Page 153 of The Home Grown
“Mike—”
“I just wish you’d met her before you made such an assessment,” I say.
“I know and I’m sorry. I am.”
“And I wish you’d kept your opinion to yourself because Johnny?—”
“I know,” she says. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. I’m working on it. Ipromise you.”
See, one of the things about me is, as much as I want to hold a grudge, I can’t. I’m genuinely surprised I’ve lasted this long.
I linger for a moment, letting Vicky sweat with the knowledge I may turn her apology down because she’d hate that. I know it and she knows it. But after another beat, I drop my bag on the floor and hold my arms out.
She steps forward and squeezes me into an embrace before pulling away.
“I know I’m shitty but … I was trying to look out for you and?—”
“Yeah, I get it. But still. You owe me a favour though,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “In way of an apology.”
“Is this about the socials because I’m already on it. She’s coming down on the weekend for the game and we’re meeting beforehand to run through things. Friday … hair, Saturday, before the game … social media.”
That’s when I’m reminded that Ellie will be here. Watching me play for the first time.
The butterflies arrive in full force. My stomach dancing with an energy that makes me feel beyond nervous. I’d go as far as to say I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been about anything—except maybe my visit to the police station.
Vicky’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she fishes it out, glancing at the screen.
“You don’t have long,” she says. “Suit up and I’ll see you later.”
She pats me on the shoulder before hurrying away, leaving me a clear path to the dressing room.
I take several steps forward, stopping a few feet away from the entrance, where I take my phone out of my bag. Ellie could be free now—depending on what time her next client is due—and since I figure she won’t answer if she is busy, I hit dial before pressing my phone to my ear.
“Vicky’s just reminded me you’re coming to the game this weekend,” I say.
“Oh yeah? How could you forget?”
I chuckle. “I guess I’m over-thinking. She was waiting for me when I got to the rink and I thought the worst … like she was… actually, never mind.”
“Mike—” Ellie says, “try not to think about her. Focus on what’s important … this coming weekend. And seeing me.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait … when do you think you’ll get here?”
“I’ll be there for ten and the girls will be over around eleven.”
I groan. “All of them?”
“Yes, all of them. But until then…” she says. “… I need you to do me a favour. Try to relax.”
“Yeah, of course I will,” I say, forcing myself to smile.
“Promise me you’ll try.”
Damn. Even over the phone, she can read me like a book.
It’s not like I haven’t been trying. I mean, aside from the usual stuff that keeps me occupied—the gym, hockey, renovating Ryan’s house for free … I’ve tagged along to Johnny’s morning swim and I went as far as baking banana bread…
Nothing worked, though. None of it switched my mind off. I’d argue that these things made free-thinking even more achievable. But I consider Ellie’s suggestion, wondering if there’s something else I could try, something that would fully immerse me.
