Page 12 of Two days, One Pucking Night

“Same old. Nothing has changed, Zee.” He knows family is a sore spot for me. I’ve managed to navigate any questions and conversations about them from the media and my teammates over the last decade. I’m not sure how much longer I can, though. I can only make so many excuses about their lack of presence in any of my games over the years.

At certain stages in my life, saying they were dead would have been an easy copout. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Yes, things are bad between us—scratch that—they are terrible. But the bad doesn’t stop me from loving or longing for them. It especially makes it hard to erase them from my life. Even if that’s what they want.

“I drove there. Parked my car and stared at their house for hours.” I exhale a frustrated breath. “Anyways, I found out from an old friend in the neighborhood who occasionally babysits my sister, that my dad was ill and has been for some time. I sent some money for private healthcare and tried getting in touch. All my calls were ignored, and the money was sent back.”

“Damn, they sent the money back? That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Every single penny, in less than forty-eight hours.” Getting this off of my chest feels almost cathartic. Each word is crippling, suffocating, like a noose around my neck. I was choking from its weight and implication—my dad would rather struggle through the healthcare system, and my mom would rather watch him do so than accept me or anything I could offer. “I hate that things have escalated to this. I’ve tried everything to fix it, but it’s been impossible.”

“How is he now?”

“Better. He’s back home,” I reply, remembering how frail he looked when they returned home yesterday. I'm too ashamed to tell Zayn the reason I know that is because I’ve spent the majority of my week here trailing them.

“You know you’ve done nothing wrong, right?”

I stare at the phone and my friends' somber expressions. Yes, it is my fault. I should have made better decisions. The words sit on the tip of my tongue.

“Xav—”

“I know, Zee,” I interrupt him before he goes into one of his tangents about right, wrong, and the devotional love of family—one he has unlimited access to, and I don’t.

My chest tightens, and I’m overcome with emotion. Emotions I struggle to articulate. Emotions I struggle to grasp. I want to run far from them and distract myself from the burden by burying myself in something or someone instead.

I go through my contact list and type London. A list of over ten female names pops up. I settle on Aria, a tall, slim-figured, honey-highlighted, curly-haired woman whose throat game cannot be rivaled. I ignore the nagging thought in my head that tells me she bears too much of a resemblance to Sofia.

“You looking forward to the new season?”I steer the trajectory of the conversation.

I send Aria a message, and she’s quick to respond that she’s available tonight, right now, for anything.

Zayn’s face lights up. “Ready to get back into training and spending more time with the guys.”

“I’m looking forward to Silas’ vow renewal.”

Silas Dawson was like a father figure to me. He mentored me during college. And over the years, we’ve stayed in touch. He is family, and I spend more time in his home with his family—especially during the holidays—than with anyone else.

I also settle on Evie from the list in case things don’t work out with Aria. My need for a backup has nothing to do with the fact she’s a full-figured Amazonian woman with red hair. A stark difference from Sofia.

“What’s wrong?” I ask when I realize Zayn has gone quiet.

His expression is pinched. “Sofia.”

“What’s wrong?” I close the messaging app on my phone, giving him my full attention. “Is she okay? Do I need to go and check on her?” My gaze turns to the door, and I take tentative steps toward it, my heart racing with the need to check on her and ensure she’s okay.

“She’s fine.”

My heart stumbles in my chest as I watch the gold flecks in his eyes glow, with a knowing. I realize I’ve given too much away. I’m just hoping Zayn doesn’t read too much into it.

“Did she seem okay today?”

The question seems innocent, but I can sense something else behind the meaning.

“Yes,” I reply, recalling the promise I made to her to keep our stop at the London Eye secret. I berate myself for how easily that lie flows from my mouth without thought or caution.

I wait for the guilt to sink in, but nothing. Protecting her, her secret, feels right, and the realization is jarring.

“Okay,” Zayn replies.

I keep my expression resigned, stoic, not giving anything away. Tension fills the line between us, thick enough to cut with a knife.

---