Chapter 219 Chapter 218

Chapter 219 Chapter 218
Logan POV

The drive home took just under an hour.

I’d made it hundreds of times over the years.

Sometimes after a big win when my mom insisted on making enough food to feed the entire hockey team.

Sometimes after a loss because she somehow always knew I’d show up without calling first.

Sometimes because it was a holiday.

Sometimes because I just… needed to remember there was a version of me that existed before everyone started measuring my life in goals, assists, and draft projections.

Today?

I wasn’t entirely sure why I was driving there.

Maybe because Harper had planted the idea in my head before we left the lake.

“Maybe it’s time to spend a little time with the parent who never needed convincing.”

Those words had followed me all the way home, then all the way through an evening of lying awake staring at my bedroom ceiling.

This morning I’d finally stopped fighting them.

I turned onto the familiar tree-lined street where I’d learned to ride a bike, scraped my knees playing street hockey, and once accidentally broke Mrs. Donnelly’s front window with a slap shot I swore had been an accident.

It hadn’t been.

I’d absolutely been trying to see how hard I could shoot a tennis ball.

My mom had marched me across the street, made me apologize, and then spent the rest of the afternoon helping me earn the money to replace the window.

She hadn’t yelled.

She’d simply told me that making mistakes wasn’t the problem.

Pretending they weren’t my fault was.

Funny.

Some of the biggest lessons in my life had never happened at a hockey rink.

Her little blue house looked exactly the same.

White shutters.

A wraparound porch.

Flower boxes overflowing beneath the front windows because my mom somehow had the magical ability to keep plants alive.

Mine usually died within a week.

I climbed out of the truck and hadn’t even made it halfway up the front walk before the front door opened.

Mom stood there with a dish towel thrown over one shoulder.

She smiled.

The kind of smile that somehow managed to make me feel ten years old again.

“I had a feeling.”

I laughed.

“You always do.”

She crossed the porch and wrapped me in a hug before I’d even reached the steps.

Not a quick hug.

A mom hug.

The kind where she held on just a little longer than necessary.

The kind that quietly asked questions without saying a word.

When she finally leaned back, she cupped my face between her hands.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Mom…”

“When’s the last time you had a proper meal that didn’t come from the athletic center?”

“I had breakfast.”

“What was it?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

She smiled knowingly.

“I’ll put the soup on.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“I missed you too.”

“You say that now.”

She turned toward the kitchen.

“Wait until I start asking nosy questions.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

“There always is.”

The house smelled exactly the way I remembered.

Fresh bread.

Tomatoes.

Garlic.

Whatever candle she insisted on burning year-round that somehow always smelled like cinnamon, even in the middle of spring.

Nothing had really changed.

The family pictures still lined the hallway.

The dent in the living room wall from where I’d once tried practicing slap shots indoors had somehow never been repaired.

I smiled when I noticed it.

“You left it.”

Mom looked over from the stove.

“Of course I did.”

“I figured Dad would’ve fixed it.”

She stirred the soup for a moment before answering.

“He wanted to.”

“And?”

“I told him no.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

She smiled softly.

“Because every time I looked at it…”

She shrugged.

“…I remembered a little boy who couldn’t wait to get home from school because all he wanted to do was play hockey.”

I looked at the faded mark in the drywall.

I’d forgotten it was even there.

“I was nine.”

“You were impossible.”

“I was dedicated.”

“You broke three picture frames.”

“They were casualties.”

She laughed.

“I believe that’s exactly what you called them.”

I dropped my overnight bag beside the kitchen table and slid into the same chair I’d been sitting in since elementary school.

Somehow it still creaked the exact same way.

Mom glanced over her shoulder.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.”

She turned the burner down before disappearing into the pantry.

A second later she came back carrying a loaf of fresh bread.

“You baked?”

She looked offended.

“When do I not bake?”

“Fair point.”

She set the bread on the cutting board and began slicing thick pieces.

The smell alone made my stomach growl.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The reason you came.”

“I came to see you.”

“You came because you knew I’d feed you.”

“I can have two reasons.”

She laughed.

“I’ll allow it.”

For a while we talked about nothing important.

Neighbors.

My younger cousin starting college in the fall.

The fact that Mrs. Donnelly—the same neighbor whose window I’d broken—had somehow won first place at the county pie contest again.

Normal things.

Simple things.

It felt…

Good.

Really good.

No scouts.

No hockey.

No pressure.

Just lunch with my mom.

She finally carried two steaming bowls of tomato soup to the table before setting a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches between us.

I stared at the food.

“You made grilled cheese.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You only make grilled cheese with tomato soup when…”

I stopped.

Her smile softened.

“…when you’ve had a hard day.”

I looked at her.

“How did you know?”

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“Logan.”

Her voice was gentle.

“I’ve known you your entire life.”

“You always show up hungry when you’re carrying something too heavy.”

That lump in my throat returned before I’d even taken the first bite.

I looked down at the soup.

“I’ve really been that obvious?”

“To everyone?”

She smiled sadly.

“No.”

“Just to me.”

I laughed quietly.

“I thought I was getting better at hiding it.”

“You are.”

She picked up half her sandwich.

“But mothers don’t count.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

The soup tasted exactly like it had when I was a kid.

Warm.

Comforting.

Familiar.

It was amazing how food could carry memories.

One bite, and suddenly I was twelve years old again, sitting at this same table after a tournament, complaining because we’d lost in overtime.

Another bite, and I was sixteen after scoring my first varsity hat trick while Mom insisted I deserved two desserts.

I looked around the kitchen.

Everything felt smaller than I remembered.

Not because the house had changed.

Because I’d grown up.

Somewhere between leaving for college and chasing the NHL, I’d forgotten how safe this place felt.

Mom watched me quietly over the rim of her coffee mug.

Finally she smiled.

“I’ve been waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretending everything’s okay.”

I let out a slow breath.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

She reached over and broke off a piece of grilled cheese, dipping it into her soup before answering.

“You don’t have to start with hockey.”

I blinked.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I know.”

She looked directly into my eyes.

“I think that’s why you’re here.”

The room fell silent.

Not uncomfortable.

Patient.

The kind of silence only exists between people who know each other well enough not to rush the hard conversations.

I wrapped both hands around my mug, letting the warmth settle into my palms.

For the first time in weeks…

I felt like I could finally put the weight down.

Even if only for a little while.

“Mom…”

My voice came out quieter than I expected.

“I think I’m finally ready to tell somebody the truth.”

She didn’t interrupt.

She didn’t ask questions.

She simply reached across the table, covered my hand with hers, and waited.

Just like she always had.