Page 46 of Lovefool

I sweep him into my arms, exacting a small amount of pressure so I don’t exacerbate his pain. “Oh, God, no. You make my life easier, bud. There’s nothing you could say or do that would make me love you any less. You stood up for yourself like I taught you. You called bullies out on their bullshit.”

“You shouldn’t cuss,” he reprimands.

Laughter spills from my throat, and for the first time since I can remember, I’m not drowning in self-hatred.

I pull back from our hug and do my best to discreetly hold my tears back, the first makings of a smile christening my lips. “I promise I’ll be a better role model from here on out, and I want you to know that you can come talk to me about anything.”

He nods, pretty unfazed for a kid who’s on day two of his suspension.

Instead of jumping up and down for joy though (or to the best of his ability), I can tell that worry still steels his spine. It’s even written in the little creases of his face. He wrings his gloved hands, contemplating his next set of words to spare me from guilt.

“Why is Mom always so mad at you?” he asks in a small voice.

Ugh, right. The woman who sees everything but also nothing at all. We’ve been on better terms than we were immediately after my arrest, but we fell back into disarray over the news of Max’s suspension. She obviously blames me, even though she hasn’t been around. Of course, I’d take the blame a thousand times if it meant my brother’s perfect image is maintained in her mind.

My heart is practically beating through the thin skin of my throat. “She’s not mad at me. We just have some stuff to work out. But it’s not your job to handle Mom, okay? It’s my job. All I want you to do right now is focus on kicking Whittaker’s ass.”

Max lights up brighter than a Christmas tree.

Just when I thought Sutton couldn’t get any sweeter, he offered to give Max some private lessons to hone his hockey skills. On top of his busy schedule, he somehow carved out time to help carry my burdens. I truly don’t know where I’d be without him.

The next time those asswipes see my brother on the ice, he’ll be skating circles around them.

I know I was high on adrenaline when I had my mental breakdown, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss Sutton in the moment. I would’ve made a move if the situation wasn’t so dire. He means more to me than I ever could have imagined.

For fuck’s sake, he’s turned me into a hopeless romantic, and I’m not the relationship type. I thought I would overcome this tiny obstacle like it’s the common cold, but Sutton has burrowed his way into my heart. The scariest part? I don’t think I mind being the object of someone’s affection—not after I’ve been deprived of it for so long.

Sutton comes gliding effortlessly into the picture in his hockey gear, and butterflies tight-fist my gut, scrambling my brain with a siege of hormones. I didn’t know it was humanly possible for him to look any hotter, but I guess I’m a slut for a man in uniform.

The rink is fairly empty except for a few stragglers, and my brother narrowly avoids colliding into his teacher from the excitement vibrating through his tiny body. Considering the Mustangs are household names in Minnesota, Max wouldn’t have passed this opportunity up for anything. Plus, bragging rights in middle school go a long way.

I take a seat in the front row, watching both of them intently as they converse amongst themselves. Sutton seems to be spewing a lot of jargon that runs a circuit through my mind, and I hope the overpowered lights wash out the gradual blush clawing at my cheeks. He’s so patient—so gentle. You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how they treat children.

Despite being anti-wife material, I can’t help but picture Sutton as a father some time down the road, cherishing his little boy or girl with the kind of love that poets write about. That’s—dear God, that’s not a fantasy I should be having. I’m twenty-two, and I don’t even want kids.

Not saying that Sutton and I even end up together in the future.

Having witnessed every single one of Max’s hockey games, I can say, with confidence, that I’ve never seen him so happy before. And I’ll be damned if I take that away from him.

SUTTON

Lake is watching me.

I know this is a super low-stakes hockey lesson, but it feels like I’m performing for a goddamn scout. Can she tell I’m flexing really hard right now? Does my ass look good? I mean, I have been squatting more.

It doesn’t matter how close we get—physically or mentally—I’m always all sweaty and nervous around her. With my heart chugging and my thoughts grinding together like rusted gears, I force myself to focus on the task at hand, praying that my face hasn’t gone as red as a fire hydrant.

I’ve never taught anyone how to play hockey before, but this is important to Lake, which means it’s important to me. I try to cherry-pick Coach’s words of wisdom that have fallen to the far-off, underused part of my brain.

“Okay, where do you seem to be struggling the most?” I ask Max, leaning my weight on the butt of my hockey stick.

His adorable little face—wreathed in fluorescent striations—crumples into the kind of frown that prefaces a fountain of tears. “Um…I’m not really good at anything,” he responds quietly, turtling in on himself.

The little guy practically just jammed my heart into a fruit pulper. I know what it feels like to not be good enough. I know what it feels like to be surrounded by people who constantly outshine you—my teammates, my father. I don’t hold it against any of them, of course.

Sympathy draws my belly against my spine. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Max doesn’t try to shrug it off. He explodes in the most contained way possible, heaving out all his emotions like a newly thawed spout after a winter storm. “I’m not fast, and I’m not good at stealing the puck from the other team. I’m not good at guarding. I can never make a goal. Everyone’s just better than me!”