Page 75 of Holding The Reins

I slide her dress down and it lands on my floor.

I close my eyes. Fuck.

“Jesus Christ, CeCe, you might be the death of me.”

She giggles and grabs the shirt from beside her, tossing it on. Her glistening bare pussy mercifully disappears from my view.

I speak slowly and refrained. “You came into my bar tonight in that dress, and you’ve been beside me all this time tonight and you aren’t wearing any panties?” My voice is a different octave as I try to control myself.

“I didn’t want panty lines.” She shrugs, sounding as innocent as ever and then she lies down. On my side of the bed.

“Oh my God, these sheets are incredible,” she hums the throaty sound I’m becoming desperate to hear.

I don’t move her. I just use all my will to cover her as she closes her eyes. I refill her drink, grab a pillow, and make my way out to the couch.

I don’t know why they made me rake all those leaves when I should’ve been training. Now I’m rushing to get out the door to my game and I don’t feel prepared. If I’m going to get a scholarship to the University of Kentucky, I should be training three hours a day. At least that’s what Harry says, and he’ll know if I’m not.

“There’s no reason the leaves couldn’t have waited until tomorrow,” I grunt to my mother as she comes out the door.

“Can you pop the trunk?” I bite out. I’m annoyed and she knows it, her face is in a frown as she pops the trunk and I throw my hockey bag in.

“Where’s Dad?” I look at my iPod, it’s already three.

“He’s coming, Nash, and the leaves had to be done today, we’re having an appraisal tomorrow.”

Right, the bank is coming so we can extend our mortgage because we are strapped. Because of me, and how much competitive hockey has cost them over the last two years.

I soften because as annoyed as I am, I’m grateful for them always doing everything they can for me to play. I work when I can at the arena emptying garbage and cleaning the change rooms, but training takes up so much time, it’s hard to fit it in.

My dad hobbles down the step, his knee has been messed up for a while. His job at the only factory in town is labor intensive and he definitely should be filing an OSHA complaint but we need the money so he goes every day, popping two Aleve for breakfast.

He comes around to me at the back of the car and pats me on the shoulder. “There’s such a thing as too much, son. You need to have a little down time. An hour of raking leaves won’t make you any less of a winger, and it’s a work out. You’ve got this.”

This game is important, there are going to be scouts in the stands and I could be drafted right out of the minors. I need to be ready.

I shake the rain off my hoodie and we get on our way.

“I’ll get us there on time, don’t worry.” My dad rubs his knee in the front seat and my mom grabs his hand. It’s pouring rain and the sky is a deep dark gray. The fall has a way of feeling gloomy all the time. Everyone I know will be there tonight. All my friends from school, the Ashby’s, it will even be on local TV. My mind is flooded with nothing but nerves and plays.

I pop my headphones in and check the time on my cell phone, 3:13, we have fifteen minutes to get there. I turn up Jay-Z on my iPod to try to calm myself down and stare out the window at the countryside.

Lights, swerving, screaming, glass shattering, cracking. It all happens in an instant and it’s all around me. We’re moving, spinning—we hit something with a thud. I think I black out, and when I pull my head back, I feel my mom’s hair in my face. I instantly know that’s not right. My mom is in the front seat; I shouldn’t feel her hair in my face. I try to move but I can’t, something is pinning my legs, and glass is broken all around me. Pain. Everywhere. My leg is broken. I’m going to throw up. I do, I think. Blood trickles into my mouth but I don’t know where it’s coming from.

“Mom,” I call but I hear nothing.

“Dad.” Again, nothing.

I focus, or try to, but my head is buzzing. I open my eyes and narrow them to see my parents’ shadows in front of me. Where are we? The front of the car is almost part of me and my parents are part of it. I’m shaking my mom’s shoulders, calling to her but she doesn’t move. I wrap my hand around the front seat to feel her with a shaky hand, trying to pull my leg out from under her seat but the pain is too much. My hand is over her chest. She isn’t breathing or barely. I can’t tell.

“Mom. Breathe, Mama…” I call, but there’s no answer from her.

I hear whimpering. Crying. Is it me?

“No! Fuck, Dad?” I call to him but then I see his eyes, focused on me, my head pounds.

His arm dangles behind the seat. His eyes are open and empty.

They’re dead.

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