by Sophia Henry
Indie stopped wiping Tim’s face, but didn’t look up. I lowered myself to the ground and wrapped my arm around her.
She dropped her head to Tim. “I don’t know. I handled it.” She took a breath and lifted her gaze to mine. “We handled it. Together.”
I lifted my hand for a high five. “Fuckin’ Bonnie and Clyde.”
Indie leaned back and reached up to smack it. Then she laid her head on my chest again. I tightened my arms around her and held on. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She lifted her head. “But I do. I will. You’re my family.”
Epilogue
Indie
ONE YEAR LATER
I ran my hands across the smooth fabric of my maroon gown, hoping the calming motion would stop my knee from bopping up and down. Excitement buzzed through my veins as I sat at my graduation ceremony in Central State’s McCarthy Events Center waiting for my name to be called. I wanted to enjoy every second of this, because there was a time in my life when I thought it would never happen. But with persistence, hard work, and the support of my family, I’d finally accomplished one of my goals.
It had been a stressful, emotional year. I thought getting full custody of Holden would be a long, hard fight, but Tim made it relatively easy. His lawyer sent me a letter stating Tim wished to voluntarily terminate his parental rights. Part of me thinks it was brought on by his father. But it didn’t matter. I had my son. And I had no more ties to Tim.
Seems like an easy out, but it made me sad. I don’t understand how someone could want their child out of their life permanently. But Tim made it clear that he’d never wanted Holden in his life in the first place. He wanted zero financial responsibility for him, and he never wanted to see me again.
I didn’t dwell on Tim for very long, because, truthfully, I was happy he’d be out of my life for good, too. Holden and I could finally move on with no regrets.
After the ceremony, my family bombarded me in a huge group hug, but the best part was when Holden squeezed my neck and said, “I love you, Mama.”
Mom’s eyes were filled with tears when she grabbed me. “I’m so proud of you, baby!”
“I always thought I’d be doing this first,” Damien said when it was his turn.
“Jerk,” I said as I hugged my little brother, who had just finished his freshman year at the University of Detroit.
When Damien pulled away, Jason took a step toward me. “I’m so proud of you.”
I jumped into his arms and he spun me around. “Time to start our life as a family.”
Jason
ONE MONTH LATER
“Do you love it?” Mom asked as she put her car in park in front of a gorgeous, Tudor-style house in the Joseph Berry subdivision, a block from the Detroit River.
She turned around to check Indie’s reaction, with wide eyes and a huge smile, totally skipping over me in the passenger seat next to her. I turned around, too.
Mom had been on a mission ever since I told her Indie and I decided we’d be moving to Detroit after Indie graduated. I hadn’t seen her this excited since the day she and Dad finalized the adoption for Calvin and Nate. For the last six months, she’d blown up my email with multiple listings for houses she’d found for us to rent. We weren’t ready to buy just yet. Indie and I both agreed that we wanted time to look around and find a place we both liked.
“Oh my gosh!” Indie exclaimed. She touched the window with her fingertips as she gazed out. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s across the street from you,” I said.
Neither woman paid me any attention.
“It’s huge!” Indie exclaimed.
“There’s plenty of space for visitors. And there’s an extra room and living area that Damien can have all to himself,” Mom gushed.
Space for Damien was one of our top priorities. He’d been living in the dorms at the University of Detroit, but he planned on moving in with us as soon as he was able to live off campus. To save money, he’d said.
Mom and Indie scrambled out of the car and linked arms as they approached the front door, where a man stood waiting for them, dangling keys from his hand.
“Guess it’s you and me while the hens chat, eh, buddy?” I asked as I unbuckled Holden from his car seat.
He climbed out of his seat. When he hit the ground he stopped and held his hand out for me to take. “You’re my family.”
Standing in front of a huge-ass house, just blocks away from the Manoogian Mansion, the house Detroit mayors call home during their time in office, didn’t seem like the right place to be overwhelmed by emotion at this little boy.
