a normal bodily response, especially not with him.
I tamp down whatever the hell is budding between my thighs and try to ignore that warm, oozing, honeyed lilt in his tone.
Ugh! He’s so infuriating. Gage is the rudest, most arrogant, and most conceited person on this fucking planet. I’d rather have a Pap smear performed by Wolverine than be within a ten-foot radius of him.
My heart punches against my ribs, indignation streamlining to every part of my quivering body. “Fuck you!” I spit.
“That’s all you got? Come on, I know a spitfire like you really wants to give it to me. Go ahead. Do your worst.”
“If you don’t move your car, I’ll…”
You’ll what, Cali?! What can you do that isn’t illegal?
Everyone’s staring at me. The whole rink has quieted. No scuffle of blades or clink of pucks on ice. There aren’t even any whispered comments about how utterly embarrassing this whole interaction is for me.
The words die on my tongue, and my confidence goes with them.
Gage pastes on a too-wide smile that has pearly enamel twinkling underneath the fluorescents. “That’s a shame. Looks like you’ll be waiting to get your car back until after my practice is done. It should only be a few hours,” he drawls. “It’s not like you have anywhere else to be, right?”
Shock drives my precursory fury all the way to the state line. “I —”
But he’s gone. He’s turned around, gotten back on the ice, and resumed practice like he didn’t just singlehandedly ruin my entire day. And everyone stood by to watch while it happened.
So, pushed to the brink of madness, I do what any reasonable person would do in this situation. I force myself to retain some semblance of calm, and I walk out the door with my head held high.
Teague perks up as soon as he sees me, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Is he going to move his car?”
I navigate my way around the crimson complication, opening my Honda’s passenger door for my brother. “Nope.”
“Then why are we getting in the car?”
“Because we’re going to get out of here another way.”
Gage doesn’t think I have the balls to do anything, does he? I’m going to prove him wrong. I’m going to prove him so wrong that he’ll regret ever speaking to me like that. In fact, if I ever see his smug face again, I’ll make sure to rearrange it with my fist.
As I get myself situated—with that wicked plan of mine forming in my head—I stick my key in the ignition, make sure Teague’s seatbelt is tightly secured, and then brace my hand over his chest before propelling backwards into Gage’s expensive car.
NOT THE COMEBACK I HAD IN MIND
GAGE
Despite the chill from the rink frosting over me, my adrenaline is like oxygen to the uncontained fire smoldering in my chest. Every muscle in my body is swollen with an ache that only hockey gives me, and my fucking sinuses are on fire from the ice-cold atmosphere.
It’s 5-5. There’s only a minute left in the game. We need to win this.
We’re on a winning streak, and if we want to make it to playoffs this season, then we have to uphold it.
Sweat bleeds into my eyes, blurring the figures of my teammates, and hockey-padded silhouettes skirt along my peripheral, closing in on the goal.
The screams from the stands meld with the shouts from the ice, and it’s a sensory overload to every charred nerve ending. I have my legs in a half-split that hurts like hell, my grip on my stick is wavering with each passing second, and I’m not sure how many more beats my heart can take before it bursts from my chest.
The Denver Dingos are a few feet from the goal, and a giant number thirty is blared across the pixelated screen, signaling that if I don’t save this next shot, the Reapers are gonna take home a loss.
You can do this, Gage. You’ve done this a million times before. Try and guess his next move—look at where his eyes dart, how his arm twitches.
Cover as much of the goal as you can.
As a black-and-red player charges at me, swinging his stick completely backward before slapping the thick of the puck, I take a mental note of the
arc of his arm, and the bulk of my body flies toward the upper righthand corner of the net.
Everything slows—time, my breath, my heart. My outstretched arm is the first to contact the edge of the disc, but as I continue to torque my spine, something in my hip strains, causing the rest of my body to crumple from the overextension. The puck continues its perfect trajectory into the nylon, and the eruption of the crowd drowns out the deafening pulse of blood in my ears, as well as the scream projecting from deep within my chest.
Fuck.
