Page 113 of I'm Your Guy
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. It belongs to Coach Powers. “Not your problem,” he hisses. “Let Dougherty take the fight.”
I want to argue. I hate that cowardly bullshit. The sport is supposed to be about what you can do, not what you can get away with.
“Not your problem,” Coach repeats, his voice a warning.
But my coach lies. This is exactly my problem. I’ve chosen hockey over every other thing in my life. I’ve chosen it over my family and over my private life.
I’ve chosen it over Carter.
It’s all I’ve got, so I want it done right. Besides—this hot, burning anger in my veins is the only proof that I’m alive.
Dougherty—we call him Doughey—is already throwing down his gloves. “You stupid little punk,” he says, circling the guy. “This better not bust up my hand, ’cause I gotta put together a tricycle for my nephew tomorrow.”
Then he punches the kid, who goes down like a sack of bowling balls. Shortest fight I’ve ever seen.
It doesn’t soothe the anger in my veins. Only exhaustion will. So I skate like a man on fire. St. Louis doesn’t get near the net again, and we win the damn game.
When our jet touches down a few hours later in Colorado, I’m as tired as I’ve ever been. The holiday break is finally upon us. I’ve been leaning into this moment for months.
But all I want to do is sleep for a week.
Instead, I get five hours of shut-eye before I pour myself into my SUV and drive to the Denver airport to pick up my mom.
I’m a little early, but that’s okay. You don’t let your sick mom wait in the baggage-claim area. I buy a cup of coffee, find a seat, and give in to my temptation to text Carter.
You doing okay? Are you with Rigo?
He doesn’t answer.
When Mom’s flight lands, I scan the throng of passengers for her face, but I almost miss it.
In the first place, her hair isn’t quite the right color. It’s a jolt to realize that I’m looking at a wig. Worse—she’s so thin that I want to cry when I spot her. I take a deep breath through my nose and smile as best I can.
Because she made it. She’s actually here.
“Tommy boy!” she hollers. So I guess her lungs are still at top capacity. “Happy Christmas, baby!”
I hug her carefully, and my voice is close to breaking. “I’m so glad to see you.” This is it. I got exactly what I set out to do.
So why do I feel so broken inside?
“Tommaso,” she whispers. “Have faith.”
Faith. In what, though? My faith in myself has sure taken a hit.
I stand up tall, take a deep breath, and shove all my fear back into the tiny box where I keep it. “Okay, Mom. All right. Let’s find your suitcase.”
* * *
My mother oohs and ahhs over my new house, as if I’ve shown her the holy grail. “It’s so beautiful! So comfortable!”
As predicted, she loves the guestroom. “That wallpaper! So inventive. And what’s this?” She fingers the needlepoint pillow.
“That’s, uh, a gift,” I say haltingly. “From my friend Carter. I told him right up front that my deadline for furnishing this place was Christmas, because you were coming to visit. So he made that for you.”
She looks up at me. And I swear to God that her dark, DiCosta eyes see right through me. She sees my struggle, and probably a whole lot of pain. “That was lovely of him.”
“It was.” I suddenly have no idea what to do with my hands. I try crossing my arms, but that feels wrong. So I jam them in my pockets.
