Page 28 of Checking It Twice
“That’s what I like about her,” Maddie says, settling into her chair with the careful movements of someone carrying precious cargo. “She doesn’t need rescuing.”
“Everyone needs rescuing sometimes,” Tom says quietly, cutting into his pancakes. “Nothing wrong with letting someone take care of you.”
The words hit harder than they should. I’ve spent so long being the one who takes care of everything, who has all the answers, that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to let someone else shoulder the weight.
“Speaking of taking care of people,” Karen says, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “did Mitchell ever tell you about Mr. Whiskers?”
Mitch goes very still beside me. “Ma, no.”
“Mr. Whiskers?” I ask, immediately intrigued.
“Don’t,” Mitch warns, but there’s no real heat in it.
“When Mitchell was little, he found this stray cat behind the rink,” Karen continues, completely ignoring her son’s mortification. “Scraggly little thing, all fur and bones. He begged us to keep it.”
“It was hurt,” Mitch says defensively. “The thing had a broken leg.”
“So he made a little bed for it in his room, fed it with a medicine dropper, even learned how to give it antibiotics.” Karen's voice softens with memory. “He spent every spare minute nursing that cat back to health.”
I can picture it perfectly—a younger version of Mitch, all determination and gentle hands, caring for something that needed him.
“What happened to Mr. Whiskers?” I ask.
“Lived to be eighteen,” Evan says with a grin. “Spoiled rotten. Mitchell carried that cat around like it was a real-life stuffed animal.”
“He was a good cat,” Mitch mutters, his cheeks slightly pink.
“He was a terror,” Maddie corrects. “Remember when he got stuck in the Christmas tree?”
“Or when he learned to open cabinets?”
“The great tuna incident of 2010,” Tom adds solemnly.
I’m laughing now, unable to help myself. The image of tough, professional hockey player Mitchell Drake being terrorized by a geriatric cat is too perfect.
“He sounds like he had personality,” I say.
“That’s one word for it,” Mitch replies, but his expression has softened. “He was... special.”
There’s something in his voice, a tenderness that makes my chest tight. This is the man his family knows—not the charming public figure or the professional athlete, but someone who spends hours nursing injured strays back to health.
“Mitchell’s always been like that,” his mom says, reaching over to pat his hand. “Brings home every broken thing he finds, thinking he can fix it.”
The words hang in the air, loaded with meaning I’m not sure I want to examine too closely. Because sitting here, feeling more at home than I have in years, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what I am to him—another broken thing he’s trying to fix.
“Not everything needs fixing, Ma,” Mitch says quietly, but his eyes are on me when he says it.
“No,” she agrees, studying us both with that knowing maternal gaze. “Sometimes things are perfect exactly as they are.”
Under the table, his hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a familiarity that should scare me but doesn’t. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and I have to concentrate on breathing normally.
“More coffee?” he asks, his voice low and intimate.
“Please.”
He reaches across me to grab the pot, and for a moment, his chest brushes my shoulder. The contact sends a jolt racing through me, and from the way his breathing hitches slightly, he felt it too.
“Easy there, tiger,” I murmur, just for him.