I can’t move. I can feel every little needle pricking the lower half of me, preparing my body for the brunt of the pain, like a clear sky before a mosh pit of storm clouds. And then the needles transform into a legion of miniature knives, rendering me helpless in layers of suffocating gear. I can feel hot tears bubble up in my burning eyes.
Shit, shit, shit. What just happened?
I attempt to lift my leg to my chest, but I can’t even test my mobility without a searing throb in my lower abdomen. I don’t know how long I’m face-down on the ground. Puffs of heated breath slip through the metal bars covering my face, gusting against the pockmarked surface of the ice; that’s the only indication I haven’t passed out yet. The world’s moving on without me, the raucous cheers from the winning team making my stomach sling sickness up my throat.
“Gage! Gage, are you okay?”
I think it’s Fulton, my best friend, but I don’t want to open my eyes to check. The last thing I need is a migraine to complicate the unbearable sting wrapping around my leg a goddamn spike strip.
“My hip,” I grit out through my teeth, trying to siphon air into my heaving lungs. And as if my body’s playing some sick trick on me, a violent spasm rips through my hip’s muscle fibers, confirming that I did, in fact, fuck up my hip in a single, goalie-proof move.
“Okay. Don’t worry. A medic is coming over right now. You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though I’m pretty sure it’s more for his sake than mine.
Once other voices join the conversation, all wobbling with varying degrees of concern, everything becomes fuzzy. I don’t remember getting escorted off the ice; I don’t remember the state of the stands after our disappointing loss; I don’t remember even seeing Coach or talking with my teammates. All I remember is feeling weak, like I could barely stand on my
own two feet, and I hate that feeling. Powerless, helpless, vulnerable. I was all too familiar with that feeling after what happened to my little brother, and I swore to myself that I’d never feel that way ever again.
“LOOKS like you tore your hip flexor pretty badly. There’s no need for surgery, and you will be able to walk again, but you’ll need at least three months to recover until you can be back on the ice,” our team’s physical therapist discloses, offering me a consolatory smile. “I suggest keeping diligent about at-home treatment, but I’m also going to propose three physical therapy sessions a week until you hit that three-month mark, and then we can see how you’re doing.”
My stupid, injured hip taunts me, and my frustration at the situation shifts into utter hysterics as a clipped laugh shoots out of me. “Fucking great. That’s great. I’m useless for three months.”
“You’ll still be able to go about your day. You may just need more help when it comes to walking.”
So, useless.
I position my legs carefully over the edge of the table, grimacing from the pain moving my hip a mere two inches causes. I know this isn’t a life-threatening injury, but how am I supposed to get around? Will the guys just give me a piss bag instead of wheeling me into the bathroom every time I need to go? Will they stock my mini fridge with food because I won’t be able to get down the stairs? Or will they have to install one of those old-person stairlifts in the house? Oh, God. I need my legs.
And what about sex? Does that mean I’m going to have to enter a dry spell for three months? I don’t think I’m strong enough for that. I think I’d rather just amputate the leg and get it over with.
“How do you expect me to stay off the ice for three months? I can’t just sit around and do nothing,” I grumble.
Hockey is something I enjoy. It’s the epicenter of my life, and everything else I do is based around it. If you take that away, I don’t know how to function. And if you throw in a handicap, then I seriously can’t function.
Don, the physical therapist who’s been with our team for twelve years, rubs the pronounced smile lines bracketing his lips. “I’m sorry, Gage. You’ll have to get used to letting your body rest if you want to recover.”
“Can’t you just give me a bottle of painkillers and slap a Band-Aid on it?”
He chuckles softly. “If only healing was that simple.”
I throw my head back, focusing on the ceiling tiles overhead, exhaling the weighted realization of my new life off my chest. I won’t be able to help my teammates for at least thirty games. I may be at games physically, sure, but I won’t be with my team spiritually. I won’t be able to share in celebrations or feel like I’m making any difference. And I’m the reason we lost tonight. If I had blocked that shot, we would’ve tied. I let my team down.
I can’t think of a worse hell to be trapped in. Not only that, but my car is still in the shop undergoing damage repairs after that crazy chick t-boned me. So even if I wanted to drive—which wouldn’t be a good idea—I couldn’t.
