Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“Then tell him to stop,” I mutter to myself, killing the engine. “You’re a grown woman. Either draw a boundary or accept that this is how things are and quit whining. Whining is annoying.”
It is annoying.
And the tough self-love actually makes me feel better, though I know Stone would want me to take a gentler approach.
The thought of Stone steadies me, even as it sends a fresh wave of anxiety rushing through my system. Having him here, under my father’s roof, feels risky. Worlds are colliding in ways that they were never meant to.
What if Dad picks up on a vibe between us? Dad isn’t the best with vibes, but our vibes are very…vibey.
Especially lately.
But nothing kills a vibe like being under Coach Lauder’s watchful gray eyes, and there’s no time to freak out now. Thanks to a last-minute crisis with Zamboni replacement parts being delayed in the mail, I’m already ten minutes late.
Grabbing my purse, I make a dash for the covered porch, managing to stay mostly dry despite the downpour.
I pause at the door, taking a deep breath before letting myself in. The house smells the same as always—a mix of leather furniture polish and whatever Dad’s housekeeper, Claudia, made for dinner. Tonight, it smells like prime rib, my favorite.
Huh…
Prime rib usually means Dad’s either trying to apologize for something he’s done without actually saying “I’m sorry,” or attempting to soften the blow of whatever controversial conversation he’s about to put on the table along with the horseradish mashed potatoes.
Neither option is particularly comforting.
Hanging my coat in the entry closet, I catch my reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed from the dash through the rain, hair frizzed despite my best efforts with product this morning. I smooth it down, but it’s a lost cause, and it’s not like this is a formal event.
The sound of male laughter drifts from the living room, along with the distinctive clink of ice in glasses. Following the murmur of conversation, I pass the familiar gallery of photos lining the hall. There’s me at six, brandishing my first hockey stick with a “come at me, bro” look that’s pretty funny on a tiny kid. Me at twelve, accepting a trophy as big as I was. Me at eighteen, signing my letter of intent to play college hockey with Dad right behind me. Our old housekeeper, Maryanne, back in Michigan, took that one.
They’re good pictures, but it’s hard not to see what’s missing. The birthday party shots. The candid moments. The kind of laid-back, real-life memories that most people’s parents preserve. But then, Mom was the one who took those kinds of pictures, and she’s been gone for a long time.
The last image of my mother shows her beaming at me at my first figure skating competition. I’m five, sitting in her lap with a giant bottle of orange juice, wearing a sparkly blue dress, and missing my two front teeth. After that, it’s all hockey, all achievement, carefully curated moments that tell the story of a successful offspring, a successful life.
But that’s just my dad. He’s the same with his own life. The moments that matter are the ones that move him higher up the ladder, closer to his next goal. It isn’t personal, just…kind of sad.
“There you are, Remy,” Dad says as I round the corner into the living room. He’s in his favorite armchair. Stone and Justin occupy opposite ends of the leather couch. All three are nursing fancy whiskey, the only kind Dad buys, and which he only pulls out on momentous occasions.
My heart starts racing again, even before Dad arches a brow and adds, “It’s not like you to be late. Is everything all right?”
“Sorry, we’re having a supply chain issue with parts for the backup Zamboni, but we’ll get it sorted before the season starts. Hey guys.” I manage a tight smile for Justin and Stone as I perch on the edge of the large ottoman near Dad, hyper-aware of Stone’s presence just a few feet away.
Meanwhile, my golden retriever boyfriend looks perfectly at ease…at least to the untrained eye. But I know Stone well enough to realize that the hint of tension in his jaw is a tell that he’s pretty fucking stressed.
My boyfriend…
Just thinking about our new status is still enough to make me flutter a little inside…
“Hey, Remy,” Stone rumbles with a carefully friendly smile. “Glad you didn’t get into trouble in the rain. It’s nasty out there.”
“So gross,” Justin agrees easily. “And looks like we’re under a flood watch until tomorrow morning.” He looks comfortable, too, sprawled on the couch in a way I’ve never managed in this house.
But Justin’s notoriously chill and excellent at navigating complicated social situations. It’s part of what makes him such a good captain.
“Your dad was just telling us about the first time he got you out on the ice,” Justin adds, surprising me. Dad usually doesn’t talk about me at dinners like this, especially not personal stuff.