Page 11 of For Pucking Ever

She laughs, the sound strained around the edges, like she's trying not to cry. I can picture her sitting in our little kitchen, the one with the yellowing linoleum I promised to replace last Christmas, fingers worrying at the frayed edge of the placemat I made her in third grade.

God, I hate this. I hate worrying her.

I hate being stuck here, broken, useless, while she's back home in Lark Bay dealing with her MS flares and pretending not to need the help that she clearly does. Pretending the tremors aren't getting worse. Pretending she doesn't need her cane or wheelchair more days than not now.

"I should be there with you," she whispers, the guilt in her voice cuts deeper than any injury could.

"You can't," I say quickly, sitting up too fast and immediately regretting it as the world tilts like I'm on the deck of a ship in rough seas. I press my palm to the mattress, grounding myself. "You need to take care of yourself. Promise me, Ma. Please. Ms. Bethany is checking in, right? And you're taking your meds?"

Another silence falls between us, heavy and aching. Eighty miles of worry stretched taut between us. She’s so close, yet so far away.

"I just. . ."

My voice breaks, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden burn of tears that have nothing to do with physical pain.

"I don't wanna lose it, Ma. Everything I worked for. Everything we worked for." The contract. The security. The promise that she'd never have to choose between rent and medication again. "I can't⁠—"

"You won't," she says fiercely, cutting me off before the panic can swallow me whole. "You hear me, Derrick? You're strong. You're stubborn as a mule. Just like your momma. You're going to fight through this like you fight through everything else."

I breathe shakily through my nose, trying to absorb her certainty. Trying to make her faith in me tangible enough to hold onto when the dark thoughts creep in.

Trying to believe it.

"You're more than hockey, baby," she says, softer now. "You're my boy. And I'm proud of you, no matter what happens."

Tears threaten again, but I blink them back furiously, staring at the ceiling, at Bast's painting of that solitary figure on the edge of something vast and unknown.

She doesn't need to hear me cry. Not today. Not ever.

"Yeah," I croak out. "Yeah, Ma. I'm gonna fight."

"Good," she says warmly. "Now go get some rest. Let that handsome goalie take care of you for a little while."

I snort. If only she knew.

"I love you, baby," she says.

“I love you too,” I whisper back before ending the call.

The room feels too big as I softly tell Siri to end the call.

Too quiet.

I sink back into the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

I can hear faint sounds from somewhere downstairs, clinking dishes, the low murmur of Bast’s voice on a phone call, maybe. Coffee brewing. Life happening outside the wreckage of my world.

I think about the way he looked at me yesterday when he helped me into the house, steady, patient, like I wasn’t a burden or a lost cause.

I think about the way he touched me in the shower, gentle but unflinching, like I was something valuable, not something broken.

I think about how stupid it is to let myself hope for anything.

Especially from him. Especially after last summer. But still. . .

For the first time since the accident, something inside me unfurls, just a little. A fragile, green tendril of hope pushing up through concrete rubble. Something raw and stubborn and so fucking desperate to survive. The same something that got me through the hard times when Ma was too sick, through the various hockey camps when coaches said I wasn't built right, through every doubt and setback and ‘no’ that tried to define my limits.

Maybe I'm not totally alone after all. The thought lands like a revelation, though it shouldn't be, Ma's always been there, in her way. But this is different. This is someone seeing me at my absolute worst and still offering. . .something. Not pity. Something steadier.