As my eyes travel over squares of white, I can’t help but jump to the conclusion that staring at a boring-ass ceiling will be the highlight of my days while I hibernate in my king-sized bed. I’ll go insane. I’ll start scratching tally marks into the walls to keep track of how long I’m stuck in my room.
“Besides physical therapy, is there anything else I can do to speed up the recovery process?” I ask, pleading for a scrap of hope.
Don pushes his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“If you want to work on mobility and flexibility, taking a dance or yoga class could benefit you.”
Uh. I’ve never taken either one of those. Yeah, I’m proud of my flexibility compared to my teammates, but I’m nowhere near putting my leg behind my head like dancers and yoga junkies do. Do they do that? I don’t even know.
I tousle the front of my hair with my hand, the tangled strands falling back into place. “Is that my only option?”
“I’m afraid so, Gage.”
Okay. Not great, but if that’s what it’ll take for me to get back on the ice, then you bet your fucking ass I’m squeezing myself into a child-sized tutu.
Before Don sends me on my merry way, he hands me a bag of ice packs, anti-inflammatory medication, a brace, and some handy-dandy crutches that make me look forty years older than I actually am.
When I hobble my way out of Don’s office—navigating on my crutches like a newborn baby deer—Fulton’s waiting for me by his car, pretending to look around nonchalantly. Then he spots me, composes himself, and would look fairly calm if it wasn’t for the nervous twitch in his right eye.
Fulton and I are different in a lot of ways, but it’s what makes our friendship work. He’s the anxious wreck of a human being who faints at the sight of blood; I’m the unfazed one who probably wouldn’t give a shit if I was bleeding out from a major stab wound. When shit happens to me, I know there’s nothing I can really do to change it. So I just accept it and move on instead of worrying about what I can’t control.
I wasn’t always like that, though. One too many failures made me that way, and I’m not just talking about a missed goal.
Fulton, on the other hand, spends every waking second worrying about something. I’m pretty sure he has a perpetually high heart rate like one of those ancient chihuahuas that live for twenty years. I teach him how to chill out, and he teaches me to…be more empathetic, I guess. Fulton loves people. He never gets tired of them. I don’t love people. I hate most people.
There are about eight people that I tolerate, and the rest of the world could go up in a blazing ball of fire for all I care.
I’m extroverted when I need to be, but that’s only reserved for party environments. If booze, babes, or bad decisions are involved, I’m pretty much there. But I guess I’ll have to table that side of me too for a while.
The only B I’m going to be getting is back aches.
Fulton fidgets with his hands, and then a bunch of words catapult from his mouth and steamroll over me. “How bad is it? Will you be able to play again?”
“In three months, sure.”
His face is crestfallen. “Shit. I’m sorry, dude.”
I brush him off with what I’m hoping is a convincing enough shrug.
“Nothing I can do now except hope it goes by quickly.”
He nods and opens the passenger door for me, helping me into his car before throwing my crutches in the back seat. Fulton, despite making millions of dollars a year, still drives his beat-up Toyota Tercel, claiming it has sentimental value and refusing to fix the window crank because it’ll
“erase its character.” I swear the side door almost flew off its hinges when we were on the highway the other day.
He sticks the key in the ignition but doesn’t rev it, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythmless drum. “Is there anything you can do to speed up the healing process?”
“Dance classes” is all I reveal, huffing out of my nostrils.
“You’re going to take dance classes?” he exclaims.
“If I want to strengthen my flexibility, then I’ll have to.”
A smile sweeps over Fulton’s lips like the first break of dawn over a never-ending night. “But you can’t dance,” he teases.
I brace my hand over my heart offendedly. “Oh, yeah? What do you call me memorizing every move to the Rasputin dance when Beer Comes Trouble was having karaoke that one night?”
“I call that deeply troubling and a result of way too much alcohol.”
“First off, rude.” I make a show of counting on my fingers. “And second off, just because I’m crippled doesn’t mean I won’t beat you with my crutches.”
