when night comes ━━ mike schmidt

𝟬𝟬𝟯 hockey

WHEN NIGHT COMES / Chapter Three

It was 6am the next day when Zion woke up to a rather peculiar text from Mike. She stared at it, blinked in disbelief a few times, then wondered if this type of joking made them friends.

Mike: I love you 💞💗💕💕💕❣️💝💕💓💓
Zion: ??? wrong contact
Mike: Sorry. Mia stole my phone as soon as I pulled it out
Zion: Mía**
Zion: Tell her I love her back
Mike: She says she knows
Mike: Did you get the nightguard job?
Zion: Yeah I start tonight
Mike: Can I come?
Zion: Idk but if you call they might hire you
Mike: I got a babysitter like you said so you can bring Mía here tonight.
Zion: Seriously?!
Zion: Thank you. Life saver
Mike: Now you owe me 3 times.

Zion couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her after reading that message. Then, she frowned. Gotta get to work.

She did the usual: shower, clothes, eat, make-up. The extra time she had that morning when she wasn't helping Mía get ready because she was at Mike's—well, it left her with a heavy, empty feeling in her stomach.

Zion was so used to wrestling the girl into clothes that weren't stained or worn three days in a row, and she was so used to trying to tame her curls only for Mía to mess it up again within seconds. Now that Zion didn't have to do that, something felt wrong.

She was tempted to text Mike and ask if Mía was okay. But Zion knew it was pointless. She already knew the answer was yes.

So, she moved on with her day. Made her mom food, watched her as she swallowed the mountain of pills on her tray.

"Stay, Zion, I want to talk," Her mother grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving.

Fear struck Zion's heart. Talk? About what? They rarely talked nowadays. Was she getting worse? Did she want to discontinue her treatment? What if—

"Zion," Her mother gave her a stern look. A look that meant calm down. She traced her index finger on the girl's palm to calm her.

Swallowing thickly, Zion sat in the chair beside her mother's bed. She waited for the woman to speak, hands shaking.

"So, do you have any gossip—"

"Mamà!" Zion exclaimed, rolling her eyes. She couldn't stop the grin appearing on her face, relief flooding her veins; the iron grip anxiety had on her loosening. "Mamà, I'm not fifteen."

"Well, neither am I!" Her mother exclaimed in Spanish. It was the language usually spoken at the Adams home. "But I want to pretend. So, come on, any gossip? Any drama?"

Zion shook her head at her, laughing, "No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Zion's mother scoffed, "You could at least make something up! I'm bored, there's only so much I can watch on TV. I want to know something about the outside world."

Zion's mother was essentially bed-ridden. The only time she left her bed was when she went to the hospital, which was once a month to see how treatment was progressing—the answer was always the same: 'she's making progress!' and then she would fall terribly sick again. Zion understood where her mother was coming from. If she was stuck within the same four walls every day, she'd be thirsty for information, too. And it was nice to talk to her mother about something other than her illness.