The Mistake (Off-Campus Book 2)
The Mistake: Chapter 32

Three days before our first game, the team finally clicks. It’s like someone flicked a switch from oh-God-we-suck to we-might-have-a-chance. I still don’t think we’re one hundred percent there yet, but we’ve shown improvement during our practices this week, and Coach isn’t yelling at us as often, so…progress.

Since midterms are in full swing, Grace and I haven’t seen each other in a few days, but we’re taking a break from studying to have dinner with her dad tonight. And because I had practice, she cabbed it to Hastings with Ramona, who’s visiting her own parents. I’m still not sure how I feel about them rekindling their friendship, but Grace keeps insisting that she won’t let Ramona get too close again, and I guess I have to accept that. Besides, after Friday night’s sexual-assault-waiting-to-happen, I’m feeling a lot more sympathy toward Ramona. Not to mention a lot more rage toward St. Anthony’s.

Did I mention we’re facing them in the season opener? Coach isn’t gonna like it, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be spending a lot of time in the sin bin that night.

I check my phone as I leave the arena. There’s a message from Grace, saying she got to her dad’s okay.

And a message from Jeff, asking me to call him ASAP.

Shit.

Jeff doesn’t usually throw around ASAPs unless it’s serious, so I don’t waste time calling him back. It takes five rings before he answers, and when he does, he sounds agitated.

“Where the hell have you been the last hour?” he demands.

“Practice. Coach doesn’t let us bring our phones on the ice. What’s up?”

“I need you to go home and check on Dad.”

“Why?” I say uneasily.

“Because I’m at the hospital with Kylie, and I can’t fucking do it myself.”

“The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”

“She sliced her hand open making dinner.” Jeff sounds panicked. “The ER doctor said it’s not as bad as it looks—she’ll just need some stitches. But Jesus, I’ve never seen so much blood, Johnny. They took her in now, so I’m out in the waiting room pacing like a crazy person.”

“She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Trust the doctors, all right?” But I know Jeff won’t relax until he and Kylie are walking out of that emergency room. The two of them have been madly in love since they were fifteen years old.

“What does this have to do with Dad?” I ask.

“I was over at Kylie’s, and he called when we were leaving for the ER. He was slurring and mumbling and, I don’t know, he might have fallen down? I couldn’t understand a fucking word he was saying, and I’m only one fucking person, John. I can’t deal with two emergencies at once, okay? So please, just go home and make sure he’s all right.”

Reluctance jams in my throat like a wad of gum. Christ. I don’t want to do that. At all. Except there’s no way I can pick a fight with Jeff right now, not when he’s freaking out about his girlfriend being in the hospital.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say roughly.

“Thanks.” Jeff hangs up without another word.

With a ragged breath, I text Grace to let her know I might be late for dinner, then head for the parking lot.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel during the entire drive to Munsen. Dread gathers inside me, growing and tangling in my gut until it becomes a tight knot that brings a rush of nausea to my throat. I don’t remember the last time I had to clean up one of my dad’s messes. High school, I guess. Once I left for Briar, Jeff became the sole cleaner-upper.

I kill the engine outside the bungalow and approach the front porch the way those paranormal experts in that shitty movie approached the ghost house. Wary, slow with trepidation.

Please let him be alive and well.

Yup, for all my selfish prayers about wanting my father to die, I can’t stomach the thought of walking into the house and replaceing his body.

I use my key to unlock the door, then step into the darkened front hall. “Dad?” I call out.

No answer.

Please let him be alive and well.

I inch toward the living room, my heart racing a mile a minute.

Please let him be—

Oh, thank Christ. He’s alive.

But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.

My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to him—cradling a fucking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the ground?

I feel nothing as I take in the pitiful scene in front of me. An acrid odor floats toward me. I wrinkle my nose, almost gag when I realize it’s urine. Urine and alcohol, the fragrance of my childhood.

A part of me wants to turn on my heel and walk away. Walk away and not look back.

Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the armchair, and carefully approach my passed-out father. “Dad.”

He stirs, but doesn’t answer.

“Dad.”