Fulton finally gets the car sputtering to life, and he looks over his shoulder as he begins backing out of his makeshift parking spot. “Still violent, I see.”
“Still annoying, I see.”
“At least I can walk.”
“At least I don’t throw up every time I talk to a girl.”
He side-eyes me, pursing his lower lip out. “Touché.”
We exit the parking lot and turn onto the main road, and I have to keep my knees from smacking into the glove compartment every time we go over a bump. Which is a lot more difficult when my hip has the mobility of a fossilized statue.
The outlines of vegetation and concrete buildings glide past the window, bathed in a post-afternoon haze, and shades of pomegranate pink hover on the horizon, waiting to be rolled out over shingled roofs and abandoned streets.
“Speaking of girls, whatever happened with that chick from the rink?”
Fulton asks, waggling his eyebrows.
Suddenly, I get this surge of automatic hatred in my gut, and the thought of her is like a butane-covered match to a sky-high flame. I loathe that girl.
More than humanly possible. Just thinking about the way she car-fucked
poor old Natasha—my Jaguar I-Pace—drives me so fucking crazy that a court wouldn’t deem me mentally competent enough to stand trial. Hell, I don’t even know her name, but I’m determined to hold a lifelong grudge against her until the day I wither away in my casket.
I play dumb because the alternative is getting the rage sweats. “What girl?”
“The girl you were having a huge yelling match with?”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter under my breath, picking at the hangnail on my thumb.
The car comes to a lurching halt at a red stoplight, and Fulton elbows me. “Am I sensing some sexual tension?”
Sexual? Ha. I wouldn’t touch her pussy with a ten-foot pole, or if she was the last woman on Earth and I’d taken one of those chocolates that increase your sex drive. Yeah, I’d be a blind idiot not to notice the lack of clothing she was wearing when she confronted me, but no matter how much her large tits jiggled in that pathetic excuse for a bra, I’d never waste my breath being in the same room as her, much less using said breath to kiss her.
“There’s tension, but none of it is sexual.”
“Uh-huh.” Fulton scratches at a tiny scuff on his windshield. “And are you going to press charges? You know, for her pretty much flattening the entire side of your car?”
I wanted to. I really did. That molten anger inside of me blisters with heat to make her pay (literally and figuratively), but the more reasonable, less kill-or-be-killed version of me still has a seat at the table, and he’s telling me to take a Xanax before I ruin someone financially. Insurance covered the damages. I have enough money to buy a completely new car if I wanted, and it wouldn’t make a dent in my bank account. There’s really no reason for me to sue her aside from being a petty bastard.
As charged as I am with Olympian levels of fury, I just can’t bring myself to put her in debt like that, even if I’m not her biggest fan. I saw the crap-show of a car she drove. Even if I did sue her, I probably wouldn’t get much money from her. And what I could get would be more than likely financially devastating on her end. Therefore, I’m retracting my claws and doing the selfless deed by letting her off the hook.
“I don’t want to sue,” I tell Fulton, and the admission douses the last dregs of the fire running rampant inside of me, leaving nothing but coughs
of smoke and hissing firewood.
The light turns green, and Fulton resumes his path through the intersection, shock nudging his brows to his hairline. “That’s, uh, really responsible of you.”
My belly does this weird flip, and I don’t think it’s from motion sickness. “Just another thing for me to deal with, honestly. And I don’t have the time or patience for it.”
“That’s understandable. I mean, I’ve never been to court, but it feels like it would take a long time. And it would be super stressful.” Fulton shudders.
“Ordering food at a drive-thru is already stressful enough for me.”
A chuckle catches on my lips, and the complementary squeeze in my chest makes me momentarily forget about the hip-related bad news I received today. Maybe this break will help me rethink my whole approach this season. Maybe I just need to step away for a moment and let my thoughts air out.
When we pull into the driveway of the house we share with four other guys, I’m in awe at how different it looks now from how it did in the summer. The gigantic, weathered mansion is now overrun with a medley of autumn leaves, covering the once-green yard in gilded golds and magnificent maroons. The gnarled trees that encircle the house are a testament to the changing seasons, with their barren branches and the few handfuls of foliage that have yet to freckle the ground. And the air is ripe with a crispness that only precedes rain, suffusing the sky like ink on wet paper.
