by Lynda Aicher
The fire in his mother’s eyes and voice froze him. He’d never seen her this worked up and adamant about anything. He stared down at her, analyzing all the things he’d dismissed before. From eye color to lip shapes to height, he didn’t take after either of his parents. He’d only seen what he’d been willing to see.
“You’re far from being a child,” she said, the uncharacteristic firmness holding him captive better than her grasp on his arm. “And I should hope you have no illusions about the kind of marriage I have with your father. And yes,” she rushed on with emphasis, “Kurt is your father, if not by blood then everything else. He gave you his name and all that came with it when he could’ve thrown us both out in a disgraced heap. He may be a cold bastard, but he isn’t heartless.” She sucked in a breath, shoulders rising and falling in a graceful decline that lifted her chin and tempered her smile along with her voice. “I did what I could for you, what I thought was best. There are so many reasons I was distant with you growing up, the least of which was I never wanted to give Kurt reason to disown you.” She blinked rapidly before touching a finger to the inner corner of each eye.
Her slow inhalation was blown out in an equally long release. “I’m not perfect and neither is Kurt, and the reasons why we stayed together are buried in obligation and tradition and the binding responsibility of our names. Your father had his own reasons for giving you his name, and I never questioned them. But I ensured you received the same financial and social advantages of your siblings. I couldn’t force him to love you, but I could make sure you were treated equally in every other way.”
Treated equally. Again with the money and social standing. The implied responsibility of wealth inherited from generations of expectation based on what?
There was too much to think about and process. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t take one more thing without falling apart.
Hold it together.
His mother was waiting though, undoubtedly for a response. He had to say something when his mind was a big blank. He clicked through random options ranging from anger to nothing at all until he landed on the least expected yet most obvious. She’d made a mistake long ago and had done her best to make it right for him, no matter how it’d felt growing up or right that second.
In her own way, she’d been protecting him her whole life. A fact he was only seeing now.
But most importantly, she was still his mother. Good, bad and everything else. Jacqui would never turn her back on her mother. He might’ve had a very different example of what family was than Jacqui’d had, but his mother had just shown him what it meant to stand by your family. What loyalty and love could look like in all its variations.
There was no one way to love or one type of family.
To his own surprise, he leaned down to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. Her soft gasp held more than shock, telling him this was right.
“I love you, Mother.” He met her gaze, ensuring she saw the truth in his eyes. “We need to talk more, but I can’t right now.” There was no way he could have the conversation they needed until he’d had time to think. “Just know that I understand and I love you.” He eased her hand from its hold on his arm, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
She didn’t bother to contain her tears now. They rolled down her cheeks, silent testimony to her own pain. “Thank you. I love you too. Very, very much.” That was probably the most emotion he’d ever heard her apply to those words, and he took each inflection for what it was. The truth.
The air was startling cold when he stepped outside. Cold enough to snow. He welcomed it, soaked it in and let it fill the cracks and holes that threatened to break him.
Hold it together.
He could do that. And maybe for the very first time, he understood what was holding him together. Family.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Henrik zipped his bag closed and made another visual sweep of the hotel room. The muffled voices of his teammates filtered in from the hallway accompanied by the slamming of doors. Another indication it was time to head down to the bus that would take them to the arena.
A part of him was still functioning on autopilot, skating in the neutral zone of not thinking while thinking too much. He couldn’t let today’s events at his parents’ affect his game tonight. His team was counting on him to be present, not buried under his own emotional shit.
His phone buzzed, and he automatically pulled it out, a slight hope still rising that it’d be Jacqui. He stared at the text, barely grasping the words before the screen went black.
Gobble Gobble. Kick ass tonight.
Aiden’s first contact with him since the Sunday party, and it was that? Henrik’s short laugh jerked out of his chest. It wasn’t even close to what he’d expected after the grilling he’d taken from Jacqui’s brothers before everything had gone to shit.
And still nothing from Jacqui.
A fist pounding on the door signaled he didn’t have time to worry about Aiden or Jacqui. He tucked his phone away, grabbed his bags and left the room. Thankfully they were flying home after the game tonight.
Henrik nodded at his teammates, managed a smile even.
“Hey, Roller.”
“We missed you at lunch.”
“How was the date?”
He flipped Bowser off, grunted at Sparks and let this family surround him.
He made a point of putting his headphones on when he dropped into the bus seat but didn’t turn his music on. Instead he closed his eyes and absorbed the familiarity of it. The brotherhood that kept the team strong and wove into their daily lives.
The smack-talk, banter and general ribbing were as much a part of it as the slaps on the backs and silent comradery. He took a glimpse at Rylie, who was sitting next to him, cowboy hat tipped low over his brow, eyes closed. Both he and Hauke had been like that the entire road trip. In the seat next to him on the bus or plane or at meals. Not pushing or asking questions, but there without Henrik needing to say a word.
This team was yet another take on family. Not perfect and somewhat weakened once they left the rink, but it was whole and functioning. They took what he offered and accepted him as he was. He was the one who’d withheld information and parts of himself from them. He’d presented a flattened-down image and let them have their fun with it.
