Chapter 2

"Can we, Mom?" Matteo begs, his big brown eyes pleading as he looks up at me. "Can we?"

I turn my gaze from my son, my heart, the boy I live for, and meet the eyes of a slender blonde with sad chocolate-colored eyes.

Brit Plantain, star goalie of the Gold, has been through a lot over the last year—in retirement, out of retirement, finding her place back on the roster, and then facing a major injury that almost ended her career (though she's in the lineup for the upcoming season as the backup goalie, bringing experience and strength in the locker room—and much-needed prowess between the pipes), and she was also there for the shooting.

A deranged drug dealer firing on a group of people, on a collective of the Gold, who had gotten together to enjoy each other's company and some ice cream on a beautiful warm evening.

Trying to hurt us in the worst possible way.

Because...he targeted Vivi, an innocent teenager with a spine of steel who had survived...too freaking much.

And Matteo.

There had been a gun pointed in his direction, my brave little boy who tried to put himself between Vivi and that gunman.

Shots had been fired, but somehow, neither Vivi nor Matteo were injured.

Instead, it was a player on the Gold, Lucas, who had ended up with two bullet wounds that had nearly taken his life.

He's okay now, all of these months later, his return to the ice slated to happen soon, but the nightmares linger.

For all of us.

I almost witnessed the life being extinguished from my baby's eyes.

So, just managing to park on this street is a feat. Getting out, standing on this sidewalk, and staring out at the swooping lines of twinkling lights has my heart in my throat. Because beyond those beautifully draped glowing bulbs and the thick trunks of one-hundred-year-old oak trees, is a large, grassy field.

And on that field...

I almost lost Matteo.

A shudder rakes down my spine.

"Please?" he says, grabbing my hand and bouncing up and down.

I shake off the fear, force a smile at my baby who's not really a baby anymore, but rather a big boy—his words, not mine—and say, "Of course we can, honey."

He whoops and takes off running, and I have to clench my teeth together in order to not call him back, to not chase after him, to not bundle him up in my car and drive away. To run. To hide. To never ever risk him.

But...he can't live like that. It's not healthy, not good for him emotionally, socially, and?—

Frankly, it's not good for me either.

I can't keep hiding from my life, making every single bit of my future about him.

Next up, he and I will be on that reality show sMothered.

Which is why I don't call him back to me, don't stop him from joining the influx of Gold kids running around like maniacs on the grass on this warm fall evening, don't pull him away from this family of hearts and team and sport rather than blood. I don't stop him even though I want to.

Because he needs to live.

And if he's okay being here, I'll be here too.

"You don't have to do this alone, you get that, right?" Brit's face has gentled, and I know she sees right through me, right through the wall I slapped up around my emotions, sees that I'm forcing myself forward and it's fucking hard. But?—

"You have room to talk," I tell her. Gently. Because she's had a rough year and hasn't exactly come to me for help.

Two peas in a pod we are.

A flash of emotions across her face—guilt, worry, and finally chagrin. "Yeah, well," she mutters. "Apparently, it takes one to know one."

I reach out and take her hand, feeling the callouses on her palm, her fingers, knowing they've been born from years and years of hard work. I never had calluses like that, not until we lost Dave.

I was a freaking princess.

No mowing lawns or taking out trash. Not even filling my car up with gas. And it wasn't like I was stuck with all of the housework, either. My job was Matteo—taking care of our baby when Dave wasn't home.

Because when he was, it was father-son time.

And I could take a bath, go for a walk, sleep, or watch my trash TV.

Dave just...filled every space of my life—so much so that I wasn't sure who I was until he was gone.

I had to pay bills and do all of the cooking, all of the cleaning. The yard work. The grocery shopping and meal planning and making sure our cars—no, my car because I sold his and put the money in Matteo's college fund—was in regularly for service. Registering for school, buying hockey equipment, making sure Matteo had playdates and his homework done and?—

All of it.

By myself.

It was awful.

But I learned something important, something big since he's been gone, since I went from being protected and put onto a shelf to having to navigate through scary channels and grinding out a life.

I learned that I can do it all by myself. That I don't need to be taken care of. It's nice. It was fucking wonderful to have all that care while I had it, but it's not my future.

I can't be in another relationship like that. I'll shrink. I'll lose myself. My existence will be my boys, and only my boys.

I love Matteo. I loved Dave.

So fucking much.

I just...need more.

"Okay then," I say, knowing Brit's lingering here on the sidewalk, here in the shadows because she's worried about me. Because she cares about everyone else, sometimes to the detriment of herself.

I squeeze her hand, start drawing her forward.

"Let's do it together."