Or maybe it was the perfect place for Holden’s words to hit me straight in the heart.
You’re my family.
Family.
My parents and brothers—the constants in my life. My rocks. My support system. My biggest fans. The people who were always there, even through all the biological bullshit.
Family.
Indie, my partner for over a year and a half now—the woman who taught me about strength and the hard decisions that have to be made when we don’t know what the outcome will be.
Family isn’t always blood, but sometimes it is. It isn’t always easy, but sometimes it is.
I took Holden’s hand and we walked up the driveway toward Mom and Indie.
To our past. And our future.
To ADB and CHB. You are my world.
Acknowledgments
To everyone who beta read and critiqued Interference: Jamie B., Jamie C., Kimberly, Jan Carol Editing Services, Julie at True Blue Edits.
To my editor, Sarah Murphy: I don’t have the words to thank you. I can honestly say you are the best thing to happen to my writing career. I appreciate the time you took to help me make Interference my strongest book yet. I look forward to the rest of the Pilots Hockey series with you.
A huge thank you to everyone at Random House/Flirt who had a hand in the Pilots series. I’m grateful to work with such a talented group of creative professionals.
To my agent, Jessica Watterson, and the Sandra Dijkstra Literary team: Thank you for being on my side and giving me the encouragement I need.
To Jeni Burns: Your talent inspires me. Your encouragement drives me. To quote a Kelly Clarkson song (because, why not?), “My life would suck without you.”
Huge thanks to every author, reader, blogger, and friend I’ve connected with in the writing world. I’m grateful to be part of a supportive environment with people who build up their peers to help each other do well and succeed. Special thanks to: #TZWNDUBC, my (original) RT girls, the Bad Girlz, the authors of the NAC, and my Hockey with Heart peeps.
I can’t forget to include my inspirations: Sergei Fedorov, Brendan Smith, Tomas Tatar, Alexander Mogilny, Slava Kozlov, Steve Yzerman, Adam Graves, and the countless hockey heroes who keep me hooked on the best sport in the world!
To my entire family: Thank you for all your love and support.
To Jeff, Boo Boo, and Cha Chi: I’m so happy I have the three of you for hugs, kisses, and encouragement. You make my life better.
You. I appreciate every single reader who has given the Pilots series a chance.
A special thank you to the readers who participated in the contest to select the charity featured in the acknowledgments for Interference: Anne G.—Special Olympics; Courtney D.—Make A Wish; Cathy M.—American Cancer Society & Wounded Warrior Project; Fedora C.—Second Harvest Food Bank; Catherine M.—The Hope Centre; and Chris B.—Ronald McDonald House.
For information on how you can help Special Olympics change the world, please visit specialolympics.org.
Your past doesn’t have to dictate your future. Try to keep an open heart and an open mind.
Be Kind. Love Hard.
BY SOPHIA HENRY
Delayed Penalty
Power Play
Interference
PHOTO: JEFF BENNETT
SOPHIA HENRY, a
proud Detroit native, fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. She did not, however, fall in love with snow. So after graduating with an English degree from Central Michigan University, she moved to North Carolina, where she spends her time writing books featuring hockey-playing heroes, chasing her two high-energy sons, watching her beloved Detroit Red Wings, and rocking out at concerts with her husband.
SophiaHenry.com
Facebook.com/sophiahenryauthor
@sophiahenry313
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Read on for an excerpt from
Crazy About Love
An All About Love Novel
by Cassie Mae
Available from Loveswept
18 MONTHS, 24 DAYS AGO: 10:12 P.M.
“I think I might love you.”
Imagine a wrecking ball made of words crashing through an apartment kitchen, knocking into the side of the most gorgeous person you’ve ever laid eyes on, and that’s where I’m at. I don’t let words like that just fall out willy-nilly. I’ve felt love before. Several times. But I think I might love you isn’t something you tell one of your best friends. Relationship 101.
“I mean…,” I mutter, trying my best to backpedal this whole thing. “Well, yeah. I think I love you.”
