Page 142 of Wicked Serve

“It’s one of many things I haven’t done in way too long.”

“A long time,” I finally say. I’m too exhausted to filter myself. “Sometimes pretty bad. This was—he was here, Mom.”

“I know.” She reaches for my hand, squeezing tightly. “I know, honey, Izzy told me everything. I hate to see you like this. He triggers them?”

I manage a short nod. The tightness in my chest hasn’t fully gone away, even if I can breathe normally again. Now that I have some distance, I feel like a fool. A fool for thinking—hoping—that Dad might’ve changed. A fool for letting myself get swept up in him, even to shove him away. A fucking fool and a bad son and his son, on the edge of shaking to pieces.

She shuts her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them, they’re glassy. “The same thing used to happen to me.”

She sends me to shower and change into clean clothes before she says another word. When I return, she’s sweeping up the glass with a broom. I step around the pile carefully, taking in the sight of my room. She changed the wastebasket, made my bed, and put the hockey puck from the paperweight back on my desk.

“Where did you get the broom?”

“I found it in the hall closet.” She sets it aside, blowing the hair out of her face. “Did the shower help? They always helped me.”

I sit on the bed. “You never told me you had panic attacks.”

“Have some water, that’ll help, too.” She holds out my water bottle as she sits in my desk chair.

At my look, she keeps talking. “I didn’t want to worry you. But I struggled with them for a long time.” She swallows, looking at her lap. “I remember I had one once... God, it must have been a couple weeks after we came back to New York. It was at one of your first hockey games here. I don’t remember what triggered it. Maybe the rink, or—”

“Me.”

Her head jerks up. “What?”

My heart sinks to my stomach. I always assumed she left that game just because the sight of me playing hockey reminded her of Dad. If I actually caused a panic attack, that’s even worse. “I know you don’t like me playing hockey.”

She’s quiet as she fiddles with the gold bangle on her slim wrist. “Is that what you really think?”

“It’s Dad’s thing.”

“I did watch you play for a long time, you know.” She shakes her head, smiling wryly. “You probably don’t remember half of it.”

“I remember you arguing with Dad about training.”

“I wanted you to have a normal childhood. And I stand by that. Andryusha was so insistent, though. He didn’t just want you to play hockey. He wanted you to be the best.”

I startle at the sound of my dad’s nickname.

“Was I always into it? When I was little, I mean?”

“Of course.”

“But you don’t like it. It... it reminds you of Dad. Like when you look at me.”

The back of my neck burns at the admission. I’ve never said it to her before, but it’s not hard to tell that when she looks at me, she sees my father. Especially now that I’m the same age as he was when they met. I’m his son, through and through. No one would know that better than her.

“What?”

“You always...” Fuck it. If I’d opened up sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess with Isabelle. She told Mom about my panic attacks; there’s not much else to hide. “When you look at me, you... you flinch. Like you’re looking at Dad and then remember it’s me. Am I really that much like him? Do I bring up those memories? Make you panic?”

“No.” A tear runs down her cheek. She wipes it away impatiently. “I remember things, yes. But not because you remind me of him. Nika, I look at you and remember how I failed you.”

I shake my head. “I should have protected you. He terrified you. If I had just said something, then maybe—”

“No, sweetheart. That wasn’t your responsibility.” Her tone is soft, but firm. “I was your parent just as much as him.”

“But—”

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