Page 98 of Slap Shot Daddies

All I can think about is Kenzie standing in the parking lot, tears in her eyes, looking so damn small as she got into her car and drove away.

The memory twists in my stomach like a knife.

I never wanted to hurt her. Not like that.

"All right," I sigh, the word heavy with resignation. "Fine. Let’s say Braden actually manages tae get her talkin’ again. How do we fix this? ‘Cause I’m comin’ up empty." My voice wavers, the uncertainty gnawing at me.

Ambrose shakes his head slowly, his hazel eyes dark and clouded with frustration. "I don’t know, man," he admits.

And that’s what scares me the most. We always have a plan. Always have some idea of how to handle things, a strategy to fall back on.

But this time?

This time, I’ve got nothin’.

I just hope Braden does.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kenzie

The plane touchesdown with a dull thud, the wheels screeching against the tarmac like fingernails on a chalkboard.

I release a slow, shaky breath, my fingers loosening their grip on the armrest for just a moment before I let go entirely.

Ohio.

I've finally arrived.

But as much as I longed to leave behind my troubles in Minneapolis, doubt creeps in, whispering if this escape was worth it.

I retrieve my worn duffel bag and navigate through the bustling airport. With a sense of determination, I claim my rental car, slide into the driver’s seat, and wrap my hands around the cold, hard steering wheel.

Peering out at the dull, gray sky, I notice the familiar roads stretching endlessly before me.

Everything appears unchanged since my last visit. The small gas station on the corner, the cozy little diner I frequented after school, and the neat rows of suburban houses with their perfectly manicured lawns.

I had always promised myself a longer break from this place.

Yet here I am, easing into my parents' driveway.

My childhood home stands before me, with its white siding and blue shutters, and the flower bed my mom meticulously tends each summer, a place untouched by time.

As I ascend the porch steps, a moment of hesitation grips me before I finally knock on the familiar front door.

The door swings open almost immediately, and my mom pulls me into a hug that’s warm but stiff, her floral perfume enveloping me with its thick, familiar scent. Dad gives my back a solid pat, his hand firm but only briefly resting there.

"Kenzie, sweetheart, you're here!" Mom exclaims, her face lighting up with a bright smile as she ushers me inside.

Crossing the threshold feels like stepping back in time. The same beige carpet stretches underfoot, the same wooden cross hangs solemnly in the entryway, and the air carries that familiar smell of lemon cleaner. It’s as if nothing has changed.

We head directly to the dining room, where a spread of steaming meatloaf, fluffy mashed potatoes, and crisp green beans awaits on the table.

Mom’s signature Sunday dinner, even though it’s only Friday. Despite the nerves swirling in my stomach, the aroma makes my belly rumble in anticipation.

I take my seat, plastering a polite smile on my face as I lift the glass of sweet tea to my lips, the cool liquid providing a momentary reprieve from my anxiety.

"So," Mom begins, her knife slicing neatly into her meatloaf, "Peter was really disappointed you didn’t call him after church. He’s such a nice young man."

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