I’m not even sure I can form words. “Britta . . . you never should have been there for that conversation. Not like that.”
She acknowledges that with a stilted nod. “My mom’s mental health suffered for a long while after that. She couldn’t get out of bed for her shifts at Sluggers, so I tried to help. And I felt so bad, because I didn’t want to be home. It was so scary to see her so still and silent like that. And my dad was gone—”
I pick her up and put her in my lap, my arms wrapping around her like steel bands.
She’s trembling a little, and I have to trap a tortured shout by pressing my mouth to her shoulder, stroking her hair probably way too hard. The story she just told me is so much more fucked up than I was imagining. I’m livid. I’m fucking livid over her having to live through any of that. But I can’t let the anger run away with me because the focus needs to be here, on Britta, not on my reaction. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Practice is over, but some of the guys are still down on the ice.
Bryce is among them, and he’s looking at me knowingly. And it dawns on me why.
“Bryce is your half brother. He’s . . . part of that other family. That your father left for.”
She nods into my neck. “He got in contact with me when I was a senior in high school. To say sorry. I really wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. He’s too . . . Bryce. For years, we kept in contact, online mostly. It was just a coincidence when he got picked up by the Bandits.”
I’m desperately trying to take in all this information and keep my millions of questions at bay. There will be time for those later, but right now, there is one pressing issue that I can’t ignore. I’ve seen this unique light shining inside her since day one, and here it is. Proof that I’ve had her pegged correctly as one of a kind this whole time. “Britta.”
“Yeah?”
“The grace and character and fucking forgiveness it took to be friends with Bryce? Those are not small things. The bravery it took to cover your mother’s shifts . . . not small.” I let out a gusting exhale. “I’m sorry I mistook protecting yourself for fear.”
I hear her swallow several times, and I pull her as close as I can, wishing I could soak her into my chest where it would be easier to guard her. If anyone ever hurts this girl again, I’m going to start tearing down skyscrapers like hockey Godzilla. “Does he ever come to the games?”
She knows I mean her father. “Always. Every single one. That’s why I never buy tickets.”
Even as I nod in understanding, I hate knowing that. I’d rather have her at my games than the entire rest of the crowd. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Britta.”
We inhale and exhale together.
“I think telling you helped, actually. I feel lighter.”
“I’m glad, sweetheart. I’m sorry about all of it.”
“I know you are. Your heart is bashing up against my ear.” With her cheek nuzzled into my sweaty chest, she closes her eyes. “Tell me everything about your four sisters.”
Above her head, I smile, grateful for her curiosity. Grateful to finally be holding her. Praying like hell that it means more than interview preparation. “Well, the oldest is Chrissy. She’s a hairdresser, and she used to use me to practice her skills. You should have seen my blowout on the first day of fourth grade . . .”
Chapter Four
BRITTA
June
I’m in the passenger side of Sumner’s truck, fanning my cheeks even though the air conditioner is blasting. We’re sitting outside a long beige government building with black reflective windows, an American flag whipping overhead in the summer breeze.
Today is the day of our green card interview.
Sumner reaches over from the driver’s side, stilling my flapping hand and then bringing it to the center of his chest. “Britta, we have nothing to be nervous about.”
“I don’t know, Sum. They say these interviewers are human lie detectors.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Who is ‘they’？”
I give him a sheepish look. “The internet.”
Sumner shakes his head at me, and I can’t help but notice the way his black hair rubs against his collar in the process. My fingers twitch, wondering what it would feel like wrapped around my knuckles. Not that I plan on finding out. Or anything. “Did you pick up any conspiracy theories while you were scaring yourself on the web?” he asks, clearly unaware that I’m mentally pulling his hair while he— “Don’t get me started on the Roswell cover-up,” I rush to say, giving him a half smile to let him know I’m joking. But our usual banter is doing nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Or the sexual tension that has been creeping into my stomach more and more quickly, potently, when he’s around. “I just don’t want to let you and the team down.”