Page 194 of The Dixon Rule

In the locker room after our W, I’m a bit slow getting dressed due to a jarring hit to the shoulder I took in the second period.

“You good?” Ryder says, noticing me gingerly pulling on my hoodie.

“All good. Just gonna ice it when I’m home. And then get Diana to kiss it and make it better.”

He snorts.

I grab my phone from my stall and find an alarming number of missed calls from my mother.

Worry instantly jolts into me. One call, maybe two, wouldn’t be a major cause for concern. But she’s called four times—when she knows I’m playing a game this afternoon and likely wouldn’t be able to call back.

“Hey, I’ll meet you out there,” I tell Ryder and Beckett. “Gotta call my mom.”

I click Mom’s name to return the call, and she picks up on the first ring.

“Hey,” I say apprehensively. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a slight pause.

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Shane…” Mom’s voice trembles. She pauses again, clearing her throat. “You need to come home.”

Fear runs up my spine. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Your father’s in the hospital.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

SHANE

Helpless

I MAKE THE DRIVE TO VERMONT IN UNDER THREE HOURS. DAD ISN’T IN the small hospital outside of Heartsong. Mom told me to come to the bigger one in the city. She refused to give any other details, so I have no idea what the hell is going on. Was he in a car accident?

She doesn’t answer any of my calls for the three hours I’m in the car. I’m forced to sit behind the wheel in a state of total panic. The Briar football team is playing Thanksgiving weekend too, and I wish I had the forethought of swinging by the stadium and dragging Diana off the field so she could come with me. But this isn’t her family. Not her responsibility.

I’m a jittery mess by the time I park in the visitor lot in front of the hospital. Mom finally decides to acknowledge my existence, answering my last text to say she’ll meet me in the lobby.

The wind hisses past my ears as I hurry toward the entrance. It’s nippy out, so I shove my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie. I didn’t bring gloves. Or a coat. I just ran out of the rink with my keys and phone, leaving everything behind like an idiot.

I enter the lobby, searching, and when I see my mother’s familiar face, I stalk toward her. “What the hell? I’ve been calling you for three hours.”

“I’m sorry. We were talking to your father’s doctors.”

“About what? What’s going on?”

I notice the deep lines cutting into her features, digging around her mouth, wrinkling her eyes. She looks…old. Haggard. I think back to the last few months, the small arguments they were having, the moments of tension I caught between them. I examine her face now, and it hits me like a freight train. This wasn’t a car accident.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” I say flatly.

“Yes.”

“What is it? What does he have?”

Mom bites her lip.

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