Page 2 of Ice King

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“Mom. I’m not a child,” I said while half laughing. My words had fallen on deaf ears. “I can take care of myself.”

Margaret Kendrick might as well be called Mama Bear. Even after enduring the pain of birthing four huge babies, three of whom had turned into brutal savages as men, she hovered over each one of us whenever she believed we were incapable of caring for ourselves.

From my point of view, that was way too often.

At twenty-eight years old, I’d been around the block a few times. If I couldn’t take care of myself now, then I might as well hang it up.

“Maybe I’d feel better if you didn’t act like a child.” She was a spitfire and a powerhouse at five foot nothing, acting as if she oversaw all of us. That’s the way it had been since we were all kids.

My father? Right now, he was doing exactly the same thing as he’d always done.

He was looking the other way with a smile on his face. Then again, Patrick Kendrick knew his place in the pecking order of the pack.

Behind his woman.

Something he’d shared with his sons in our formative years. Never argue with a woman.

“Mama, seriously,” my sister Samantha chided. “Ford has lived on his own since he was eighteen. That’s ten years.”

My mother, choosing to ignore all of us, plumped the pillows on my couch, positioned a comfy throw within reach, and turned on ambient lighting before glaring at my father.

“Pat. Make a fire. We need to keep him warm.” After that, she grabbed my sister’s hand, forcing her to take the bag of goodies as she called them. The same phrase she’d used when I was eight and cried when I was going to the dentist and she’d been bribing me. “Make him some tea. Chamomile. He needs to get a good night’s sleep.”

Tea wasn’t going to cut it.

My mother intended on changing my bad habits.

When I chuckled, I winced while my sister rolled her eyes. She had finals to study for, her college graduation only a few weeks away. The last thing she needed was to babysit her big brother.

“Yes, Mom,” Samantha said instead. There were other battles to pick.

“Don’t you ‘yes, Mom’ me. Our son was almost killed.” Mom fisted her hand, acting as if she was taking a swing at the jerk who’d caused my injuries. She was being nice. The thoughts I had were vicious through and through.

I adored my mother. She was the family rock, the woman who’d birthed and had dealt with my savage childish shifter ways. She’d been there when my hormones had me streaking in fur for four weeks until my father could get me under control.

And she’d been there to remind me not all women were horrible when my pseudo girlfriend had left me for a two-bit actor. What my mother hadn’t understood was that I hadn’t cared about Shanna’s betrayal. Relationships were the last thing on my mind.

When my mother grabbed my arms as if I was incapable of walking, I allowed her to guide me to the couch.

“Here you go, baby boy. Get off your feet. You’ve been through such an ordeal.”

The ordeal had been a nightmare, but not because of medical reasons. Yeah, my ribs still felt bruised every time I took a deep breath and according to my orthopedic doctor, my shoulder wasn’t healing properly, but I was alive and kicking.

And planning on returning to the game.

After I secured the team a place in the playoffs, maybe I’d hunt down the motherfucker who’d put me in this position. Maybe I’d allow my beast out of his cage for a night. The thought had kept me from falling into bouts of rage over the last few days.

“Mom, seriously. I’ll be just fine,” I reassured her.

“You can’t stay alone. I’ll stay with you.”

“Mags,” my father finally chimed in. “I’m with our son on this one. He is fine. As long as he takes it easy and stays off the damn ice, he’ll heal.” With the last few words, he glared at me. He knew how I was. Refusing to take a day off under the worst of circumstances.

At least I’d convinced them that I didn’t need to stay sequestered inside their house where I’d been since being released from the hospital. I still couldn’t believe the doctors remained baffled when faced with the bloodstream of a shifter. We’d been ‘out’ to mainstream society for over four years. You’d think by now every hospital in the country would have at least one doctor dedicated to our bodily specifics.

“Don’t worry. Coach Stryker has no intention of allowing me back on the ice until I’m given the all clear.” Unless I sweet-talked him, which I intended on doing. At this point, given the muscle structure I’d been born with, I should soon be good as new.