As we get out of the car, Fulton grabs my crutches and helps me find my footing. “You know, I overheard Aeris saying that she’s been going to this dance class downtown. She says it’s great. Maybe you could try there?”
he proposes.
“That carves some time off looking, so thanks, man. If it’s Aeris-approved, I’m pretty sure it’ll be a piece of cake.”
Aeris, one of my teammate’s girlfriends, has been a great addition to the group. She’s the only girl who’s been able to tie down our team’s biggest playboy, Hayes. Domesticated the poor guy. She’s super sweet and can cook a mean chicken parmesan, but with all due respect, she has the worst coordination in the world. Like, born-with-two-left-feet bad. So if Aeris can do it, I’ll be a pro at this whole dancing thing. Plus, how hard can it really be?
A ONE-WAY ROAD TO FAILURE
CALISTA
I’ve come to the conclusion that even with the help of time-telling devices, the world just loves to see me suffer. My hair is a rat’s nest of tangles and grease, my patience is practically nonexistent, and I’m somehow juggling both Teague’s hockey bag and my mother’s medication.
My mother, Ingrid, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in her early forties, around the time I was seventeen. And now I’m her primary caretaker. She’s pretty much bedridden, and the disease has resulted in muscle weakness, a lack of coordination, and chronic fatigue. My mother started to get bad around my junior year of high school, but her flare-ups spiked my sophomore year of college. After finding out how sick she’d gotten, I dropped out to take care of her. And due to her being indisposed, I became Teague’s guardian when he was only in kindergarten.
It breaks my heart to see her wasting away in bed, constantly fighting pain, never knowing when she’ll succumb to the sickness. There are days where I’m out of the house for extended periods of time, and I get this terrible feeling that I’ll come home to find her dead. Or worse—Teague will find her before I do.
Not only do I feel responsible for my mother because she’s, well, my mom, but she was my primary caretaker when we were struggling in an impoverished household. My father disappeared around my junior year of high school—when my mother’s condition became too much for him to deal with—and I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know where he ran off to
or if he’s even still alive. Not that I care. He stopped being my dad the day he walked out on us.
My father was a good-for-nothing lowlife who leeched off this family and contributed nothing to our finances. So to remedy a single-income household, my mom sacrificed her entire life for me and Teague to have a somewhat normal upbringing. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with an open-layout kitchen, a small bathroom, and barely enough square footage to constitute a living room.
Since my mother worked back-to-back shifts at the diner, she never had any time to clean the apartment. It was a mess: peeling carpet, roach carapaces melded to glue traps, traces of mold discoloring the walls of the bathroom, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and toys and bills alike cluttered on every flat surface. My mother barely made enough money for weekly groceries, much less rent and utility bills. We were always behind on payments, and I began to realize how much money insecurity affected us when I got my first job my sophomore year of high school.
It was full-time at a local fast-food restaurant, which wasn’t terrible for my first work experience but definitely interfered with the quality of my education. I went from an A student to a C student within a semester. But it’s not like I could spend extra time studying and doing schoolwork when I had to assist my mother. So I traded school for the relief of carrying some of my mother’s stress and providing for my family.
I forfeited my dreams of finishing college and becoming a professional dancer. I forfeited my social life and love life. I forfeited… everything.
There are some days I wish my life hadn’t turned out the way it did, but if I had to choose between my dreams and my family, my family would always come first—even at the expense of my happiness. It doesn’t feel like much of a loss, though, when my life had barely begun. And maybe it’s better this way: to kill something before it has the chance to grow.
Now I’ve become a permanent provider, leaving behind the typical twenty-something’s world of carefree living.
“Teague, you better be ready in the next three minutes!” I shout, schlepping his bag by the door as I make a detour to the kitchen. As much as I wish it was for a quick bite, I don’t have time.
