The Dixon Rule (Campus Diaries, 2)

You don’t belong here

WHEN I WALK INTO THE FAMILY ROOM, MOM IS SITTING ON THE COUCH, back straight, gaze fixed on the crackling fireplace.

I’ve found her in this pose frequently during the month I’ve been home, stumbling upon these moments of numb silence. I get them too. There’s been a weight on my shoulders since Dad died. It keeps pulling me down, anchoring me to this pit of endless grief. The only moment its grip on me lightens is when I see Diana, who’s kept her promise to drive up on the weekends.

When she’s not here, we’re all keeping busy. Mom’s back at work. Maryanne starts school again tomorrow. I’ve been dealing with the real estate agent and packing up the house. We found a place ten minutes away. That means Maryanne doesn’t need to switch schools, so that’s one less hassle.

The scene of tonight’s dinner lingers in the air, a reminder of the countless hours I’ve spent helping Mom around the house. We take turns cooking. I do most of the cleaning, which is unheard of.

Maryanne seems to be doing okay, although she has her moments of sadness too, and she’s thrown a few tantrums since I’ve been home. That’s equally unheard of. She never used to be a tantrum kid. But Mom’s sister is a child psychologist and maintains that this is normal, a healthy release of her grief.

“Hey,” I say as I settle in the worn leather armchair, resting my beer on my knee. “Kitchen’s spotless. No need to bring in the cleaner to check my work.”

She shifts her gaze from the fire to me, cracking a smile. “I might have coddled you a little more than necessary with the cleaning lady, huh?”

I shrug. “Not complaining.”

We chat about our plans for tomorrow. I plan on tackling the garage while Mom’s at work. The shelving unit that makes up the entire back wall is full of random junk that we need to go through. We’re discussing what items to keep and what to toss when a text lights up my phone screen. Ryder’s been keeping me updated about the playoffs, and he just sent me the schedule.

“Shit,” I exclaim as I read the message.

“What is it?” Mom asks.

“We’re playing—” I quickly correct myself. “They’re playing Yale in the semifinals. Briar hasn’t faced Yale in the postseason in like, a decade.”

I tamp down the excitement that tries to surface. Nope. I won’t be on the ice next weekend. It’s not my game to get excited about.

A prickle of discomfort itches my skin when I notice Mom watching me.

“What?” I say.

After a beat, she motions for me to join her on the couch. “Come sit here. We need to talk.”

Uncertain, I set my phone and beer bottle on the coffee table and take a seat beside her. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since you came home, and I want you to know I appreciate all the help you’ve given me. You’ve been a rock. Taking such good care of things around here since your dad passed. But I don’t want you to lose sight of your dreams, and I think you might be.”

I stare down at my hands, clasped tight on my lap. “I can’t afford to think about dreams right now. You need me.”

She reaches out and lifts my chin, meeting my eyes. “Shane. I’m grateful that you’re here, more than you can imagine. But I don’t want you to sacrifice your future for us. You deserve a chance to live the life you’ve always wanted.”

“I made him a promise,” I say gruffly.

“I know. He told me. But I don’t think this is what he meant, sweetheart.”

A rush of emotion closes my throat, making it hurt. “He asked me to be there for you and Maryanne. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Not at the expense of your own life,” Mom says gently. “He wouldn’t want you to quit the team. To leave school. In fact, he’d knock you upside the head for this decision. Because you’re forgetting the other promise you made him.”

My brow furrows.

“You promised you’d go to Chicago as planned. That you’d excel in your sport. You’re a hockey player, not a babysitter or a box packer or an adequate chef. You need to go play hockey. That’s the promise you should be keeping.” She takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “You don’t belong here.”

I frown at her. “Then why did you let me come home?”NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

She sighs. “Honestly? I thought you’d get bored after a week or two. Miss hockey and Diana, and go back to Briar. But you’re not leaving. So you’ve forced my hand and now I have to kick you out.”

A disbelieving laugh flies out. “Wow.”

“Your sister and I are going to be fine. You’ve already done so much. Maryanne is back at school tomorrow. I’ve got work. The lawyers have a good grasp on your father’s estate. And you’ve packed up nearly the entire house. There’s nothing for you to do here. It’s time for you to go.”

A tentative smile lifts my lips. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out.”

Yet her actions—no, her permission, it lifts the weight off my shoulders, replacing it with a newfound sense of hope. I loved being home with my family, but I also hated it. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to assume this much responsibility. Taking care of the house, driving Maryanne around everywhere, keeping her busy. I can’t imagine doing all this while also playing professional hockey.

The longer I’m here, the more I realize how idealized my view of life has been. I’ve been injected with a dose of reality. My whole vision about being a young husband, a young dad, and believing I could still give equal focus to hockey, to intensive training and a grueling schedule… I’ve never considered myself to be naive. But…yeah. It’s a challenging balance I’d never be able to strike right now.

Mom’s right. I miss Briar. I miss my boys. And most of all, I miss Diana.

I scoot closer and hug her tightly, grateful for her support and encouragement. She and Dad were always good at that, letting me follow whatever path I wanted, rooting from the sidelines while I did it. They’ve almost got Diana beat in the cheerleading department.

“All right. I’ll head back tomorrow,” I tell her. “Hopefully Coach gives me my roster slot back and lets me play Yale this weekend.”

“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t.”

“Don’t ever call Coach Jensen an idiot to his face. He’ll destroy you.”

“Not if I destroy him first.”

I grin. I hail from a family of psychopaths.

“Do you want to put on a movie or something?” I suggest.

“Sure. I don’t know if I’ll make it through more than half before I fall asleep, but let’s see what happens.”

Chuckling, I reach for the remote, but my hand changes course when my phone lights up on the table. The caller ID displays an unfamiliar number. It’s a Massachusetts area code. Usually I send unknowns to voicemail, but there’s a funny feeling tickling my stomach, and for some reason I pick up the phone.

I answer with a leery, “Hello?”

“Shane, this is Priya. From Meadow Hill.”

A chill runs down my spine. I clutch the phone tighter. “Priya, hey. What’s up?”

“I’m calling from the hospital. An ambulance just brought Diana in. Niall and I rode here with her—”

The room spins for a moment. “What happened? Is she all right?”

“What’s going on?” Mom touches my arm.

“Diana’s in the hospital,” I explain before refocusing on Priya. “Tell me what happened.”

“She’s hurt,” Priya says, her shaky breathing betraying her calm tone. “You should get here as soon as you can.”

I feel the world closing in on me. “Hurt how? Just tell me what happened.”

“Her ex-boyfriend broke into her apartment and beat her pretty badly.”

My entire body is frozen in place.

Beat her?

What the fuck does she mean, Percy beat her?

“What hospital?” I’m already shooting to my feet.

“St. Michael’s in Hastings.”

“I’m on my way.”