Page 33 of The Perfect Snipe

Mykyta’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Cap! Get over here, man!”

I paste on a smile and join the celebration, but even as I go through the motions—congratulating my teammates, answering reporters' questions—a part of me remains detached, observing from a distance.

Later, I finally make my way out of the arena, my gear bag slung over my shoulder, the weight of it seeming to mirror the burden I carry. As I start the engine to my car, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. The man staring back looks tired, worn. There's a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of rest seems to erase.

But tomorrow is another day, another chance to fight for our playoff spot. Another opportunity to prove that I still belong in this game, that I'm not ready to be put out to pasture just yet.

One game, one shift, one play, one goal at a time.

Chapter 14

Cat

The vibration of my phone against my hip startles me as I walk back into my classroom, nearly causing me to spill the fresh coffee I just poured in the teacher's lounge. I set the mug down on my desk, the aroma of dark roast mingling with the ever-present scent of chalk dust and school supplies. No one ever calls during school hours.

And there’s no reason for anyone to. If something happened with Stella or Mason someone would just walk over to my classroom to get me. Or call their grandmother. Leo would just text if he needed to update me on something.

Shit.

Maybe it’s the aide. Did Abuela need to go to the hospital again?

My heart pounds against my ribs as I fumble with my phone, my fingers trembling as I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. Alonso, this is Marta, the aide.” She sounds out of breath, almost as if she's running from something. Or someone. Knowing my grandmother, it could be either. “I quit.”

The line goes dead before I can get another word in. I stare at my phone, mouth agape, willing it to buzz again. This has to be some kind of joke, right? Or maybe she just got disconnected and will call me right back to explain.

But the seconds tick by and the screen remains stubbornly dark, reflecting my stunned expression back at me.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

I glance at the clock. At least it's lunch break, and I have my prep period after. Small mercies, I suppose. I gather my things and make my way to the principal’s office. As I clock out and inform my principal of the situation, the start of a headache builds behind my eyes.

The walk to my car feels like a death march. This was the last hope, the only thing keeping my grandmother out of assisted living or the emergency room. As I slide into the driver's seat, frustration bubbles up inside me. I slam a hand against the steering wheel, the sharp sting doing little to alleviate the storm of emotions swirling in my chest.

I already know how this conversation is about to go. It'll be like trying to convince a brick wall to move—pointless, frustrating, and guaranteed to leave me with a migraine.

But what choice do I have?

I can't risk my grandmother accidentally doubling her meds again, or chasing off yet another aide with her stubborn insistence on independence. As much as it pains me, assisted living seems like the only solution.

She's the only family I have here. The thought of losing her makes my chest tighten, a lump of emotion forming in my throat that I desperately try to swallow. I can't entertain the what ifs. Not now. Not when I need to be strong.

But the stress is starting to get to me. I catch myself chewing on my nails again and force my hand down. When did I turn into such a mess?

I take a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of pine air freshener, before I get out of the car. Sending up a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening, I hope that somehow, this time will be different. That my grandmother will be reasonable. It's asking a lot, I know. But they say miracles can happen, right?

Getting out of the elevator and onto the second floor, I walk down the hallway to her place, knocking when I get there.

The door swings open, revealing Abuela in all her feisty glory. “That's a nasty habit,” she says, smacking my hand away from my mouth as I unconsciously start to raise it again.

She ushers me inside, the familiar scent of her perfume and freshly baked cookies enveloping me. It's a smell that usually brings comfort but not today.

My grandmother sets a plate of cookies next to me on the coffee table before taking a seat on the sofa. “So, tell me, why are you here in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be at work?”

I arch my brow, eyes narrowed. “Marta called. Care to explain?”

She ignores my question, reaching for a cookie. “How about you tell me what's going on with that new boss of yours? The handsome one with the nice behind?”

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