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We sit in silence again as I struggle with what to say. But she’s not finished.
“She forces these men on me. Like I’m supposed to instantly like and accept them just because she does.”
I listen and nod like I understand, but really, I don’t. Oakley and I have a solid family. We always have. Our parents are still together, happily. They rarely fight, and when they do disagree, it’s far from World War III. My family is predictable and solid. Boring even, but in the best way. I could tell you exactly what is going on at my childhood home right now. My dad is in front of the television, watching the Bruins play. And Mom is either baking something in the kitchen or sitting in the living room, pretending to watch the game while reading a book. There’s something comforting about knowing exactly what to expect when it comes to my family. Madison has never had that.
“I’m not going to pretend to know what it’s like for you,” I say, “because I don’t. My family is about as boring as they come …”
Mads smiles. “They are very Beaver Cleaver-ish.”
I chuckle. “How do you know about the Beav? Wasn’t that show way before your time?”
She knocks her shoulder into mine. “It was before your time too. You can stream just about anything these days. Even the oldies.”
“I guess,” I say. We’re quiet for a few beats. “I’m sure Celeste is doing the best she can. And even if it feels like she does everything wrong, she loves you. That’s obvious.”
“Love is more than just words, Ollie. You show love with your actions.”
My arm drops around her shoulders, and I pull her into me. She rests her head against my neck.
“So … how’d you leave things with her?” I ask. Her hair is soft where it’s brushing against my cheek.
“I told her I’m staying here and that she’ll just have to deal with it.”
I press a kiss to the side of her head, and the tension leaves her body.
“You smell a lot better than you did earlier tonight,” she murmurs after a minute, and my lips twitch.
“Soap,” I reply. “I highly recommend it.” I squeeze her before releasing my hold. She follows when I rise to my feet. “The second period should be starting.”
“It’s weird, thinking that at this time next year, I could be watching you play in the postseason tournament …”
“I don’t think the Hawks expect things to turn around that quickly,” I counter as I open the front door. I step back and let Mads go in first.
“That’s not what I hear,” she says over her shoulder.
“Is that right? Well, what have you heard?” I shut the door behind us.
“That you are the great hope of the entire establishment. That you’re gonna show up and everything will magically mold into place.”
She’s joking … kind of. But it still makes my stomach clench. She’s right that social media and the announcers are saying all those things and more. And I feel the pressure mounting. All these people forget that I’m just one person and this is a team sport. I can be good, great even, and not turn an entire organization around in one year.
“I’m looking forward to playing.” It feels wrong to give her my textbook answer after the raw confessions she just made about her mother. But I do it anyway.
“And I’m looking forward to watching you play,” she says, settling in on the couch next to me again.
We spend the rest of the evening watching the game. And I try not to think about the weight on my shoulders or why it seems to be getting heavier each day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MADISON
The rest of the evening was spent in front of the television with Ollie, watching the Bruins sail to a third win in the series. One more, and they’re on to the next round. It was nice, spending the evening with him. It was relaxing and easy. Most of the times we’ve been together in the past were spent around a group or with Oakley. The dynamic is different when others are around. I liked having his undivided attention. Well, I guess it was still split between hockey and me, but I’ll take it.
I tried to lose myself in the game, but my mind kept returning to my mom and our conversation. She had been less than thrilled when I called to say I wasn’t coming home. She’d tried to put her foot down, but it was too little, too late. I’ve always basically done what I wanted to do, and this time will be no different.
When we were ready for bed last night, I was fully prepared to take the couch. But Ollie wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted I stay in his room and that he would sleep in the living room. I slipped into his soft, old T-shirt behind closed doors. I’d never meant for him to see it. And I’d never intended to divulge the truth—that I sleep in it most nights. But you can look at the material and see that it hasn’t been sitting in my chest of drawers all these years. It’s well worn at this point.
It was surreal, lying in his bed, surrounded by his things, while wearing his shirt. It made me feel like I was part of his world in a way I hadn’t been before. I was inundated by his scent, which is everywhere in this apartment. I lay there for what felt like hours and stared at the dark ceiling before I was able to fall asleep. Part of me was getting used to the new sounds of the place. The shifting of central air-conditioning. The sound of doors slamming when his next-door neighbors came home late. But most of my insomnia was because I was hyperaware of the Adonis sleeping in the next room.
