Page 104 of Bleacher Report
One missed call. One text.
Mom:I saw the hit tonight. Please tell me you’re okay. You were sitting on the bench, but they didn’t show you enough.
With the time difference, it’s too late to call now. But she’ll see my text in the morning if I send one.
I hear Peyton on hold with the pizza place. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this domesticated with someone else.
I exhale slowly, thumb flying over the screen.
Hunter:I’m sore but I’m home now. Peyton’s taking good care of me, you don’t have to worry. I’ll call you tomorrow after the morning skate.
It’s not long before I see her reply. Now I feel bad. I probably woke her up.
Mom:About how you’re finally going to settle down and give me grandkids?
I shake my head. Of course, being with Peyton is her only takeaway there.
Hunter:No but nice try. About the doctors. Bethany thinks you’re hiding something.
Mom:It’s nice to see you and Bethany getting along. She’s been through a lot. I know that she hurt you but forgiving her could be good for you both.
I’ve heard this before. My mom is making excuses for Bethany’s behavior. And I get it, because I used to do the same, but Bethany treated me like a stepping stone to get what she wanted when I was there for her, thinking we were building a life together. I don’t owe Bethany anything, and if it were my choice, I’d never see her again.
She fucks up everything she touches, and I’d rather not be in reaching distance.
Hunter:This isn’t about Bethany. This is about you.
Mom:Nothing to tell. And bring Peyton home for Christmas.
I stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, my gut twisting with something sharp.
Nothing to tell.
Bethany might be wrong...or she might not be.
Either way, the thought of bringing Peyton home for Christmas sends a rush of panic through me—sharp and immediate.
But just as fast as it hits, it fades. And in its place, a different thought takes hold.
One that whispers about what it might look like if Peyton and Idon’tend this in three weeks like we agreed to. If, instead, we let it become something more.
I shift to adjust the ice pack, and a jolt of pain flashes through my shoulder.
A hiss escapes me before I can stop it.
Peyton notices immediately.
"Hey," she says, crouching beside me. "Let me."
Before I can argue, she’s kneeling on the floor next to the couch, reaching for the ice pack.
"You want me to massage it a little?" she asks, voice tentative. "Might help loosen everything up."
I hesitate for a second—because the idea of her hands on me, while I'm half-broken and half-hard for her already, feels like playing with fire.
But then I nod. "Yeah. That sounds...good."
"How do you want to do this?" she asks. "Where are you comfortable?"
