And what did anyone expect? I can’t be forced into talking about my feelings with a complete stranger. Especially not someone my own mother gave the last cinnamon bun to. I mean, fuck.

My season has been doomed from the start, and now that I’m here, the idea of leaving again has me feeling more uncertain than ever about what I want my future to look like. And while it’s true that I’ve had anger issues since my dad died, and there’s family turmoil, I highly doubt Summer is going to be the one to help me.

The fact is, it’s hard being a thousand miles away trying to play hockey when you can’t get your head in the game because you’re constantly worried about what’s going on back home. How is she going to fix that? Wave a magic wand and make everything right in my world? Come on, life just doesn’t work that way.

When I walk back inside, Grandpa Al has joined them in the kitchen. He’s helped himself to a slice of brisket left over from lunch, which won’t be good for his cholesterol, but you try telling him that. And he’s laughing at some story Summer is telling them.

“Unless you count a really stubborn racoon last summer, no, no roommates,” she says with a smile.

Grandpa Al chuckles, and even Mom seems too enamored with Summer to scold him for stealing a slice of the leftover brisket.

My mom pats Summer’s hand before her gaze lifts to mine. “Logan, will you set up Summer in the Evergreen cabin?”

I stiffen. She can’t be serious. “A word, Mother?”

Mom follows me into the living room, her brow knit with confusion. “Just hear her out, honey,” she says soothingly.

“Whose side are you on?”

“There’s no sides here.”

My life is sports. There are always sides.

“She can’t stay here,” I hiss, keeping my voice low.

“Why on earth not? She’s offering to help you, and as far as I can tell, you need the help. Do not blow this. Plus, have you seen the girl? She’s gorgeous, and she’s really sweet. I like her.”

“Mother.”

“Well, she is.” Mom plants her hands on her hips.

“Don’t meddle in the boy’s affairs, Jillian,” Grandpa Al calls from the kitchen.

I knew they could hear us. Damn house isn’t big enough.

“Thanks, Gramps,” I say with a defeated sigh, heading back into the kitchen as Mom trails behind me again.

“Anytime, kid.” He grins at me. “You just get better so you can get out on the ice again. And speaking of . . . I still haven’t gotten those hockey tickets you promised me.”

“You can’t fly, Al. It’s bad for your blood pressure,” Mom says, scolding him.