Dirty Toe Drag (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 6)
Boon raises a brow at me. “You were in foster care?”
I continue soothing Zac. “I’ve told you that.”
“No, you haven’t.”
Aiden agrees, “Yeah, this is the first I’m hearing this too.”
“How long were you in foster care?”
When I joined the Assassins, I told the guys my mom died giving birth to me and my dad raised me on my own because that was easier than admitting the truth. Now that I’ve been in therapy with Noelle, I’m more comfortable telling the truth.
But I’m still not ashamed of my foster care days. At the time, it was the only option for me, and I was safe. It sucked since I couldn’t play hockey, but then one of my friend’s moms offered to take me in, and that worked out great. Cathy wasn’t my mom, but she was a great second, and when I signed my first contract into the NHL, I paid off her mortgage, while my buddy, Jesse Policaki, who plays for the IceCats, paid off her cars and all her debt. It was the least I could do. She took great care of me.
“Not long. Maybe a month? It sucked at first because I couldn’t play, but then my adopted mom fought to take me since they were dragging ass on her paperwork.”
“Cathy is your adopted mom? I thought she was your stepmom.”
A chill runs down my spine. My body freezes, and I feel like I might puke. “Oh, fuck no. She’s adopted. She’s an angel.”
“Oh, my bad. Sorry,” Aiden says quickly. “And you really don’t talk to your dad?”
I can’t answer him. I think Boon knows that too because he says, “That’s why your charity is the Nashville Angels.”
“Yup, very proud to support it since the foster home I was in was so over capacity, but they kept throwing kids into homes where they weren’t getting what they needed. We had no help back home, and I know Nashville has a great support system, but I want to help more. Kids deserve it. So, yeah, I’m good with kids because that’s what I did to pass time when I was in foster care. I’d take care of the babies and teach the older kids hockey.”
Aiden glances back at me. “That’s cool, dude.”
“Yeah, not all of us have a silver spoon in our mouths,” I tease, needing to lighten the mood. Thankfully, Aiden laughs, knowing good and well he has like six in his mouth. Must be nice. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my family wasn’t poor at all, but once I was taken from my dad, I never saw a lick of my mom’s life insurance money. I also never got any of the stuff she had. When I was removed from the home, I grabbed what I could, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“Is that why you’re in therapy? I thought maybe it was for sex addiction,” Boon asks kindly, and I shake my head.
“Sex addiction,” I laugh, and he grins. “No, asshole, and the foster shit is a part of my healing but not the real reason.”
“Oh. Not to pry, but is it dealing with the grief over your mom? I know losing someone to cancer can be traumatizing.”
“Yeah, it was,” I say, and I don’t add anything else. I love my friends, they’re my boys, but I don’t talk about what happened. Hell, it took two years for me to fully admit it to Noelle. The only reason she knew was because it came in my previous therapist’s session notes. There were times when we would just stare at each other, and she was okay with it. Fuck, I don’t want to learn a new therapist. “Maybe I should get traded to Colorado to follow Noelle?”
Boon gives me a dry look. “We’ve had enough loss on this team. You can’t leave us.”
“For sure. I’ll be your damn therapist. I’ll listen and stuff a few of my silver spoons in your mouth,” Aiden says simply, and we all laugh at that.
“You know that, though. Right? That we’re here for you? We’ll listen?” Boon asks, and he’s such a good dude. He doesn’t ignore his feelings; he feels them, and he doesn’t care who knows. Aiden feels them, but he tries to hide them behind his tough dude exterior. Me, I’m just trying to survive.
“I know, bro. Thanks.”
Zac moves in my arms, and I hold him close to me as he sighs. I lean my chin on his little head and take in that baby smell. It’s soothing, even if it reminds me of a time I’d rather never think of. While there was more pain than I care to admit, there was also joy.
I’ve always figured I’d die alone. No woman would want to put up with the demons that ride me like a bull. I get that. My name and picture are in the dictionary next to “walking disaster,” and even with the loads of therapy I’ve done, I’m still a mess. But deep inside, I want one of these squishy potatoes. I want to be what I should have had. I want to protect. I want to love. I want to spoil. For that, though, I need a wife. A female willing to take me on, and I don’t know if she exists. It’s crazy the one I would want to take me on is Stella.