“I guess so,” I say with a shrug. “Expect shit to go wrong and you won’t be disappointed. That kind of thing?”

“Exactly. And in a game, you can’t place too high of expectations on yourself. Let mistakes go quickly. I’ve noticed that athletes who are too hard on themselves can lose focus when things go wrong.”

She’s right. A couple of small mistakes on the ice, and I lose my composure. And once I lose it, I end up getting pissed off and find myself in fights on the ice.

Summer sets her empty mug on the table beside us. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I agree with you. I know I need to let things go.”

She nods. “It’s more than letting go . . . it’s expecting bad shit to happen. Knowing it’s going to happen makes it less scary when it actually does, and you’re somewhat prepared for it and know how to react.”

“Makes sense. I think I can work on that.” Apparently, I also appreciate a therapist who curses and talks so casually with me.

She touches my knee and squeezes, then giggles. “Jeez, you really are like a rock.”

Her hand moves up my thigh, and since I’m ticklish, I squirm away on the seat.

When I meet her eyes, I realize they’re glazed over, and she’s smiling and giggling a lot more than normal.

“Do you feel okay?” she asks, wide eyed. “Because I feel amazing right now.”

A sense of sinking dread settles into the pit of my stomach.

“Come inside for a second. We should warm up.” I take her hand and help her off the porch swing, guiding her by the shoulders into the house.

It’s quiet tonight. Just Grandpa and Mom. I leave Summer in the living room, where she admires a crocheted wall hanging, and head to the kitchen.

Frowning, I stop in front of Mom. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing, dear.” Her voice is filled with surprise.

“Don’t mess with this. Summer and I . . .”

“What did you do, Jillian?” Grandpa asks.

Mom’s mouth lifts in an uncertain smile. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

“Mother, the truth.”

“Something that needed to happen. Everyone in this house is wound too tightly.”

“You can’t give people edibles without their consent,” I growl at her.

“Special tea?” Grandpa asks.

“It’s all natural. The elderberry and CBD from my garden.”

Austen warned me once that Mom’s version of CBD is basically just cannabis. Fuck!

“This is not good. If word gets back to the league that you drugged Summer, who is my psychologist . . . Fuck.” I push my hands through my hair and begin to pace the kitchen.

Summer steps into the kitchen, looking first at Mom, then at me. “Your mom gave me an edible?”

Grandpa huffs. “I told you not to meddle, Jillian.”