Page 62 of He Has Pluck

Mom ignores me. “I’m so glad to hear that. Juliette deserves the love of a good man, someone who might keep her grounded.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Mother?” I sound like my childhood self now.

Jason jumps in. “It means your mom is a great judge of character,” he says, smirking. He leans in and kisses my temple. “I’m sorry, babe. I know I skipped a few steps in the getting-to-know-you conversation, but we don’t have a lot of time. I want to get dressed and get out of here so we can get to the hospital and see O’Rourke.”

And dear fucking God, my knees almost collapse under me in shock and goddamn joy. We’re apart from the others, and no one can hear him, but still, others can see us, and he’s taking a big risk owning me like this.

So, against everything in me, against my screaming heart and soul, I step away from him. He flashes me a look. It’s raw. Hurt and confusion dominate his expression before hardness takes over. That makes me want to cry, to reach out and collapse against him, to wrap him in my arms and beg for forgiveness for every unkind stupid thought I ever had about him. His towering strength and generosity at this moment, as he smiles at my mother, makes me want to weep. Makes me feel undeserving of him, in an ironic twist.

I settle for squeezing his arm.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he says. “I need to shower. You’re coming with me to the hospital, right?”

“Yes. Maybe I’ll join you,” I say, lifting my camera. He sends me a look of warning, and I know what it’s about. He doesn’t want me to film him or O’Rourke at the hospital. I know he overheard my conversation with Ruminski.

“Without my camera,” I say. The words twist in my gut because I know I should bring the camera and film the moment. My pride screams at me, but I tamp it down because I know whatever pain I feel at my professional sacrifice pales compared to what I’d feel if I brought my camera and went for the jugular, betraying him.

He nods, his expression wary, and then he heads into the locker room.

“I wanted to take you for a late dinner, honey,” Mom says.

“One of the players is in the hospital, Mom. I don’t feel like eating.” I can’t keep the animosity from my voice, and her face collapses like I’ve punched her. Guilt seizes up, newly energized and emboldened, getting the workout of a lifetime tonight.

I soften my face. “Let’s go to the equipment room and talk,” I say. There are a couple of folding chairs we can sit on, and I know the guys got some pizza. Not exactly a Michelin star experience, but my mother doesn’t complain when I lead her to the room and unfold her seat.

I introduce the equipment guys, and they bring us pizza, putting it on top of some boxes as a makeshift table.

“How nice everyone is,” she says, her smile genuine. She studies me, and I don’t show my surprise when she picks up a slice of pizza and takes a bite. “I’m starved. Mmm. This is good. New York pizza is the best, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t come here to eat pizza, Mom.” I leave out the question of why she is here, what kind of discussion she wants to have with me.

She puts her pizza down, her wariness not covering the concern in her expression. “I heard about what happened in Columbia. How someone tried to kill you.”

“Did you get the part about how I killed him instead?”

She nods, a truly disturbed look on her face.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I won’t lie; it was traumatic, sure. But I’m over it. I’ve moved on. Clearly.” I wave a hand to indicate my surroundings.

“I’m glad Dan got you a safe project. For the first time in a long time, I don’t need to worry about your safety.” Relief is short-lived on her face, the concern returning. “But I am worried about you…emotionally. And I want to be your mother again. I hate that we’ve grown so distant.”

“We haven’t grown distant, Mom. You left—” I try and control the surge of anger and resentment.

“That’s true. We never talked about why, did we?” She gives me a look that my conscience will only allow me to interpret as an accusation. I never gave her a chance to explain, no matter how many times she tried to talk, to see me, to write me letters, to do everything she could to break through the impenetrable wall I built against her. Where’s my wall now?

Oh yeah, it’s the same wall Jason tumbled with little or no effort at all. Gone like a wisp of vapor. Damn him. I wish he was right here next to me now, helping me confront my mother, my biggest demon of all. Scarier than any gun-wielding cartel guy or any pirate I’ve ever faced.

“How about you tell me about your young man first?”

“My young man?” I chortle. She arches a brow; the signature move she owns, and I realize I’ve been copying her all this time. Shit. “He’s not—” I’m going to deny it again, out of habit, that I have feelings for him, but instead, I take a deep, cleansing breath and let the emotional truth out from the dungeon of my soul. “He’s someone I’ve been seeing whom I care about, but I’m not sure he’s exactly mine.”

“Oh, he’s yours as much as you’re his. He claimed you as his lover to me, your mother, and sweetheart, a man doesn’t do that if he’s not serious. But even if he didn’t say a word, I could feel the connection, the chemistry between you two as if it was alive and growling for release.”

“You’re quite the picture painter, aren’t you, mother?” I give her a side-eye, not entirely comfortable with this conversation, not used to being mothered and not sure I want it or need it.

She puts an arm around my shoulders, infusing instant warmth and the kind of restful feeling I haven’t felt run through me in so long that I almost cringe. “Don’t worry, Juliette. You won’t be any less of a person if you accept his love—”

“Who said anything about love?” Panic rises, and I pull myself from her arms.