Chapter 9

brADY

I knew I should avoid Grace. I should never have gone to that bar and taken her home. I’d nearly let myself fall into temptation.

The only thing that had stopped me was the knowledge that Grace was drunk. If she hadn’t been, she never would’ve acted like that. I told myself she was just lonely after breaking up with Will. She would’ve done the same with any guy.

I told myself that even though I knew it was a huge fucking lie. Grace wasn’t the type to just throw herself at men.

Which meant she wanted me. She still wanted me.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she wanted because I knew I’d only make her miserable. Especially if she knew the truth about me.

I’d done my best to avoid seeing Grace for the past week despite the fact that she worked at the Blades arena. It wasn’t too difficult not to see her, considering how large the place was. It helped that Grace didn’t seem to have any projects that involved filming in the actual rink.

So when I saw her on a Friday evening near the locker room, I nearly had a fucking heart attack.

“Are we going to film the guys inside the locker room?” a woman asked Grace, laughing.

“I wish,” said another woman.

Grace rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that’s in their contracts.”

I caught her gaze, and it felt like time stretched right then. Her eyes widened.

And then I walked right past her without saying a fucking word.

I hated myself right then, knowing I was being a huge douchebag. But it was better this way. And if it meant Grace hating me, all the better.

I wondered whether Shayla was at the club tonight. Maybe I could take all this restless sexual energy out on her. Even better, I could be with Grace without actually being with Grace.

You need a goddamn therapist, I thought with a bitter laugh as I got into my car.

I didn’t have time to go to the club, though. I got a phone call on the way home that erased any thoughts of fun from my mind.

It was Marty, my mom’s neighbor. Marty only ever called when Mom was really fucked up. He was one of the few people who checked on her. He’d attended AA meetings with her back in the day, and she’d stayed sober for about a year. Then she’d relapsed. Marty had tried to get her to go back to rehab, but Mom was stubborn.

“Is she dead?” I said, my tone flat.

Marty sighed. “No, but she’s in the hospital again. I saw an ambulance take her away just now. So I guess the good news is that she was conscious enough to call 911.”

I sighed. “Thanks for letting me know,” I said before saying goodbye.

I knew I should call Mom or, at the very least, the hospital. I knew which one it would be. But even as I knew I should call and check on her, I didn’t see the point.

We’d done this fucking song and dance so many times. Mom would fall, or get blackout drunk, or get beat up, and she’d end up in the hospital. Sometimes she stayed for a few hours; other times, it was days. She’d stabilize, they’d offer her treatment, and she’d refuse 99 percent of the time.

What was galling was that she could get sober if she wanted to. She’d done it before. The handful of periods when she’d managed to stay sober had shown that she could be a good mom.

But in the past ten years, she just couldn’t even be assed to try.

As a kid, I remembered finding her passed out on the kitchen floor. Sometimes she wet herself. I’d clean her up and help her into bed. She’d always end up crying and apologizing. She’d swear she’d get help. But she never did.

Sometimes she did go to rehab. Then, after a few days, she’d check herself out, declaring that she didn’t need help. I’d find her passed out at some sleazy bar. Or worse, making a scene where the cops would get called.

Mom had a long rap sheet: drunken and disorderly conduct, DUIs, assault, petty theft. All because she was obsessed with the bottle.

I thought again about calling Mom later that night, but then I decided that I’d try in the morning. Mom was probably asleep anyway.

I woke up to my phone ringing. Yawning, I groaned when I saw that it was Marty again.

This time, Marty had worse news. “It’s her liver,” he said. “The cirrhosis has gotten to the point that she needs a transplant to survive.”

I sat up in bed, my brain trying to understand what Marty was saying. “How long does she have?”

“The doctors say maybe six months, especially if she keeps going like this.”

“And there’s no way she’ll get a new liver if she keeps drinking,” I said, disgusted.

Marty didn’t contradict me.

After I ended the call, I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. Mom had six months to live—maybe less.

I didn’t even feel anything at that realization. Except guilt because I’d avoided talking to her last night. Her neighbor had been her only friend to tell the news to. Not even her son had cared enough to be involved.

That old feeling, that maybe if I just tried a little harder, I could get Mom to change her ways. As a kid, I’d done everything to get her to stop drinking.

I’d pour her liquor bottles down the sink, even knowing she’d rage and scream at me. I’d beg. I’d plead. I’d give her the silent treatment. I’d stage interventions when I was the only one present.

I thought maybe when I’d gone into foster care, she’d get help. I waited for that phone call from her—when she was finally sober, and she’d tell me I’d get to go back home.