He was only now realizing that he’d put up the same fake front he loathed on his parents without seeing it for that. He’d been playing a part to fit in. All to be a part of this hockey family when he’d never needed to be anything but himself.
That thought cycled through his mind as he dressed and through warm-ups. Through the locker room pep talks and Coach’s debrief. The mood of the team was elevated, the usual anticipation heightened with the mutual knowledge of unfinished business that needed to be dealt with.
Rylie’s recovery from his hip injury last season was both inspiring and humbling to every one of them. He’d worked his ass off to get back on the ice. He’d pushed himself hard from a potentially career-ending injury so he could return to the sport he loved. And he was playing even better this season, kicking ass all over the stats and being a leader.
Erikson, the guy who’d made that illegal hit that’d slammed Rylie into the boards and dislocated his hip, would be on the ice tonight.
Hockey players’ memories ran long and deep, and nine months was but a blip. Erikson had been traded from Chicago to Boston at the end of last season, but it didn’t matter what team he played for. They had a score to even and a message to send that was all about the unofficial code of hockey.
The Glaciers’ run for the Cup last season may have delayed this event, but the team hadn’t forgotten nor were they going to ignore it now.
The lights glared at the end of the tunnel, the cheers and music echoing down from the stadium to thunder through Henrik. His blood pumped with the love and hate that came from that extended family. The fans were the lifeblood of any sports team. Their blind support coul
d be both uplifting and cutting, accolades and criticism equally delivered and uncensored if they felt it was warranted.
And this was enemy territory.
Stick taps went down the line, the clicks unheard over the noise. The action silently united them anyway.
Henrik leaned into Rylie, who was standing in front of him. “This one’s for you.”
They were marching down the tunnel before Rylie could respond, but he didn’t need to. They all knew what would happen once the game started. Feeney had been pumped, his normal smartass chatter silent as the enforcer mentally prepared for what was expected of him.
Henrik slipped his mouth guard in and stepped into the rink, digging in to cut across the ice. The crowd roared, a mix of cheers and boos that morphed into a dull buzz in his mind. He’d learned to block that out long before he’d hit the pros.
The air cooled his cheeks, the scent filling his nostrils to settle him further. He had a job to do. His resolve settled into his bones, focused his mind and shoved everything else to the side. He had a debt and obligation to this family, but most of all to Rylie, which needed to be paid.
Boston entered the rink a few minutes later, a cheer of support raising the rafters with the booming voice of the announcer and blaring music. Tension simmered over the ice, the red line an invisible wall that temporarily kept the teams apart. But the high vibe of expectation and warning broke through the barrier without any problem.
“Don’t be stupid tonight,” Coach O threatened them in their final huddle. “Feeney, do your job this period, and the rest of you stay the fuck out of it.”
Heads bobbed, grunts were added. Henrik followed along, agreed and nodded without flinching. There was nothing Coach could say that would change his intent, and no point speaking up either. Unplanned shit happened all the time.
If he wanted more, he had to be willing to give more. Not financially, but of himself.
“Play smart,” Henrik said to Rylie, knocking gloves as they skated out to center ice.
“We got your back,” Hauke added as he passed, nudging Rylie on the shoulder.
Henrik took up his defensive spot in their zone. He eyed the gold-and-black jersey on the other side of the circle. Erikson boldly grinned back at him. The cocky bastard should be smart enough to know what was coming—everyone else seemed to.
Boston was in the Eastern conference, so they only played them twice a year. This wasn’t about creating a rivalry with them and if the guy’s new teammates were smart, they’d let the next few minutes happen.
The puck dropped and play started with a frantic scramble for possession. Hauke came up with it, knocked the puck back to him, which he flicked to Rylie. The play moved through the neutral zone into Boston territory, Conners taking it deep for a quick shot that was deflected wide.
Henrik tracked it all while eyeing number fifty-seven, who was ten feet in front of him. The man was hanging out near the blue line, back to Henrik as he watched the play. If the prick had been on Rylie, Henrik wouldn’t have hesitated to take action immediately. As it was, Henrik pushed forward to land a hard shove into Erikson and let his glare speak louder than any trash talk.
The puck shot up the ice, clearing the blue line. They chased it down, Rylie hooking it behind the net to circle up the boards at Henrik. He snagged it in with his stick, prepared for the hit that landed on his side and propelled him into the boards.
The shock of the hit was gone in an instant. He battled with Erikson, sticks knocking and elbows flying before he secured the puck. He flicked it wide and followed it with a cuff to Erikson’s face.
“Let’s go, asshole,” he growled, ramming him again.
“Fucker,” Erikson said, jerking back.
Henrik tossed his gloves and stick in one move and landed a punch to Erikson’s cheek in the next. It jarred through to his shoulder and rocked his balance, but damn it felt good. He fisted Erikson’s jersey with his other hand and landed another hit near the man’s jaw. Erikson couldn’t run, not with the hold Henrik had on him.
