Page 18 of Behind the Net

Irritation rises in my gut. Irritation and something else, something angrier. I hate that she pretends she’s fine when she’s not. She’s always been like that. We never, ever talked about her depression or anxiety when I was growing up. We still haven’t talked about the car accident last year. My gaze sweeps to the open garage. Her car is fixed, and I wonder if she’s been driving. She’s not allowed to until she gets help.

She was driving friends home from the bar when she had the panic attack and rear-ended another car. Because of my late father’s struggles with alcoholism, she’s always the designated driver. I think one of her friends smelled like booze, and combined with driving at night, when my dad’s accident happened, it just set her off.

I don’t remember him—I was only a baby when he drove drunk and wrapped his car around a pole—but I resent him for leaving my mom with all this baggage. If not for him, maybe she wouldn’t have had depression while I was growing up. Maybe she wouldn’t have panic attacks.

“You’re not even clipped in.” My chest feels tight. “You could slip and fall.”

She rolls her eyes, making her way over to the ladder. “A meteor could bonk me in the head and kill me.” She descends the ladder, and my heart rate slows. “You worry too much.”

Internally, I deflate. Sometimes, I wish I was like her, but then who would hold our family together? Who would swoop in and answer my mom’s calls when she’s having an episode?

Daisy loves her immediately, of course. We head inside, and my mom putters around the kitchen, setting out the Greek food I brought while I grab plates. Daisy sniffs every square inch of the house.

“How are you settling into your new place?” she asks.

I feel the weird urge to tell her about Pippa. What would I even say? My assistant is a drop-dead gorgeous songbird who I had a crush on in high school. Who’s incredible with my dog. Who stocked the fridge with all the foods I like even though I barked “stuff” at her as a grocery list. And now she’s going to be living with me, sleeping on the other side of the wall.

Maybe doing other stuff on the other side of that wall. The thought goes straight to my cock.

“Fine,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”

She brings the plates to the table. “I want to come to a game.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She blinks at me like I’ve slapped her, and I immediately regret my words. I could have said it differently. Itisn’ta good idea, though. The smell of alcohol is a trigger for her, and at a hockey game, everyone’s drinking. If something happens, she’ll take up my full attention, and I can’t lose focus on the ice.

“Jamie.” She gives me an indulgent look, but there’s irritation beneath it. “I had one little panic attack.”

One that she’s admitted.

Her eyes are on the lasagna as she dishes it out. “You’re treating me with kid gloves.”

That’s because you’re fragile and you don’t have the best track record of keeping it together, I think. And in my head, I’m ten and making my own school lunch during one of her low points of depression.

“Do you need any help moving in?” She moves to the kitchen, and I’m relieved that she’s dropped the idea of coming to a game.

“No. I’m all unpacked.”

She gives me a funny look. She knows how demanding my schedule is. “That was fast.”

I clear my throat. “I hired an assistant to help with Daisy and other stuff.”

My mom blinks at me. A smile stretches across her face. “You? You hired someone to help you?”

“It’s not a big deal.” I give her a hard look, but the corner of my mouth tugs up.

She laughs. “If you say so.” As she passes, she nudges me with her elbow. “That’s great, honey.”

Warmth spreads in my chest. I duck my head, embarrassed. “Yeah, well.” I shrug. “She does a lot of things for me that save time so I can focus on hockey.”

“She?” Her head tilts and her eyes sparkle.

My gut dips, and my gaze darts to my mom. I shrug again. “Yeah.”

The back of my neck heats.

“What’s her name?” My mom’s eyes are like lasers, and there’s that little twitch at the corner of her mouth.

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