Page 69 of Played
Adina blinks. Then a smile slowly spreads across her face, blooming into a wide grin. The laughter that rolls out of her is pure and joyful. I’m caught up in that sound, in her beautiful face, even more beautiful in true amusement than she is midorgasm.
And she is fucking gorgeous midorgasm.
“I wish my father and brothers could hear that. They would be all over your ass, finding out you abandoned the family ship.”
I grimace. “Then this stays here between us, right? Cone of silence?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t trust that shit for a minute.” I scoff, shaking my head. “But yeah, regardless of her complaining, my mom is glad to come here—to the States—to visit. She’s lived in Halifax for thirty years, but she’s originally from Chesapeake, Virginia. My father, who’s from Canada, had been going to college there when they met. They married right after he graduated. When they found out she was pregnant with me, they left and returned to Canada. Mom said the racism here scared him and he wanted to raise his family back home.” I huff out a short laugh. “Granted, the racism there isn’t the same as it is in the US. But make no mistake, it exists. It’s more polite but still manages to maintain the viciousness required to be racist. Canada is a big-ass gaslighter. Always pointing the finger at the US instead of looking within itself.” I shrug. “But as a French Canadian, my father hadn’t experienced it. Not until he brought his Black wife home and raised his Black son, that is.”
“I didn’t want to ask,” she murmurs. “It seems rude, but I wondered ...”
I nod, the corner of my mouth lifting, already guessing what she means.
“Yeah, I get that all the time. Ever since I was a kid. People trying to figure outwhatI am before giving a damn aboutwhoI am.”
Adina flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I cut off her apology with a wave of my hand. “Nah, I didn’t mean that as a dig toward you. Shit, you didn’t dislike me based on whose blood runs through my veins. In your case, it was thewhothat formed your opinion of me. About that ...”
I check for Khalil again, and after spotting him running past the large window, I turn back to Adina.
“It’s me who has to apologize, and it’s long overdue.” A sick churning starts up in my gut, and I reach for my soda, taking a long sip. Wishing it was something much stronger. “Our first meeting, you called me out on my abusive language. That fucked with me. I’ve been called a lot of shit in my life—asshole, bastard, muthafucka. And I’m not gonna lie, I’ve probably earned every one of ’em, both on and off the ice. But never have I been called abusive, and it terrifies me that I was so cruel, my mouth so loose, that you felt that way. No, that it affected you that way. I’m sorry, ma. I promised myself a long time ago that I would ne—” I break off, but it’s too late.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and her face softens. Falling against the back of the seat, she doesn’t say anything, granting me room to continue or change the subject. I appreciate that. Most people would rush in with questions, and I’ve only spoken about the ugly details of my past with Kendra.
And now Adina.
“I watched my mother survive an abusive relationship. That changes a person, one way or another. For me, I vowed never to put my hands on a woman in anger or verbally tear her down, stripping her of confidence, power, and spirit. It’s also why I’ve never, and will never, spank Khalil.”
Her eyes slightly widen in surprise. “Your father ...?”
I vehemently shake my head. “Never. Fuck no. He died when I was eight and my sister, Mia, four. But I still remember him. Remember the man he was. Remember how much he worshipped my mother and us. Nah. He’d cut off his own hands before hitting any of us, but especially Mom.” I exhale, dragging a hand down my face and beard, the edge of my hand hitting the brim of the baseball cap I wear. “Like I said, he died when I was eight.” Funny how I can saythat wordin relation to my dad but not to Kendra. “Afterward, my mom fell apart. In that year directly after, it was me getting Mia up for school, dressing her, fixing our breakfast and lunches. Same thing for after school. Mom rarelycame out of the bedroom she shared with our father. And when she did, it was like something in her ... shifted. The first boyfriend came around two years after Dad died. He was a piece of shit who had a hand problem. When they broke up came boyfriend number two. His mouth was a chain saw, and he had no problem directing the shit that came out at my mother. When she eventually broke up with him, a month later, Brian showed up.”
At just the thought of him, my jaw clenches. I don’t realize my fists have followed suit until Adina covers them with her hands. I stare down at her smaller, delicate fingers, spread out over my larger hands, and without intending to, I flip mine over, encompassing hers. It almost feels like I cling to her, holding on while taking this fucked-up trip into my past.
“Brian.” I loose a dry chuckle that sounds and feels like sandpaper scratching my throat. “He had an issue with his hands and mouth. He also lasted longer than the two before him. Hearing your mother cry as a grown man slaps and kicks her, and being helpless, powerless to stop him or help her? It’s fucking torture. Then, I couldn’t understand why she put up with it. Why my sister and I weren’t enough that she had to keep bringing these muthafuckas into our home, our lives. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that, after losing my father, she’d been so lonely, in so much pain, that she’d been searching for anything, anyone to fill the void he left behind. To replace the love they shared.”
That understanding extinguished the anger burning inside me for a good part of my teenage years. Sympathy replaced it. But witnessing how she fell apart, how she was never the same without Dad—and how losing him made her accept some unthinkable shit—put me off love for years. I wanted no part of something that held that much power over me.
But then I met Kendra.
And then I lost her.
And then I really understood.
“I know what I felt after Keshaun died. Yet I still can’t imagine the pain and grief she experienced, having loved and lived with your father for so long. Having a family with him.” Her fingers tighten on mine. “Is she still with Brian?”
“No.” Pride streams through me. Pride and love for the strongest woman I know. “He lasted a year before he put his hands on me. One day after the bus dropped me off, I came home to the sound of him beating her. Mia had stayed home from school that day, sick. And I could hear her crying even before I opened the door. Seeing Brian crouched over my mother wasn’t something new. But this day ... maybe it was seeing Mom curled up so he couldn’t hit her face and hearing Mia’s screams. Whatever it was, I threw myself at that bastard. I was big for an eleven-year-old, but he was a grown man, and he easily threw me off of him. Backhanded me. And that was it. Mom picked up this glass vase from the coffee table and smashed it over his head. When he came to, the police had arrived, and we never saw him again. Come for her kids, and he saw another side of her. That was also the end of the boyfriends. At least until I was older, bigger. My mom isn’t just a survivor; she’s a warrior. And I couldn’t love her more. She raised us on her own, never complaining, always showing up. That’s my rock, right there.”
A fierce frown darkens Adina’s face. “Good,” she growls. “I hope she left a scar, so whenever he looks in the mirror, he’s reminded that she beat his ass for touching her and her son.”
Despite the heavy topic, I chuckle.
“Ay, you bloodthirsty as fuck.”
She hikes her chin up, loosing her hold on me and folding her arms on the table.
