Page 87 of Game On
Her eyes soften, and her hand brushes the top of mine. “I’m so sorry, Hudson. Can I ask … what happened?”
I take a breath, not used to talking about the darkest moment of my life with anyone. “My mom took Carter to a conference after school. She’d never let me stay home alone before, and I begged her to. I wanted to feel grown up. A real man of the house. She had saved up that year, got me a model plane kit for my birthday that I’d been asking for. And well … it came with this electric wiring system.”
I look down, shaking my head. Ella squeezes my hand, waiting patiently for me to continue.
“I wanted to surprise her … finish the plane while they were gone. I’d been tinkering with the wiring … set it on the rug while I went to grab a soda in the kitchen. Next thing I knew, there was smoke billowing out …”
I swallow hard, forcing the old memories back down. But for the first time in years, it feels like some of the weight is lifting, like saying it aloud to Ella is helping me breathe a little easier.
“It was an accident,” she says softly, her voice full of empathy. “You were just a kid.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, my gaze focused on our interlocked fingers resting on the green bedsheet. “But we lost nearly everything. All our memories. The house my mom won in the divorce, her only concession.”
“Did she blame you?”
“No, never did. She was just glad that I made it out safe.” I pause for a moment, looking into her hazel eyes. There’s something warm there, something that makes me feel comfortable enough to push on. “But I blamed myself. And I still think about it—all the damn time.”
“You are quite the stickler for turning the lights off,” she says with a soft smile.
“It’s not just that, but it’s a big part of it. I can’t bear the thought of risking another accident. Can’t bear the thought of putting anyone in danger.” I shrug, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “I guess it’s why I keep everything in order. Control where I can.”
It’s normally difficult for me to open up. But being here with her, at home like this, definitely helps. To share my burdens instead of keeping them locked away. She has a knack for pushing my boundaries, and I’m oddly okay with that.
She wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a gentle side hug. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. But it does sound exhausting.”
“It can be. You know, for a while, I thought I had done something seriously screwed up to deserve it all—losing my dad, resenting football, costing us our house. I remember when I joined my high school’s team, I thought, ‘I’mgonna make an even bigger name for myself than Dad ever did. Rack in the money, the fame. Give it all to my mom to repay her for what happened. Really stick it to Anthony fucking Shaw.’”
“That’s your dad?”
“Yeah, the best tight end in Rattler’s history. Or at least, that’s what he liked to tell us.”
She nods, her eyes thoughtful. “And now?”
“And now, I don’t give a shit about proving anything to that man.” I chuckle dryly, rubbing the back of my neck. “But the other stuff, I think that’ll always stick with me. The compulsions, the rituals, it’s an everyday thing. The reason I don’t usually let myself get too close to people.”
“You’re doing your best.”
“Yeah.” I sigh, mustering a half-smile. “Maybe I am.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For telling me. For trusting me with this side of you.”
I shrug. “You make it pretty easy.”
“I’m glad you think so.” It seems she understands how rare it is for me to open up about my past, and I appreciate that she doesn’t make a huge deal out of it. I’m relieved I confided in her. I’m grateful for her compassion. That’s enough for now.
We sit there for a few moments longer before she stands, making her way to my trophy shelf. She runs her fingers along the edge, then turns back to me with a sly smile. “Isn’t there a saying?” she asks. “The more trophies you earn, the more trauma you have to unpack?”
I scrub a hand down my face, bursting into laughter. “Ican confidently claim I’ve never heard that,” I say. “What about you? You have any trauma you’d like to unpack? Some baggage to unload?”
She grins. “How much time do you have?”
“Plenty,” I say. “But maybe a bit later? My mom is chomping at the bit to meet you, and she’s gonna be wondering what we’ve been up to inside this room.”
She moves closer, runs a finger along my cheekbone now, tips my chin. Our lips meet for the briefest of seconds before she pulls back. “All sorts of nefarious things,” she whispers, peppering a few more soft kisses along my neck.
It feels good, really fucking good. The kind of pleasure that makes me want to stay locked up inside this room. But my family is waiting, and I’m ready to show her off. “Hmm, if only I could be so lucky.”
When Ella takes me by the hand to pull me out of the room, I wonder if my mom was right on both counts. With cheer, with Ella, I’m content in a way I haven’t been in so long. I can’t deny the truth in that.