Of course that call never came. Her drinking only got worse after I was taken away from her. She preferred drowning in self-pity over getting her kid out of the system.

I still hesitated to call her. When I finally did, I hoped she didn’t pick up.

“Brady,” she said when she picked up. “Why are you calling me so early?”

It was always strange to hear motherly concern in her voice. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have the right to act like that, while the other, more pathetic part of me, lapped up the attention.

“Marty told me you were in the hospital,” I replied.

She sighed. “I told him not to call you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fine.”

“Did you call 911 yourself?”

“Betty did. She was watching TV with me.”

Betty—she was still around? Mom and Betty had been drinking buddies back in the day. Last I’d heard, though, Betty had been on the streets.

“Is Betty living with you?” I asked.

“Just for a little bit. She’s getting back onto her feet.”

Great. Two alcoholics living together. I gritted my teeth, trying not to get angry.

“Marty also told me about your liver,” I said quietly.

Mom inhaled a breath. “He wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“Well, he did. He said you have six months to live. So are you going to stop drinking now, or what?”

She was quiet for a long moment, so long that I wondered whether she was still on the line.

“If you just called to make me feel bad, then I don’t see the point of talking to you,” she said.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but I’m trying to make you see how serious this is.” I rose from my bed and started pacing. “Mom, you’re dying. Your liver isn’t going to last much longer. Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Doctors are always saying shit like that. I feel fine.”

“Marty said that you’re jaundiced. Yellow eyes and everything. Come on, be honest here—”

“You always do this. You always act like you know better, but I’m your mother. Stop trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

“I want you to fucking live!” I nearly roared the words.

No response.

“I’ll talk to you later when you’re going to be nice,” she said.

I stared at my phone. Then I hurled it across the room, not caring whether the screen shattered.

Why did I keep fucking trying? I thought wildly. She’s never going to change. She’s going to die, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. The pain, the anger, the confusion. It all mixed until it felt like jagged glass inside my lungs.

I needed to forget. Not caring about the hypocrisy, I drove to the nearest bar. I needed to numb myself.

Mom thought she was the only one who got to numb her pain? Fuck no. I ordered the largest beer I could and knocked it back, the warm buzz of the alcohol hitting me quickly since I hadn’t eaten anything that day.

And then I proceeded to get drunker and drunker because it was the only thing that stopped the endless hurting.

I sat in a dark corner of a dirty dive bar, and nobody recognized me. The last thing I needed was more bad press.

The only smart thing I did before I left was grab a cap to cover my face. And given the pissed-off aura I was putting out, nobody bothered me once I started drinking.

I knew there was irony that I was drinking when Mom couldn’t stop drinking. But I couldn’t bring myself to care, either.

I drank one beer. Then another. Then liquor, then whiskey. I didn’t give a fuck what I drank as long as it didn’t stop.

where are u, I texted Grace when I was too drunk to think about what I was doing.

Where are you? she replied.

I laughed darkly. who knows

She just texted me a bunch of question marks.

It didn’t take her long to ask me if I was drunk. I thought about our role reversals: I was the mess this time.

“Do you need me to drive you home?” she asked when she called me a few minutes later.

It took me a long time to answer. “Uh, no,” I slurred. I burped loudly.

“Oh geez, please don’t get behind the wheel. Call a taxi or something. Please, Brady. Promise me.”

I was annoyed now. “I’m not fucking stupid. I don’t drive drunk.”

“I know you don’t. You’ve always been careful, which is why I’m worried about you now.”

My chest hurt for some reason. Why did Grace even care about me? She shouldn’t care about me. I was a piece of shit who didn’t deserve her friendship.

“Where are you?” she insisted. “I’m coming to get you.”

I told her. She told me to stay put. I laughed, because I’d just done the same thing with her.

When she arrived, she sighed as she sat down next to me. “You look terrible,” she said.

My head lolled to the side. “You look great,” I shot back.

She looked down. She was wearing a ratty T-shirt and leggings, her hair in a messy bun. She looked like she’d been in bed.

“Okay, come on, let’s go.” She grabbed me by the arm.

I nearly stumbled and fell flat on my face as I tried to stand. The whole thing made me laugh like an idiot. Grace just sighed and hustled me out to her car.

When she asked for my address, I was surprised that she didn’t know it. But why would she? She’d never been to my place before.

A half hour later, she stopped in front of my apartment building. She turned to me, frowning.

“Is this it?” She pointed. “I must’ve gotten the address wrong.”

“No, that’s it.”

I got out of the car, only to realize that Grace hadn’t put it in park. I stumbled, hitting the pavement with a jolt.

