Page 145 of Lace 'em Up

“I know, Mom,” I mutter, starting to push up. I’ll shower or cook dinner or…fuck it, I’ll go and work out in the gym until I stop feeling like an asshole.

Until I stop having these thoughts.

Except, that hasn’t worked before, has it?

Her hand clamps onto my wrist. “Sit down, King.”

I freeze…because Mom Tone.

It slides down my spine, locks my muscles, and my ass plunks back onto the riser before I’ve even processed I’m moving.

“God,” I mutter, “you haven’t pulled that tone with me in years.”

“Probably not for a decade,” she agrees, releasing my arm and bumping her shoulder against mine. “Because you always tried to be perfect, King.” She sighs, voice gentling. “Do you remember the last fight we got into?”

Guilt churns in my gut.

Because, yeah, of course I do.

I was an asshole teenager who didn’t appreciate being told what to do. “I should have gone to Dad’s game.” His last game ever playing.

And I didn’t go because I was too busy chasing my own dreams.

We don’t do selfishness in this family, Kingston Bang. Your family needs you there.

And, spoiler alert, they had.

Because my dad got hurt—bad enough that he couldn’t finish the game.

And I wasn’t there.

“I was wrong,” she says. “I was wrong in pushing you to go, in expecting you to put your life on hold. You were working, baby. Working hard and missing out on so many fun things and I had absolutely no right to make you feel bad for not going to one game when you made an effort to be at so many others.”

My throat tightens. “It wasn’t enough. He could have?—”

Died. My dad could have died and I would have been playing in some tiny ass Canadian town, playing in a game that meant nothing in the grand scheme of my life and?—

I wouldn’t have gotten to see him, to say goodbye.

“Anything can go wrong at any time,” she says softly. “You know how quickly I lost Diane”—my heart pulses when her voice cracks, and I know, know how much losing her best friend has affected her—“but what you don’t know is that it’s made me understand a few things.” Her hands come to my cheeks. “Life is precious and short, and”—her mouth hitches up—“as is illustrated by my terrible matchmaking attempts between you and Stacy, as well as me trying to make my relationship with Cathy something it’s not…” She sighs, put out. “I’m not always right.”

Something in my chest pulses, unlocks, settles. “Who dare says that?” I say lightly.

“I say.” She straightens. “I want you all to be happy. I want you to be fulfilled. I want you to have your person at your side—like I have my person. But, honey, as much as I love your father, he’s not perfect, and”—her mouth curves into a gentle smile—“you can’t be either.”

I take her hand, squeeze it lightly. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“You guys are both superheroes,” I say quietly. “I don’t know how you kept it together at home, how Dad always seems to know everything that’s going on?—”

She slants me a look and clarity slams into me like a two-by-four to the temple.

“It’s you,” I say. “Of course it’s been you.”

Her brows drag together.

“I don’t mean that Dad hasn’t been involved,” I hurry to tell her. “He’s always there when we need him.” I bump her shoulder with mine this time. “I just…I’m thinking that’s mostly because of you.”

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