I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, then bring my mother her beta interferons to help reduce inflammation. Thankfully, we don’t live in that cursed two-bedroom apartment anymore. Teaching ten back-to-back
dance classes a day, five days a week, I saved up enough money to help us afford a better apartment. It also helped that disability and social security covered a lot of my mother’s medical expenses.
My mother’s bedroom is the furthest down the hall, shadowed by darkness and a foreboding feeling that swathes the stale air like overcast clouds. There’s this inexplicable cold that leeches to the nerves leading up my spine, and my heart always seems to hammer heavier at her door’s threshold.
Cautiously, I creak the partition open, revealing the sight of her bed basking in a single square of moonlight, her hair strewn over her pillow and covering the sharp edges of her face. The musty smell of unwashed clothes assaults my nostrils, having festered in an air-sealed pocket for the majority of the day. It reminds me that I’ll have to help her bathe when I get back from dance—if she’s even awake.
“Mom, it’s time to take your meds,” I whisper softly, slowly inching across the unvarnished floorboards to the side of her bed.
She emerges from that cotton-fitted fortress, a thin spiderwebbing of blood vessels in her eyes and her hair a mussed state of uncombed tresses.
Her bony hand feels blindly across her mattress, skeletal fingers turning upward to catch the little white pills promising reprieve.
I let them plunk into her palm, and then I set her glass of water on the nightstand. It usually takes her muscles a few minutes to cooperate, but I have to make sure she’s actually ingesting her medicine.
I love my mother, I do. But being in that freezing room with her, practically hearing the Grim Reaper’s scythe knocking on her bedside window, rips my body apart and scatters every piece of my soul beyond rescue. I know she’d get better treatment in a hospital, but we don’t have a quarter of the money it would cost for such an expensive bill. Plus, if she were to stay in a hospital, her time there would be indefinite.
“Thank you, Calista,” she replies with a painful-sounding rasp, taking a sip from her drink before setting it back on the nightstand. I bend down to kiss the crown of her head, trying to latch on to any remaining remnants of her signature rose scent before she got sick, but that version of her is long gone.
“I love you,” I tell her, though I’m not sure if it’s intended for her ears or my guilty conscience.
“I love you too. Have a good class tonight.” Her diluted smile is equal parts gracious and pained, and while I retreat toward the door, I watch as she hides herself away again, practically disappearing into her queen-sized bed.
Some days, my mother doesn’t even show herself. Some days, she won’t come out from under the covers or even look at me. As dismal as the situation is, I’m lucky she was feeling strong enough to take her medicine today. I don’t know how to make any of this better for her. I don’t know how to mitigate the years of pain that have built up—the years of pain that she’d be quick to carry herself if I was the one in her situation.
When I make my way back into the hallway, Teague is waiting for me by the door, geared up in tons of hockey padding and looking like the Michelin Man. A frown is plastered to his lips, an indecipherable expression souring his features.
Running late isn’t a rare occurrence in this household. This pretty much happens every morning before school and before hockey practice. With how busy my schedule is, I’m surprised I’m even able to take him instead of our neighbors, who step in when I’m too caught up in work.
“Come on, Squirt. We have to hurry.”
Keys jangling on my index finger, I swing my dance bag haphazardly onto my arm. But when I go to open the door, Teague doesn’t move toward the exit. He doesn’t bend down to pick up his hockey bag. He stares at me, the hard line of his brow and his matching pout both making his cherubic cheeks puff out.
A groan and a sigh merge in the tight cavity of my chest. “Teague, I don’t have time for this. We have to go. Now.”
“I don’t want to go,” he murmurs, bowing his head.
He doesn’t want to go? Are you kidding me right now?
I drop my bag to the floor, close the door, and grind my teeth hard enough to loosen a filling. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to go to practice today.”
“Since when?” I growl, digging the heel of my palm into my forehead like it’ll magically cure the headache solidifying behind my eyes. We’re ten minutes late. If I entertain this, it’ll put my entire schedule thirty minutes behind.