Grace stopped the car and got out, hurrying to me. “Jesus! Brady, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I was fine—probably. I was too drunk to feel much pain. “I’ll meet you inside. It’s the first apartment on the left.”

Grace joined me inside my place a few minutes later. She looked frazzled. For the first time, I felt guilty for bothering her like this.

“I hate parallel parking,” she grumbled, sitting down next to me.

That statement made me laugh. “Babe, you live in LA.”

“Oh, the irony isn’t lost on me.”

She kept looking around like she was confused or something.

I knew my apartment wasn’t the cleanest, but it was hardly a dump. I’d even gone so far as to get an air fryer recently, and I no longer had my clothes in giant plastic bins.

“This is your apartment?” she said, looking at me closely.

“Yeahhhhhh,” I drawled. “Pretty sure it is, at least,” I said jokingly.

She frowned. “It’s so small.”

“Uh. Thank you?”

She looked embarrassed. “I mean, that’s not a criticism. Just, you’re a famous hockey player. What are you doing living in a tiny apartment?”

She got up and began looking around. My apartment was just a one-bedroom, one-bathroom place. It was old, but it wasn’t a dump, at least. The landlord was local and maintained the property.

It also helped that most of my neighbors were older, so they didn’t know who I was. Most people on my street didn’t know I played for the Blades. The anonymity was nice.

“I don’t need a huge place,” I said when Grace returned. I shrugged. “I’m never home, anyway.”

“It still makes no sense.”

I grimaced. I didn’t want to tell her the real reason was that I didn’t feel like I deserved any better.

I was just some foster kid from the wrong side of the tracks. My mom was a drunk, and my dad was in jail. Who did I think I was, living in a mansion?

“I don’t deserve better than this,” I said finally.

Grace’s eyes widened. “What? What are you saying?”

God, I was still too drunk. I went to the fridge and returned with some sports drinks. I downed one while Grace just stared at hers.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said. I cleared my throat. “You don’t have to stay.”

Hurt flashed across her face. Guilt punched me in the gut. I was fucking everything up.

“Why were you drinking tonight?” she asked.

“My mom is dying.”

“Oh, Brady. I’m so sorry.”

She touched my arm, and it felt like a brand against my skin. I wanted to shrug off her touch while, at the same time, I wanted to pull her closer.

“She won’t stop drinking, and her liver is failing.” I shrugged. “And spare me the lecture on me drinking, by the way.”

Grace held up her hands. “Considering you just had to drive me home recently, I can’t judge.”

“You’re not the judgmental type, are you? It’s something I’ve always admired about you.”

A blush bloomed in her cheeks. It was adorable. I wondered whether the rest of her turned red when she blushed. But I had to push that thought aside or I was going to drive myself insane.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She was twisting the cap to the sports drink on and off.

A breeze blew through the open window, making a wind chime sing. Grace turned.

“Is that the chime I gave you?” she said. She got up, setting the drink down. She laughed when she touched the chime. “I got this for you forever ago. I can’t believe you still have it.”

I remembered exactly when she’d gotten me that. It’d been my first birthday at her parents’ place, and she’d told me that the chime would bring me good luck. Ben had teased her about it. Grace had gotten so embarrassed that she’d run up to her room to hide.

Their mom had been pissed at Ben, and he’d gotten chewed out. As for me, I hadn’t said anything. I’d been too stunned that this girl had cared enough to get me a gift like that to begin with.

“You gave it to me,” I said as if that explained everything.

Grace smiled. “I thought you hated it. I never saw you hang it up, so I thought you’d thrown it out.”

“I never would’ve thrown it away.”

Grace raised her eyebrows at my intense tone.

God, I was a fucking mess tonight. It didn’t help that Grace’s leggings left little to the imagination or that her messy hair made me wonder what she looked like after having sex.

She doesn’t know, does she? Because she’s still a virgin.

She returned to the couch and touched my knee. “I love that you still have it.”

I didn’t want to talk about the reasons I still had that wind chime. I didn’t want to talk about my mom, either.

So I leaned forward and tried to kiss Grace.

But being drunk, I wasn’t smooth about it. Grace ducked before my lips touched hers.

“What are you—” she stammered. She got up; I fell over onto my face on the couch.

“Grace,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

She was wringing her hands, and she wouldn’t look at me. “You should go to bed,” she was saying.

I rolled over until I was lying on the couch. Grace grabbed a pillow for my head and then tucked a blanket around me.

“Good night,” she said hurriedly.

I grabbed her hand. “Thank you, again.”

She just shook her head and nearly ran out the door.