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“I assume you’re calling to congratulate me on my best performance of the season so far.” I bang my boots on the mat, trying to get them clean.

“I knew it, I fucking knew you were dating him! Oh, happy birthday, by the way.”

“Oliver, language! Happy birthday, darling. Did you get the flowers we sent you?”

I pull the phone away from my ear to see I’m on a three-way call with my brother and parents.

Delightful.

“Flowers?” My brain catches up, and I remember I sent them Jack’s address a couple of days ago, not that they knew whose it was at the time. “Oh, no, not yet. Maybe when I get back home.”

“Okay. Well, hopefully, you like them.” Mom pauses. “But your brother has a point. When exactly were you going to break this to us, or do you plan on us getting all our updates via ESPN from now on?”

“ESPN?” I repeat.

“Uh, duh. You attended NYPAG with not just a pro hockey star, BUTtheguy who’s just been named the NHL’s most eligible bachelor. Makes sense if you think about it. What with his last name and everything,” Ollie clarifies.

I shake my head in confusion. “Most eligible … what are you talking about?”

“Ugh,” he sighs. “Check the news when you get a second. Iassumeyou’ve been too preoccupied lately.”

“Yeah, yeah. All right, Oliver, that’s enough of that,” Dad interrupts. “But seriously”—his voice rises a couple of octaves—“are you seeing Jon Morgan’s son?”

“Stepson,” I correct.

“Eh, potato, potahto,” Mom responds.

I look down the hallway like I’ll see Jenna and she’ll come to my rescue. Instead, I find Jack standing at the entrance to the pitch, rain pouring down behind him, his hands in the front pocket of his Blades hoodie.

My heart rate picks up. He didn’t say he’d be here.

I wave to him and then turn back to the family conference call. “Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes as the word leaves my mouth, “we’re dating.”

“Ohmygod! Do you love him?!” Mom bursts out.

“For fuck’s sa?—”

“Oliver!” Dad scolds.

My eyes are still closed when Jack approaches me from behind, kissing the mark on my neck and wrapping his arms around my waist.

Everything inside me melts away, and I have to fight to keep myself focused on the conversation and not totally engulfed by the tingles dancing in my stomach.

“I’m not answering that question, Mom.”

“Well, why not? Should I start speaking to an officiant?”

“No.”

I snort a laugh and then look over my shoulder, Jack’s eyes sparkling back at me. I don’t know if he can hear what’s being said, but either way, he’s probably got a good idea of the madness I was brought up around.

“Okay, I’m going to go now,” I say, already pulling the phone away from my ear.

“Bring him home for Thanksgiving!” Mom says.

I quickly shout, “Bye,” and disconnect the call.

“Sorry about that.” I wince and wave my phone in front of me. “My family is kind of …”