Page 204 of The Dixon Rule

“I would like that.”

“Would you really?” I can never tell with my mother. She’s so good at shielding her emotions.

“I would.” Her voice catches. “It hurt me when you chose to live with your father after the divorce. I understood it, of course. He’s the fun one. I’m the strict one. And even back then, like you said, we didn’t have a lot of common ground. Our personalities are so diametrically opposed. But I felt like you didn’t want to spend any time with me, and eventually I…you’re right, I stopped trying. I speak to your brother all the time.”

Hearing that brings a sting of hurt.

“And yet with my daughter, my firstborn, I barely pick up the phone. It’s unacceptable.”

“It’s on both of us,” I say.

“No, I’m the parent. I take ninety percent of the blame.”

I snort into the phone. “All right. I’ll accept the ten percent.” My voice gets serious again. “Maybe I can come see you over the holiday break. I know you said you have a lot of work preparing your lectures for January, but—”

“I can set aside an hour or two for you.” She’s joking.

“Oh, thanks. So generous.” I’m joking too.

“There’s this excellent spa on the Upper East Side that I recently discovered. Should I book us a spa day?”

“Since when do you like spas?”

“Since always, Diana. You know I get monthly massages. What did you think that meant?”

“It didn’t even occur to me that it might be a spa-type thing.”

“Oh, it’s a spa-type thing.”

We say goodbye, and although my boyfriend still has a huge weight on him, I feel like one has been lifted off me.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

SHANE

I’m not giving you up

I CAN’T DO THIS.

The odd, frantic thought first infiltrates when I’m dressing for tonight’s game, my first one back since Dad died. I ignore that thought because it’s inane. Of course I can do this. I’ve been doing this more than half my life. Hockey is in my blood.

So I push it away and go about my business. I throw on my pads, my uniform. I lace up my skates. I join my team on the Briar bench. And I play hockey.

I can’t do this.

It pokes at me again halfway through the first period. As I weave through opponents and teammates alike, it gnaws at my insides like a dog chewing on a stick. And I can taste resentment in my mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve experienced this bitterness since Dad died, but tonight it feels different. The cheers of the crowd, the adrenaline rush of the game, the familiar scent of the ice. Where it used to be freeing, it suddenly seems suffocating.

Maryanne is at home with Diana, and I’m here in this rink. I’m playing a stupid, pointless game when I should be taking care of my little sister.

I can’t do this.

By the second period, it’s a mantra in my head.

“Change it up,” Jensen barks, and Beckett smacks my shoulder.

I bolt off the bench and heave myself onto the ice for my next shift. I’m not distracted. I’m not playing poorly. But I am operating partially on autopilot as I get checked into the boards, the cold surface biting through my jersey. The sounds of skates slicing through the ice and sticks clashing echo all around me. I gain control of the puck, surging toward the Harvard net. When the opposing defenseman lunges forward, I flick the puck backward to Austin, who slaps it into the net like a rocket.

Goal!

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