Page 98 of Lace 'em Up

I tilt my head to the side, link my fingers with hers because it feels better to touch her, to hold her. “What do you mean?”

“Did you always plan your schedule and make time for your family?”

“I—” I frown.

She reaches over me, scoops up the binder, battered from—yes—years of use. “Because this bad boy looks well-loved.”

“I—”

“How long have you had it, baby?” she presses.

I fight the urge to look away.

“How long?” she asks again.

“Since I moved away from home.”

“So you have a demanding job that takes you away from your family, and I see evidence of you making them a priority—something that would presumably carry over to a woman in your life.” Her fingers squeeze mine. “What I don’t see evidence of is you neglecting the people you love.”

My throat is tight.

“Especially because you made this”—she touches her chest—“little runaway bride feel very much like a priority even though we’ve spent the last months bickering and circling each other because I’d taken it upon myself to be the most Prickly Princess of all time.” Mouth curved, she leans down, brushes her lips over mine. “But I know it’s not that easy, that just because someone says something, it doesn’t heal those wounds deep inside. I just…” A breath. “I don’t see that—you being neglectful and a bad partner—being a reality. I think…” Another exhale. “I think maybe she was like my stepmom and stepsisters. Just…not a good person.”

Rose wasn’t a good person.

I’m not so fucked up that I can’t see that, but?—

You’re not your father.

I exhale again, hate that it’s shaky. “I’m not my dad.”

Her hand convulses and I hate myself a little bit, but the rest of the words just tumble out.

“I’ve never been my dad, not on the ice, not off it. I’m not going to hit records or be a stabilizing presence in the locker room or coach a team to the championship year after year. I don’t have it in me to make a woman feel as special as I should when I’m away for more than half the year, to balance a big family and make everyone feel loved and seen.” I grind my teeth together. “But I know my limitations and I do the best with what I’ve been given.”

It’s why I’m not getting married.

Not ever.

Why I’ll humor my mom.

But not with anything permanent.

Fucking liar.

Because if Rory wanted permanent, if Rory loved me, if Rory was mine, I’d?—

“So that’s why you’ve been avoiding the matchmaking from your mom.” Her hand flexes in mine. “Because you’re like me.”

My eyes flick up, holding hers.

“You think that you don’t deserve happiness.”

Those words?—

They blast through me.

My skin feels tight, embarrassment creeps out of my stomach, crawls over my flesh, leaving me itchy and uncomfortable.

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