Page 29 of Your Pucking Mom

The only light was the small lamp in the corner of the room, aside from the twinkling city lights. Austin’s silhouette moved down the steps, then he stood at the front of the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Mom—”

I held up a hand to stop him. “I am so incredibly disappointed, Austin.” I clenched my fists but kept them at my side. “Sit.”

His head dropped as he shuffled toward the couch and sat across from me. I needed to keep reminding myself to take deep breaths.

“What happened?” I asked in the calmest voice I could muster.

“I was supposed to meet you for dinner…” He gave me big puppy-dog eyes, and I just shook my head. “I met some of the guys for a drink and used my fake at the bar. The bouncer found it and cut it up.”

“Then they called the cops?” I asked.

“Well, I think they recognized one of the guys from the team and maybe saw it as an opportunity.”

“Fuck, Austin. We aren’t in a small town anymore, and you’re a celebrity in this town. I know you’re young, but you have to get this through your thick skull.”

“I fucked up.”

“There can’t be any more bars.” It was taking everything in me not to pace. “Seriously.”

“I understand, Mom. Coach told me I fucked up.” Resting my face in my hands, I inhaled deeply.

“What did your coach have to say about this?”

“He’s coming to talk to us,” he said before rising from the couch and settling beside me.

“I don’t want you to repeat the same mistakes again.”

Austin had gotten in trouble in high school, and I’d felt him going down the same path then, so this made it all too familiar for me. “Me neither,” he whispered.

His head dropped to the crook of my neck.

“Do you hate me, Mom?” he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty and vulnerability.

My gaze shot up to meet his, a surge of emotions threatening to spill over. This conversation mirrored countless ones I’d had with my own narcissistic mother—a dynamic I was determined not to replicate with my son. I wanted to be better, to provide the emotional support I’d yearned for growing up. I never wanted Austin to doubt my love for him; a mother’s love should be unwavering, regardless of the circumstances.

“Of course not,” I choked out as Austin enveloped me in a tight hug.

As he pulled away, his gaze fell to my shirt. “Is this what you wore to work?” he asked, his concern evident.

Glancing at the shirt, I was momentarily overwhelmed by a familiar scent that stirred memories of Ledger but quickly pushed the thought aside.

“No, I was in my…pajamas before I rushed over here,” I replied, attempting to brush off his observation.

A knock on the door interrupted our exchange, prompting Austin to spring to his feet with nervous energy.

“It has to be Coach,” he exclaimed, pacing. The movement was definitely genetic.

“I’ll get it,” I reassured him with a soft smile, making my way toward the front door.

* * *

“I know it’s unconventional, but I think I have a plan for us to move forward,” Coach said from the couch.

I was getting us all some coffee from the kitchen, but I was still visible since it was an open plan. I flipped on the light so it didn’t look so ominous.

Handing the coffee to Coach, I settled back into a chair across from him and Austin.

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