There they go again. Spilling from some bright red door in my brain that I usually keep locked and guarded. What in the bloody hell?
My eyes drift to my right hand, fingers clutching an empty shot glass.
Oh…right.
Holding my liquor isn’t my strong suit. If it weren’t for Lizzie, out of all our group of friends I’d be considered the lightweight. They all love to get a kick out of getting me wasted, because the very few times it happened, I ended up confessing a lot of things. This confession, however, is one that I was able to keep locked up in my mind, so it’s a bit surprising that it’s making an appearance now, after only a couple of tip-backs.
I shove the shot glass across the kitchen bar and bury my head in my hands. “I’m drunk,” I say through a muffled laugh. “Drunk and stupid and don’t pay any attention to me.”
Theresa pushes her own glass so it rests against my abandoned one, her nails lightly scratching across the countertop. I don’t dare look up at her face. I prefer the inside of my hands.
“Usually drunk people are honest.”
“I’m a damn liar when I’m drunk.”
It’s complete bullshit. She knows it. I’m not a liar in general, come to think of it. Maybe I should consider the way of deception, because lying just now felt pretty good. Avoidance will be my new goal in life.
Theresa laughs—and understand that when this woman laughs, the entire world stops turning on its axis, throwing my ass off balance and making me want to say those wrecking-ball words all over again. My jaw clenches so tightly I’m in fear of cracking a molar.
She grabs our shot glasses, a bottle of tequila, and then my hand. I know I’m an adult and I’m not supposed to insta-sweat when a woman touches me, but that’s all my body knows how to do when it comes to her.
She pushes my ass into the couch cushion and plops down beside me. I smell cookies and booze. Not a bad combination.
“I hope you’re not too drunk,” she says, blowing off my confession. I play it cool, half grateful and half confused, but drunk enough not to care. “This episode is supposed to be intense.”
I smirk at her—what I think is a sexy smirk, but since my body is barely functioning the way I want it to, who knows—and she swings her legs up onto my lap.
These legs…they are part of the reason I’m in love with her. Not for the normal reasons (well, those too) but mainly because these are the legs that dance around in the kitchen to some classic rock song. They’re the legs that bounce under the table when she gets nervous. They’re the legs that always find themselves kicked up somewhere—on the dash of my car, on my coffee table, on my lap…
I clear my throat and move my gaze to the TV. “Aren’t they all intense?” I ask as the opening music for The Walking Dead comes on. My best friend, Landon, got me hooked on the damn show when he decided to write and direct a parody of it. I also give him credit for the Sunday nights I have with Theresa alone. Because there’ve always been five of us: Landon and Lizzie, Jace, Theresa, and me. When Landon and Lizzie are off doing couple stuff, it leaves the three of us. Not that Jace isn’t awesome or anything; we get along fine. It’s just…he’s the funny one, and I can’t say it doesn’t gut me every time Theresa laughs that world-stopping laugh at his jokes.
Now that Landon’s started filming on Sunday nights and, as luck would have it, Jace has the lead role, Lizzie takes advantage of having her place to herself, and Theresa and I take advantage of watching The Walking Dead together without having someone talk through the whole thing.
Theresa presses pause and throws the remote at me. “Okay, let’s get it out now.”
A small laugh pushes from my throat. Because this is our thing: without our chatty friends around, neither of us says a damn word while the show is running, so we get all our conversation out ahead of time. If one of us does say something, that person has to massage the other’s feet, calves, and/or shoulders for the remainder of the show. Sometimes I cheat and open my mouth just to have an excuse to put my hand on her leg.
“I think I’m good,” I say. I’ve already said what I didn’t want said and I’m not saying it aga—
“Are you really drunk?” she asks. Her eyes stay on mine, and I hold her gaze because I love her. That simple. I love her, so I want to look into her eyes. Other girls, I never really look at their eyes and stay; I drop my glance or look somewhere else. Theresa never drops her eyes from mine either, and maybe that’s why I feel a little lucky tonight.
