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“Like Dad.”
My mom’s head falls more to the side as she lets out a “Oh, Laney. No, you’re not.”
I nod adamantly, though.
“I’m selfish, Mom. And I’m going to choose the game, every time. And I’m going to pick me. And damn anyone else.”
She shakes her head through my guilty admission, which both soothes and infuriates me.
“No, Laney. No, you’re not. You are nothing like your dad. And also, it’s okay to choose you. You simply need to be with someone who knows that, and who maybe chooses himself from time to time, too.”
I hold her gaze and soak in her words. I don’t see how that would ever work.
“But Dad chose himself, and so you chose yourself.”
“No, Laney. I didn’t learn how to choose myself until very recently. In fact, I’m still learning. Your dad has always been who he is, and I was blind to it. But I also didn’t know it was okay to dream for myself sometimes. And maybe that’s grandma’s fault, who knows.” My grandmother passed away when I was five, so I take her word for it. I do know she was strict and did not like my mom marrying my dad or moving to Pittsburgh from Rhode Island.
“I don’t know how . . .” I leave it there, letting my words trail off because there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t like the unknown. The lack of a plan. The zero answers.
“You don’t have to. You figure it out,” she responds.
So what.
That’s what Cutter said.
I’ve just played the biggest game of my career, and instead of celebrating with friends or with a man who I’m pretty sure I love,I’m crying in the car with my mom. I have nobody. I made sure of it.
“Can you drop me off at my house and maybe we can do breakfast in the morning? There’s something I need to do.”
My mom’s lips slide into a proud smile, different from the kind she wears when I compete. This is the kind that goes with adulting, I think. This one carries more weight.
“Of course I can.”
I guide my mom through the few turns it takes to get to the house. The driveway is clear, no Jeep parked by the curb. I can’t be too late.
I get out of the car and grab my bag then lean in through the window to take my mom’s hand. She gives me a solid squeeze.
“Text me when you fix it,” she says.
I nod, though I don’t know if I can.
I let her leave the driveway before I head inside, knowing in my gut that the fact that I have to unlock the door probably means Cutter is gone. He hasn’t had much time, though, so he must still have things here.
I rush to our room and flip the lights on to find our bed made up for one. My chest feels like a brick is weighing on it. I move to his side of the bed and scan the floor. His bag is gone. I tug open the drawers and his clothes have been cleared out. His phone charger is no longer on his night table. My last hope is the closet, and when I find his pants and dress shirts still hung inside, I fall into them and hug them, holding them to my face as I breathe in his musky smell. He isn’t fully gone. He has to come back.
Pausing in the closet, I contemplate what else Cutter has in this house. He didn’t come with as much stuff as I did, but he does have gear. I dart to the front closet and whip the doors open. It’s bare except for two of Matt’s jackets and a single hockey stick. It’s an older stick, and at first glance, I assume it’ssomething Matt messes around with, but then the orange grip tugs at my memory.
That’smystick. The one Cutter let me use.
I pull it out, holding it like he taught me, and shut my eyes. They fly open the moment it hits me.
I know exactly where he is.
22/
cutter
“You know I love you,my man, but I’m tired. How much longer do we have to keep this up?” Chuck’s a saint. He not only answered the door when I pounded on it after Laney’s game, but he came with me to the rink and suited up so I could work some shit out.