An agonized moan ripples from his throat. Christ, his pants are soaked with piss. And bourbon leaks from the bottle, staining the beige carpet.

“Dad, I need to check if anything’s broken.” I run my hands over his body, starting from his feet and moving upward, making sure he didn’t break any bones when he fell.

My examination jolts him out of his haze. His eyelids pop open, revealing dilated pupils and a forlorn look that fractures a piece of my aching heart, the part of me that remembers idolizing him as a kid.

He groans in panic. “Where’s your mother? Don’t want ’er to see me like this.”

Crack. There goes another shard of my heart. At this rate, my chest will be a hollow cavern by the time I leave here.

“She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I can prop him into a sitting position.

He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She went grocery shopping?” he slurs.

“Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned up, okay?”

He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe that’s why my eyes are stinging.

“Don’t tell ’er about this, Jeffy. She’s gonna be so mad at me. Don’t want ’er to be mad at me. Don’t wanna wake up Johnny…” He starts mumbling incoherently.

It’s hard to breathe as I lift the stinking, blubbering mess that is my father into my arms and carry him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Only one thought runs through my head.

My brother is a saint.

He’s a goddamn saint.

He’s been doing this, day in and day out, since I left for Briar. He’s been mopping up my dad’s vomit, and running the shop, and taking care of shit without a single complaint.

God, what is wrong with me? Fuck the NHL. Jeff deserves the chance to get out for a while. To travel with his girlfriend and live a normal life that doesn’t involve stripping his own father naked and lifting him into the shower.

My lungs are burning now, because cold reality has sunk in. Jesus Christ. This is my future. In less than a year, this will be my full-time job.

I’ve never had a panic attack before. I’m not sure what they involve. Out-of-control heartbeat—is that a symptom? Cold, clammy hands that won’t stop shaking? A windpipe that won’t let a single burst of air through? Because all those things are happening to me right now, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.

“Johnny?” Dad blinks as the hot water sprays his head, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “When’d ya get here?” He staggers in the tiled stall, his gaze darting in all directions. “Lemme get you a beer. Have a beer with your old man.”

I almost throw up.

Okay, yeah. I think I might be having a panic attack.

I’m three hours late to pick up Grace.

My phone died when I was in Munsen, and I don’t have her number memorized because it’s stored in my phone, so I couldn’t even call her from the landline to let her know I’d be late.

My panic has subsided. Somewhat. Or maybe I’ve gone numb. All I know is that I need to see my girlfriend. I need to hold her and draw warmth from her body, because goddamn, I feel like a block of ice right now.

The porch light is on when I park in her father’s driveway, but the yellow glow just ignites a spark of guilt. It’s past ten o’clock. I’m so fucking late, and she’s had to wait around for hours.

Practice, a cynical voice taunts. For all the times she’ll have to do it next year.

My lungs seize. Jesus. It’s true. How many times will something like this happen once I’m in Munsen full-time? How many plans will I be late for or have to cancel altogether?

How long before she dumps my ass for it?

I push aside the fearful notion as I ring the bell. Grace’s dad answers the door, a frown puckering his mouth when he sees me.

“Hi.” My voice is hoarse, lined with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner, sir. I would’ve called, but my phone died and I…” No. No way am I telling him what I was forced to endure tonight. “Anyway, I’m here to take Grace back to campus.”

“She already left,” Mr. Ivers says ruefully. “Ramona’s mother drove them back.”

Disappointment crashes into me. “Oh.”

“Gracie waited as long as she could for you…” Another frown, a clear rebuke. “But she needed to go home and study.”

Shame funnels down my throat. Of course she waited. And of course she left.

“Ah…okay.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll head home then.”

Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”

The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a family emergency.”

He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”

I nod.

Then I shake my head.

Then I nod again.

Christ, make up your fucking mind.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie.

“No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”

My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call me son? The sting in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.

I need to get out of here.

“Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to—”

I lose it.

I just. Fucking. Lose it.

Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s father.

He freezes.

Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I replace myself sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore. I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and Grace’s father called me son, and holy hell, I’m a mess.

I’m a total fucking mess.