Lucky…but not brave enough to repeat myself.
“I’m coherent,” I promise her, though I’m not sure if it’s entirely the truth. I hide my uncertainty with a grin. “You can hide in my ribs when it gets too intense for ya,” I tease.
Her pink lips part in a small gasp, and I brace myself for the punch I know is coming. Theresa is proud of her ability to handle blood and guts without a shoulder to duck behind. So yeah, seconds later her fist connects with my arm. It’s not hard. It’s a flirt punch. I don’t get as many as Jace does, or even Landon, but when I do get them, especially from her, I feel like the king of the world.
Somewhere someone is thinking of Titanic. (Me in another dimension, maybe.)
“I’m pressing play now,” I tell her as I point the remote at the TV. She slumps back into the couch, sliding her legs farther across my lap. Her ass bumps against my upper thigh, and I can’t help but let my hand drop to her knee. The remote becomes slick in my palm, and I swallow hard, wondering if she’s sobered me right up or made me drunker.
It’s the season premiere, so we’ve made guesses about who’s going to die. If someone on our list gets nixed, the other has to drink. So far during the series I’ve gotten smashed in the first twenty minutes, and Theresa has made it through every episode under three shots.
When the first character bites the dust, I give a fist pump and jab my finger at the shot glass in front of her. “Drink up!”
Her face contorts into a very not-sexy and yet completely sexy grimace, then she grabs the shot and swigs it in one swallow. Next thing I know her leg is in my face.
“Massage,” she says.
I drop the remote, because my hand is so damn sweaty, and she sits up, bringing her face close to mine. The air gets sucked out of the room by imaginary vacuums and I can’t breathe, but I’m somehow smelling her hair and her soap and her perfume and all things Theresa, and when her fingers clasp my shoulder so she can balance while she retrieves the remote, the door in my brain whips open, and the words come out again.
“I think I might love you.”
She pauses. She pause
s right there right by my face just after I say the words I shrugged off a few minutes ago. Her eyes hold mine, like they always do…and I wuss out.
“See?” I say with a laugh. “Drunk.”
A strand of her long red-brown hair falls in front of her face just as her eyebrow tilts up. She studies me long and hard, and I smile like a dimwit until she leans back and laughs with me.
“You better hope that none of my guesses are right this episode,” she says, laying the remote on her soft stomach as she settles back into the couch. “One more drink and you’ll be proposing.”
I chortle, exhaling in relief while my eyes fall to the leg that’s pushing into my palm. Oh, right. Massage.
I don’t know how the hell I pay attention to the show while I rub her calves. Theresa is smooth and soft and a little cold, but the friction between our skin warms her up after a few minutes. She used to use this really amazing scented lotion after she took showers, but now she uses a medicated kind. Sometimes her night terrors have her practically scratching her skin off in her sleep. The new lotion doesn’t smell bad—it doesn’t smell like anything—but it makes her skin feel really creamy, for lack of a better word.
My thumb presses into her leg, right by her inner knee, and she jumps at something on the TV.
“No!” She sits up and scoots to the edge of the couch, bright brown eyes locked on the screen and the horde of zombies about to take down her favorite character.
She’s beautiful. Not the character, though Hollywood would probably argue with me. I mean my best friend, with her full lips parted in shock and the rise of her shirt exposing the small of her back. Beautiful. I can’t stop thinking it. It happens every time we’re together, alone or in a group. This girl is the most gorgeous woman to ever grace the planet. And I have to act normal around her, pretend I’m not madly in love with her.
I scoot to the edge with her, forcing my eyes to the screen. Even when I’m watching the intense scene, I’m more in tune with her. The way she breathes (in….out…in…out…in-out…in-out…in-out), the way she bounces her leg (up…down…up…down…up-down…up-down…up-down), the way she digs her nails into the couch cushion (scratch…pull…pull…scratch). All of her is so much more intense than zombies chasing an unarmed actress on-screen.