Hey, God. It’s me, Calista. I’m not sure what you’re doing up there—if you’re throwing your swanky Jesus sandals up on your cloud coffee table—
but I really need you to listen. Please give me a break. I’m not asking for much. A small break. Something that’ll keep my blood pressure in check. I’ll literally do whatever you want. You want my unborn child? You got it. You want me to harvest the blood of virgins and sacrifice goats under the full moon? Sure thing, buddy.
“Cali, please,” Teague whines, moisture pushing against the dam in his eyes, seconds away from breaking through the crack and rushing out in snot and sobs galore.
I tame my temper, suck in a breath, and then kneel down to his height.
“What’s going on, Squirt?”
Teague’s never acted like this before. He loves going to hockey practice.
“I just…can I please stay home? Or can I go with you to dance class?”
The sad, puppy dog look on his face is currently beating my heart in with a spike-studded bat. I hate it when Teague’s upset. And I hate it even more when I can’t fix whatever’s bothering him.
“You know I can’t leave you alone, bud. And I can’t bring you with me,” I admit regretfully, tucking a wily curl of hair behind his ear. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”
His entire face turns a muted red, and he shrinks under his layers of gear, refusing to look me in the eye. “Some of the kids…they…”
I nod at him to continue, the pad of my finger soaking up a rogue tear that’s made a great escape down his cheek. On the outside, I’m as cool as a cucumber. On the inside, tiny versions of me are running around in circles in my head and screaming as fire engulfs every inch of my brain.
“They what?”
His lower lip quivers, and that’s enough warning before he collapses into a crying fit and flings his arms around my neck. “They make fun of me,” he bawls into my shoulder, scrunching my crop top up in his little fists.
Shock sparks my stomach, and then flammable barrels of rage light inside of me. “What?”
He’s getting bullied at practice? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? Why didn’t I realize it sooner? I’m going to confront those eight-year-old pieces of shit and demand that they apologize to him. Can I punch a child? Is that legal? Or…ethical? Fuck it. I don’t care.
He pulls away from me, his skin slathered in wetness, his eyes red and puffy, and his nose bubbling. “I’m…so b-bad at hockey…and they…p-pick
“Oh, Squirt,” I console, bringing him back into an embrace, fully accepting that my shirt will be decorated in stains by the time I get to class.
His small frame shakes as he wails, awakening that mama bear instinct within me as I stroke his hair and simultaneously plot total-world destruction.
“I’m so sorry that’s happening, Teague. But you have to know that you’re an amazing hockey player.”
“You’re just saying that!”
He’s right. A part of me is just saying that. I’ve never really seen Teague play before. I’ve just been so busy—so absent.
“I…” My voice dies on a crack.
“Please don’t make me go, Cali. I don’t want to see them. Please, please, please,” he begs, stomping his foot while more tears stream out of his eyes, splotching the ring of his jersey’s neckline.
Guilt corkscrews deep into the flesh of my heart, and my apology doesn’t need to be written out in big, bold letters for him to understand the tug-of-war position he has me in. “If I could bring you to my class with me, I would in a heartbeat. But it’s not appropriate. I’m sorry, kiddo.”
The shallow bursts of breath from his mouth descend into somewhat controlled sniffles. “I-I understand…”
I rub my hands up and down his arms. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. All I ask is that you go for today’s practice, and then we can talk about the next steps. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave today, Teague?” I ask.
“I think I can,” he replies, and although uncertainty colors his tone, he puts on the bravest face he can muster.
His agreement dissolves my fleeting panic, but I know he can only keep the anxiety at bay for so long. “I promise I’ll fix this.”
I will fix this. I’ll do right by my brother. I have to. I have to be better. A better sister, a better daughter, a better…everything.
So, now running the estimated thirty minutes behind, I get Teague buckled into the car, and I drive as fast as I can to the rink, glancing back every minute or so to see if the nervous twist of his face has straightened out.
I feel like I’m walking my brother to the goddamn gallows. Each intersection we fly through, each building we pass, each number that
changes on the digital clock—they all contribute to the growing distress hatching marks on every inch of my body.
And when I pull up to the mouth of the rink, I watch helplessly as Teague straggles his way to practice, every atom of life drained from his once-happy spirit.