Hits landed on him somewhere near his neck. Any pain was drowned under the adrenaline rushing through him. He didn’t hear or see anything except the guy in front of him. The silence that overtook him was beautiful. Everything was clocked off in his head in a slow, analytical fashion that fired off quick responses.
He spread his stance, skates gliding with the momentum of their hits, and shifted his weight to counter the movement. He jerked at the stiff-armed hold Erikson had on his jersey and swung hard. Harder still with the next one. He had the height and weight advantage and he meant to use all of it.
Erikson got him on the chin, which only upped his determination. His reach was longer, and he had motivation on his side. This was for Rylie. This was for his team.
This was for himself.
For every time he’d doubted his teammates. For all the comments lobbed at him. For their blind support that came in so many different ways.
He continued to swing, aimed punch after punch while taking ones from Erikson. Sweat dripped in his eye, blood gushed from Erikson’s nose and Henrik hit him again. He logged the flying blood, the burn in his shoulder, the sting in his eye and kept on going, high on the fulfillment. Revenge administered. Erikson handled.
This family avenged.
Someone grabbed him from the side, weight yanking him back, yet he didn’t loosen his hold on Erikson’s jersey. A whistle penetrated the quiet first, a growled curse next.
“Break it up.”
More force was added to tug him from Erikson, and the fog that surrounded Henrik snapped away. The roar of the crowd slammed in to deafen the silence and broke the nirvana that’d engulfed him. Everything shot back into focus in a heartbeat.
The officials attempting to break up the fight. Other players standing to the side. Rylie staring at him, lips cocked in a half smile.
Henrik released his hold and let the official force him to the side. He shoved away as soon as the guy let him go, scanning the scene.
“Back off,” the official warned, face in his, hand to his chest.
Erikson had dropped to a knee, hand under his bloodied nose. He’d be fine. At worst, he had a broken nose. Nowhere close to the dislocated hip and torn ligaments Rylie had suffered.
Henrik skated away, Hauke joining him with a slap to his back. “Nice job. Coach will have your ass later.” He left to do his captain’s job and deal with the officials.
Henrik didn’t even look at the Glaciers’ bench, just skated straight to the penalty box and stepped in. Boos followed him, and fists hammered against the Plexiglas that surrounded the Sin Bin. He took it all in and shoved it right back out. The fans had a right to be pissed that their guy took a beating. Especially if they had no idea why it’d happened.
This fight was between Erikson and the Glaciers, not Boston.
Rylie skated by the penalty box, made eye contact and nodded, glove raised in acknowledgement. Henrik hadn’t needed that, but it went a long way in settling the unrest that’d been bubbling in him for months.
He’d done the right thing. Stuck up for his friend. Defended the team’s rep and sent out the warning to other players. The Glaciers didn’t forget and they took care of their own.
This was another kind of family. One that had served him well for many years. Yet this wasn’t the only family he wanted in his future. This had been good enough for a long time, but now he knew better.
Jacqui might say she didn’t want him, but he didn’t believe it. He trusted the love he felt with her, the caring her touch held. Whatever her issue was, he didn’t believe it was about him or even them. Hopefully, she’d talk to him and he’d listen this time. If not, he’d figure it out and show her that whatever it was, he’d be there for her. She was the more—the family—he wanted in his future.
If it was the cancer again, then he’d be there to fight it with her, kick its ass another time and relish every moment he had with her. Because even a little time would be bette
r than none at all. The last four days had more than proven that.
*
The fight played across the television screen in close-up glory, interrupted by camera changes and other players. Blood covered the lower face of the Boston player, and Henrik continued to punch him, face screwed up in snarled focus.
The cheers and yells overwhelmed the cramped room, most of Jacqui’s family on their feet rooting for Henrik. She couldn’t move though. Couldn’t catch her breath to make a sound. Her hand was clasped over her mouth, shock and fear blending to render her frozen.
“Kick his ass, Roller.”
“Yeah. Nail him.”
“Hit him again. That asshole deserves it.”
She understood enough about the hockey mindset to get the fight and cheering. Half of the Thanksgiving meal conversation had been steeped in the debate on if the Glaciers were going to retaliate against Erikson for the hit to Rylie last season. Yet she hadn’t anticipated Henrik being the one who’d dole out the revenge.
And still she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d missed him so damn much she was willing to watch him fight on TV just to see his face. To absorb everything she could of him.
The fight finally broke up after what seemed like hours but was probably less than a minute. Henrik shrugged the official off and skated away. She caught a glimpse of a hard scowl that pulled his brow and flattened his lips. The shot cut back to Erikson, who was still kneeling on the ice, blood running freely down his face to drip bright red onto the frozen surface.
The sportscasters jabbered on about revenge and payback and Henrik stepping up to defend his partner, all of it meaning little to Jacqui. The camera cut back to Henrik entering the penalty box, stone-faced and expressionless, before the network took a commercial break.
“That’s a good man you got there, Jacqui.” Her uncle patted her shoulder, grinning with solid approval.
“Are you going to kiss his bruises when he gets home?” Isaac teased.
“Shut up, jerkwad,” Finn said over the laughs, smacking Isaac on the leg. “That’s my sister.”