Page 152 of The Home Grown
“Does she?” Mike asks, pulling away.
I turn to catch the look on his face, brows knitted together.
Hutch sniggers.
“Yes, she does,” Jen says, gritting her teeth.
Jen and Mike’s voices fade into the background as I zone out, gravitating towards one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received: my new logo. And the name I didn’t know I needed until now.
It’s everything I wanted it to be—absolutely nothing to do with Kathryn.
Chapter Thirty-One
BETTSY
Vicky’s waitingfor me when I swipe through the back entrance of the rink, and if I didn’t know any better, her glum expression tells me she’s about to deliver bad news.
Shit.
It’s been over a week since my visit to the police station and I’m still on edge—waiting for something that may never happen. My sleep’s been crap, and my game’s been lacking focus, and now Vicky—standing here, staring at me in the way she is—has the alarm bells ringing.
Did Rochelle rock up and give her a false version of events? Is this the end of my career? Is she here to march me up to the GM’s office, watch him tear up my contract and order me to clear out my cubby? That’d leave me with no hope or prospects for any sort of career in hockey.
I stop in front of her, bracing myself for the summons, waiting for her to rip one half of my heart out. My mouth’s dry. My palm sweaty against the strap of my gear bag … everything in me braced for impact.
“Michael, I…”
I keep my eyes on the ground, forcing myself to take deep breaths.
“Make it quick, Vic,” I say, swallowing down the fear as best I can.
I grip my bag tighter, my knuckles probably white, telling myself not to cry—telling myself it’s only a game.
“Michael,” Vicky says again.
But it’s not just a game. It’s—almost—everything I’ve ever wanted. It’s the best job in the entire world.
“Mike, I—I just wanted to catch you before practice. To apologise.”
It takes a second for the words to hit me.
Apologise? Apolo?—
I straighten up, glancing in her direction—keen to check if she’s about to burst out laughing or something.
Her expression flicks to a meek smile, one of desperation.
She means it.
She’s not joking.
There’s only sincerity in her eyes.
“I was wrong about Ellie and … I’m sorry. She’s great—in fact, I think she’s better than great. We’ve been chatting about the wedding hair and … I think she’s great for you. And I hope you can forgive me.”
There’s a swell of pride in my chest, knowing that someone else sees how fucking perfect Ellie is—how perfect she is to me, anyway.
“Right,” I say.
