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“Look, man,” I say, pulling out my phone, glancing at the time. Roxie’s got to be off the ice by now, and I want to make sure she and Tiffany are getting along okay.
That Brit?—
The knife to my gut is almost immediate, jabbing home, yanking upward, exposing my insides to the world.
Or maybe that’s just what all of the sports blogs and TikToks and social media posts on other platforms have done.
Worse than when we first started dating.
Worse because hockey royalty has fallen apart.
Because I hurt her.
Russ clears his throat and I shove that down, way fucking down, knowing that I had to do it. Knowing it was the only way. Knowing that?—
It’s all fucked up and twisted and even if I wanted to go back, I can’t. Not now. Not when?—
“Look,” I say again, cutting that thought off and focusing on the present, on the man who’s sitting behind his desk, working his ass off because Bec Darden’s firm is making him pay for each and every filing with blood, sweat, and frustration. “I need to go. I don’t give a fuck about the money or the house or the property. I want to be free of this, of her”—my gut clenches—“I’m ready to be done with it all. And…just give her what she wants,” I mutter.
Russ has gone still, his eyes searching mine for a long moment.
Then he nods, sighs, and closes the file. “I get it, Stefan. I’ll make it happen.”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing up to my feet, reaching over to shake his hand.
We exchange goodbyes, and my phone buzzes, telling me that Tiff and Roxie are getting their nails done. That, at least, has my lips twitching, amusement in my belly because Roxie is going to love that. And then I’m out into the hall, walking to my car, determined to put this shit of a divorce behind me.
I drive home, weaving through the typically awful Bay Area traffic.
And then I’m pulling into my driveway.
Unfortunately, it’s not empty—even though Tiffany and Roxie are still at the nail salon.
Nope.
My mother’s car is taking up most of it, and when I park at the curb and walk inside, I see she’s taking up most of the space within the kitchen as well.
The delicious scent of her lasagna reaches my nose, her music fills the air, blasting against my eardrums, and?—
Her mere presence has the ragged gash in my heart settling.
At least until I get a glimpse of her face.
Then I can barely resist holding in my beleaguered-teenage-boy-facing-his-disapproving-mother’s groan.
I don’t have time or patience for this shit.
Sighing, I hang my keys on the hook just inside the kitchen, start to turn for the bedroom. I want to change out of my adulting clothes, pull on some sweats, to brace for the tornado of energy that is my daughter.
But…
I don’t get that far.
The music cuts off.
“What the hell are you doing, Stefan?”
I sigh, turn back, a throb beginning in my temple.
