Then again, fighting with my dad might be the kind of distraction I need right now.
"Sure, Mom, I'll come over," I sigh. "What time?"
She claps excitedly again. "Come over at 6:00. That will give me time to throw some chicken pot pie for you. Does that work?"
"Yeah, that works. Thanks, Mom. I'll see you then."
"Bye, honey," she chirps as she hangs up.
I turn toward the front door and the running shoes I had just taken off before Mom's phone call. With a sigh, I lace them back up for another run.
20
Tristan
When I walk into my parents' house, I realize that my dad and brother aren't lounging in the sitting room the way they normally do. I hear Mom in the kitchen but otherwise the house is silent.
I make my way into the kitchen and, sure enough, I find Mom bouncing around getting dinner ready.
"Hey, Mom." She startles, not realizing I had come in.
"Oh, my goodness, you scared me," she breathes, clutching a hand to her chest. "I didn't even hear you come in. You're going to scare me to death one of these days with the way you sidle in."
A strained smile tilts the corner of my lips as I remember hearing those same words not too long ago. Only that time, it was a feisty brunette that was saying them, and I was there to punish her for daring to think anyone else could have her.
I shake the thoughts of Remy from my head. Again. It feels like all I've been doing for the past week is shaking my head.
"Sorry," I tell her, kissing her on her cheek. "I'm too graceful for my own good, I guess."
She ignores my weak joke and instead pulls back to study my face. A small frown appears on her lips.
"You look tired," she accuses. "Like you haven't been sleeping. Or eating. Is everything okay?"
I try for a big smile. "I'm fine, Mom. I just had a long week with work and I'm tired. Nothing a good Sunday dinner and ten hours of sleep can't fix."
Her frown deepens as she steps closer to me. She grips my chin and turns my head to the side. "And you have a black eye!" she exclaims accusingly.
I pull my face from her grasp, avoiding eye contact and resisting the urge to fidget under her scrutiny. I don't feel like explaining that I'm so depressed, I've been throwing myself into training and going way too hard during every session. I've been running myself into the ground, and when I'm tired, I get sloppy. I'll probably have a few more injuries until I can get my mental shit together.
I knew Mom would notice but I couldn't bring myself to care—about the injury or about her inevitable reaction, which is exploding out of her right now.
She plants her hands on her hips with a disapproving glare. "When will you be done with this insanity? How can this be fun for you? You're always hurt!"
Before I can answer back, I hear my dad's footsteps on the stairs. I wince, knowing this argument is about to get a lot worse. Dad walks into the kitchen to find Mom and I glaring at each other.
"What's going on?"
Mom throws her hands up in exasperation. "He's hurt again. Look at him! It's ridiculous!"
Dad frowns as he looks me over. I grit my teeth and endure the scrutiny, fury starting to sizzle in my veins.
It was a mistake to come here—I should've known this would happen. I'm too exhausted and emotionally unhinged to deal with them right now.
"You look horrible," he finally spits. "You look like a bully that got into a fight in a schoolyard. No better than an immature schoolboy that can only solve problems with his fists." He gives me another once-over and scoffs, his words dripping with disdain. "Your mother is right. You need to end this ridiculous caveman phase of your life. I will never understand what on earth pushed you to this idiocy."
I clench my fists so hard that I can feel my fingernails ripping into my palm. I take a deep, stuttering breath to try to keep myself from exploding at the insult.
"I'm not a caveman, I'm a professional athlete," I begin calmly. "And it's not a phase. I'm on the verge of getting into the top organization in the world."