Page 6 of Frozen Hearts
I’m only a couple of blocks away when my phone rings in my pocket, and heaving out a sigh when I see the caller ID, I reluctantly answer.
“Mom.” That one singular word is snapped off the end of my tongue as I fail to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I do not have time for her bullshit today.
“I haven’t received this week's money,” she hisses like a snake about to strike, and I grit my teeth in an effort to keep my temper in check. Nohello, how are you doing?No inquiries about my classes or how I’m getting on at university. Not that I expected any such concern. My mother has never been maternal or caring; she has become downright spiteful over the last four years.
But she knows how to play people. Anyone who meets her thinks she’s such a sweetheart—a mother with a heart of gold who can do no wrong.
Bull-fucking-shit.
It’s an act she puts on to ensure she gets what she wants—men, money, status. Doesn’t matter what the end goal is.
The worst part is, it works every time.
I’m the only one who sees her for the snake she is. The only one privileged enough to be subjected to this side of her.
I don’t get the sweet smiles and pouty lips.
Nope, all I get is the bitter bitch that resides underneath.
Pressing my fingernails into the palm of my hand, I mentally count to three before responding. “I don’t get paid until tonight. You know this. I’ll transfer it to your account tomorrow.”
“Why can’t you do it tonight?” she whines, and I’m forced to close my eyes and take a calming breath before I bite out a response that will only make the situation worse.
“Are the bills paid and the fridge stocked?” I ask in response, careful to keep my biting tone to a minimum despite the anger bubbling inside at her callous demands.
“Of course, Riley. Honestly, what do you take me for?” She huffs haughtily and I roll my eyes at her dramatics.
Fighting back a wave of frustration, I calmly retort, “Then it can wait until tomorrow. I’m already late for work, and I don’t get off until two.”
“Fine,” she sighs as though her generosity knows no bounds.
“How is—”
The line goes dead, and I pull the phone away from my ear, blinking at the screen in disbelief as I realize she hung up on me.
“Nice talking to you, too,” I sneer, shaking my head and stuffing the phone into my pocket. My mother knows exactly how to piss me off.
Rolling my shoulders, I shake off the fiery pit of hurt and anger that takes up residence in my stomach every time I have to deal with her and push open the door to my apartment building. Hurrying up the stairs, I let myself into my tiny one-bed apartment to change for work.
2
LOGAN
“Good practice, boys,” Coach bellows over the echoing shouts and clang of metal doors as the various conversations that were taking place cease. A previous NHL hockey player himself, Coach’s once jet-black hair has faded to salt-and-pepper, his face etched with lines that tell stories of dedication and determination. He knows what it takes to perform at this level, and more importantly, he knows the grit required to make it in the NHL.
Coach’s astute gaze scans over each of us in the locker room. Even though he’s well into his fifties, there’s still a robust strength about him. It's in the broad set of his shoulders, muscles still refined from years spent on the ice. His presence alone commands respect, and when Coach speaks, we all shut up, sit up, and pay attention.
“If you play like that against Denver next week, the season will be off to a fantastic start!”
The room erupts into chaos as everyone hoots and hollers. I cup my mouth with my hands and throw my head back, howling to the ceiling. My howl is quickly joined by that of my teammates, all of us united in our goal for this hockey season.
“Don’t worry, Coach,” Gavin, a fellow senior and one of our defensemen yells. “We’re going all the way to the championships again this year!”
The locker room gets even louder as my teammates bang their sticks against the floor and yell their agreement.
“Lovin’ the confidence, Anderson,” Coach says with a smile before he grows serious, “but let’s not count our chickens before they hatch, yeah?”
Gavin scoffs, flinging his arm around my neck and dragging me into his bare, sweaty chest. The dude reeks.
