“How do you mean?”

“I can handle the media going squirrelly and all the ridiculous crap that Corey’s fiancée said on that crack-pipe show, but I think Queenie is going to have a hard time with it, and from what I’ve seen, her response to problems is to run away from them.”

“So be someone safe for her that she can run to.”

“I want to be able to be that for her.”

“But?”

“But I’m angry.”

“Okay, and that anger is understandable. But what exactly are you angry about? The situation? The omission?”

“All of it, I guess? I don’t know. She says she loves me, but she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me she was married to that jackass.” And that truly is the crux of it, I suppose. I feel . . . let down. Again. Something important was withheld from me by someone I love, and it’s compounded and magnified by the family secret that was dropped on me like a bomb this summer.

“Oh honey, I love you with all my heart, and I couldn’t tell you I was your mother for three decades. The only reason it came out was because my asshole ex wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. I’d like to think I would’ve eventually had the gumption to go against what Mom wanted and tell you, but there were too many layers of complication. I wanted to tell you a million times, but I didn’t want to upset the balance, or run the risk of losing the special bond I already had with you. Can you see, at all, how it might be the same for Queenie?”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I guess, when you put it that way . . .”

“I’m not telling you not to be angry. You have a right to be upset with a lot of people right now, but you’re an incredibly empathetic soul, and that’s as wonderful as it is difficult, because it means you put other people’s feelings ahead of your own. So be angry if you need to, but also be compassionate and gentle.”

“I’m going to try my best.” I drain half my drink in two gulps. It’s definitely not as good as the ones Queenie makes for me.

“Do you need me to come visit this weekend?”

“I’ll be all right until you come out with the family.”

“Okay. I always have your back, Ryan, no matter what.”

“I know. You always have.”

Sleeping on it gives me the perspective I need. Or restlessly rolling around in my empty bed, wishing Queenie were next to me, married to a jerk or not, is enough for me to conclude that I can get over this, because I don’t like the alternative. The next morning I pop into Queenie’s office before I head to the gym, but she’s not there. Jake’s door is open, though, so I knock.

He gives me a strained, tired smile. “I assume you’re looking for Queenie.”

“I am, sir.”

“She’s not here.”

“Is she okay?”

He sets his pen down on his desk and runs a hand through his hair—based on the state of it, he’s been doing this a lot today. “That’s a loaded question.”

“I’m sure it is. She’s had a difficult twenty-four hours. Does that mean she’s at home?”

“She is. She’s going to take some time off.” I can see where she gets her reticence from, seeing as Jake likes to provide limited answers much like his daughter does. Although it’s very possible he doesn’t have an actual answer.

“More than a few days?”

“I’m not sure. She’s pretty upset right now, and facing the team after what happened last night won’t be easy for her if she decides coming back is what she wants to do.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his neck. “And I honestly don’t know if having her come back is the right thing to do.”

“What happened wasn’t her fault!” I snap. “None of this is.”

His left brow rises. I should probably apologize for my tone, but someone has to defend Queenie, and if her own father won’t, I sure as hell will. “I know Queenie can be impulsive, but she was eighteen, and from the little she’s confided, she didn’t have a reliable mother figure to help her navigate relationships. And that’s not to say you didn’t do your best, but it’s not the same.”

I should definitely stop talking, but now that I’m on a roll, I can’t stop. And it feels really good to say exactly what’s on my mind, even if it’s going to cause problems for me later. “She feels an extraordinary amount of guilt for the mistake she made, and I believe she also feels like she’s been an anchor in your life, rather than a buoy. She has so much potential and incredible talent, but she doesn’t believe in herself, which is a travesty. And so is telling her she can’t come back here. Especially because of a mistake she made six years ago that someone decided to twist around and throw back in her face in a horribly public way. That’s not going to help her at all.”

He holds up his hand. “I’m aware she’s not at fault. And I would never tell her she couldn’t come back to work here, but I have a feeling she’s not going to want to, and I can’t say that I’d blame her at all.”

“Oh.” I pause, realizing my error. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.”

“Don’t apologize for standing up for my daughter. I don’t think she’s had enough people in her life willing to do that for her. And one of the people who was supposed to be the most supportive took every opportunity she could to cut her down.”

“Her mother.”

He nods. “She’s done nothing to earn that title.” He’s silent for a moment before he continues. “She was, and still is, a very selfish, self-absorbed person. Her concerns revolved around herself and what she wanted, not what Queenie needed.”

“I’ve gathered that from what Queenie’s said about her.” And how she reacted to the phone call from her when exhibition games first started.

“The only thing she’s ever done for Queenie is cause upheaval in her life.” He tosses his pen on the desk and scrubs a palm over his face. “Look, King, I’m probably overstepping every single boundary there is right now, but I know my daughter. She’s used to people leaving and letting her down. And while I’ve done everything in my power to make sure she’s taken care of, clearly I can’t always protect her. And I feel like I’m a big part of the reason she’s in her current predicament. So if you’re really in this like you seem to be, don’t let her push you away. And trust me: she’ll try.”

“I’m prepared for that, sir.”

He smiles, but his sadness weighs it down. “I figured you would be.”

I take my chances that Queenie is going to be at home and head to her place without texting first. It’s purposeful, since I fully expect her to avoid me or do what Jake said and try to push me away. We have a series of away games coming up, and there’s no way I’m leaving things the way they are when I’ll be gone for several days.

Loud, melancholic music makes the windows rattle as I approach her front door. I knock and peek through the curtains. I can see her in the kitchen, standing in front of her easel, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other. I’m almost relieved to see her doing something constructive, after yesterday. But another part of me feels . . . sad that this part of her is something she hasn’t been comfortable enough to share with me, and I believe that these two facets of who she is are somehow intertwined.

I want all of her, and she keeps tucking little pieces away, hiding the things she’s afraid to let me see.

I knock again, harder this time. She startles and curses, dropping her brush on the floor. She bends to pick it up, giving me a quick glimpse of the piece she’s working on before she eclipses it with her frame again. It’s not enough time for me to decipher the content, only enough to get a blur of green and black. She drapes a sheet over it and drops the palette on the table and the brush in a murky glass of water.

“Coming! Hold on!” she calls out as she surveys the mayhem. I see the moment she decides there’s nothing she can do about it and rushes to answer the door, tucking a bra under a couch cushion on the way.

The door flies open, and her eyes flare with surprise. “King, hi, I didn’t . . . hi.”

I take her in, messy bun knotted on top of her head, black and green paint streaked across her cheek and the oversize white button-down shirt she’s wearing. I don’t detect shorts or any other bottoms, although the shirt does hit her midthigh. “Hi.”

“I wasn’t expecting company.” It sounds like an apology. She glances over her shoulder at the disarray inside her house.

“Do you mind if I come in? So we can talk.” I hook my thumbs in my pockets so I’m not tempted to tuck her hair behind her ear, or make unwelcome physical contact. What I want is to wrap her up and protect her from Corey and the hell this is probably wreaking on her.