Page 37 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

Right?

Shit.

I drop the phone onto the passenger seat of my Kia—which has been purring like a sated kitten since its tune-up, by the way—assuming I’m in the clear when Bobby doesn’t text back. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, I tilt my head to look at my partial reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Get. A. Fucking. Grip, Sparks.”

I jump in my seat when my phone rings as if I’ve just been zapped by a rogue wave of static shock. A glance at the screen shows Bobby’s name—because of course it does.

Maybe I could have used that tarot reading after all to warn me of this.

Closing my eyes, I bring the phone to my ear and pretend I don’t know who’s calling.

“Hello? Molly Sparks speaking.”

The gruff baritone of my name on Bobby’s lips immediately flips my belly upside down. “Molly, it’s Bobby.”

A ridiculously forced lighthearted laugh spills from my lips. “Oh, Bobby. Hi.” I sound completely deranged! “I didn’t know it was you,” I lie. Like he’s going to believe I’ve suddenly switched to carrying around a mid-twentieth-century rotary phone wherever I go. I’m acting like a twelve-year-old girl with her first crush on the high school quarterback.

But instead of calling me out, he continues in a serious, very un-Bobby-like tone, “Don’t freak out, okay?”

And just like that, every iota of embarrassment, attraction, and self-flagellation flees my mind, leaving nothing but thick, oppressive dread. “What happened?

My fingers tap impatiently on the steering wheel as I wait for the light to turn green fifteen minutes later. I can’t believe I let Bobby talk me into not calling Matthew myself!

All I know at this point is that Matty is not at home where he’s supposed to be, and that Bobby has eyes on him. Why my kid decided it was a better idea to call a hockey player instead of one of his parents to help him is beyond me. But I forced myself to push past the twin pangs of hurt and worry to give Matty what he deemed most helpful to him in the moment.

Bobby.

Who knew there were so many kids in need of therapy that the waitlist is two months long for an appointment? I found that out the day after Matty agreed to go to counseling. I called every place within thirty miles looking for anyone accepting new patients. The waitlist at one place was six months! How is that supposed to be helpful to a kid in crisis? I can only hope to do my best while we wait for Matty’s turn, and right now it seems Bobby freaking Rhodes might be my best bet.

My tires squeal when I shoot forward as soon as the light turns green. I’m near home now, where I know the roads like the back of my hand, so I take the shortcut behind the half-deserted strip mall and pull into the parking lot of the little convenience store slash hot dog stand down the road from our house.

All the breath whooshes from my lungs when I spot Matty’s familiar mop of brown and copper hair through a window. He’s sitting at one of the tiny tables in the corner with his back to me, Bobby seated across from him and wearing a furrowed brow. Neither of them sees me as I unbuckle and head for the glass door of the shop, intent on getting to my kid.

I hurry inside and weave through the tightly nested aisles of Corn Nuts and ramen packets until I hear Bobby’s voice and halt my steps just out of view.

“I’d bet my Gordie Howe bobblehead that this Raiden kid is being a jerk because he’s insecure about himself.”

Matty groans. “That’s what adults always say. Bullies bully to prevent being targeted themselves.”

It’s pretty much word-for-word what I’ve told him before. Clearly, it hasn’t proven to be a helpful bit of advice. I justknewthere was something more to this Raiden thing!

“And you don’t think that’s true?” Bobby asks.

I venture forward another step and can just make out both their profiles now through the space between two boxes of animal crackers. Neither one appears to notice me in my super-secret stake-out spot.

“I dunno. I just know he’s a jerk.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you need to be friends with the kid. Not everybody is meant to be friends and sit around singing ‘Kumbaya’ like in the movies.”

“What the heck is ‘Kumbaya?’” Matty asks, nose wrinkling.

“Uh, just some old people shi—stuff. Forget about it. What I’m saying is it’s good that you’re looking out for kids he’s bullying, but don’t let yourself become a bully in the process. Best to try to avoid him altogether.”

I bring a hand up to stifle a tiny gasp. Pride warms my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s from knowing that my kid is defending others or finding out Bobby Rhodes can dish out some really excellent advice.

“I still want to send that pic.”

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