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“For the eightieth time, she needs to quit her job,” I said, rubbing my forehead in irritation. “I have the money for everything you guys need.”
Andy exhaled heavily. “We need the health insurance, though. And I can’t take that kind of money from you.”
A flare of helpless anger rose in my chest. “You’re my brother. I don’t give a shit about the money. What’s the point of the money if I can’t help my family with it?”
“This treatment will end up costing hundreds of thousands, man.”
“I’ve got it,” I fired back. “I’ve got plenty of money in the bank. If I can’t physically be there to help right now, this is the only thing in my power that I can do. Let me.”
“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m gonna be sick. Look, I’ll talk to her, but we’re okay on money and I think working gets her mind off of me, which is good. We’re good.”
I wanted to beat my phone against the kitchen counter. We’d been having this conversation since his diagnosis, and I’d only made a shred of headway.
“She can go part time, then,” I said. “I’m at the point where you guys can either take money from me, or I’m quitting hockey to move in with you. I’ll be around all the time. All the time.”
“Michael,” Andy said, his voice strong and stern now. “That is not a fucking option. Promise me you won’t do that. I’d never forgive myself.”
I looked up at the ceiling, at my wits’ end. “Put yourself in my shoes.”
“I have to go,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”
His voice was tinged with agony as he ended the call. All I wanted was to quit hockey and go be with him. So far, the treatment seemed to be helping, but Andy could be in the final months of his life, and I hated that I had to be so far from him.
Dad had passed away four years ago and Mom did everything she could to help Andy and Carrie. Our sister Emma had taken off with her shitty boyfriend five years ago and we hadn’t heard from her since, other than our parents getting an occasional call asking for money. I needed to be home, and soon.
For now, I had to shake off my bad mood because it was Tuesday, and that meant I had an evening youth hockey practice.
Time to put on my game face. I’d developed a pretty great one over the past couple of months.
* * *
I dida double take when I skated onto the ice at the youth hockey rink and saw Jolie Gizzard talking to a group of girls. What was she doing here?
Coach Gizzard was just a few feet away from her, so I assumed he had something to do with it.
Fucking great. The last thing I needed was for her to say something to me, or even look at me, and make Gizzard suspicious.
“Boone, watch!” a little boy named Lucas called out.
He was a little guy—five years old—but he had boundless energy and every time he fell, he got up and tried even harder.
Lucas skated his fastest to the wall, then turned around and skated back to me.
“Nice,” I said, offering him a high five.
“Did you see how fast I went?” he asked.
I gave him a mock skeptical look. “You’re trying to steal my job, aren’t you?”
He laughed and nodded.
“Okay, gather up,” Coach Gizzard called.
I stayed off to the side, sneaking a glance at Jolie as Coach talked to the kids. She was comfortable on skates, which wasn’t surprising for a hockey coach’s daughter. Wearing leggings with an oversized hoodie, a sweater headband covering her ears and matching blue gloves on her hands, she looked even better to me than she had on her wedding day.
Not only was she a smoking-hot redhead, but she also wasn’t one of those high-maintenance women who wouldn’t be caught dead on an ice rink in comfortable clothes. The fingers of her gloves were cut off, so I could see she didn’t have fake nails. No fake lashes, either.
One of the little girls she’d been talking to skated over to Jolie and hugged her around the waist. She smiled down at her, put an arm around her, and went back to listening to her dad.
