Page 23 of No Rhyme or Roughing (The Golden Guardians Hockey Hearts #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SYDNEY
Awkward didn’t begin to cover dinner. I sat next to Teddy—me using him to shield me from Mom, and him using me to shield him from Dad.
Cowards, the both of us. On Teddy’s other side was his coach, Frankie, which had to be weird for him too, as he sat there pounding wine like it was dollar J?ger bombs at the bar.
To my left was Sam, who seemed oblivious to the way no one would look at each other. Across the table, Mrs. Cassidy sat between my parents, and the Cassidy twins took up the ends.
We were a right party, we were.
“I want to know everything,” Sam was saying to me.
“Sorry, what?” I’d been too busy shuffling food around my plate to pay much attention.
She nudged me with her elbow, laughing. “About the boys. Teddy tells me stories about growing up with them, but it’s so much different from a woman’s eyes. Tell me, were they complete assholes? Trouble?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Which one of them caused their mother more gray hairs?”
I flicked my eyes to where their mom was chatting with mine, like the old friends they were. Mrs. Cassidy had a full head of gray hair, but on her, it looked classy—like she’d deliberately embraced the color and made it her own.
I tried to recall what ten-year-old Sydney had thought of the twins, but so many of my childhood feelings had been replaced with those of a fully grown adult—one who felt with her entire body, rather than a little girl’s mind.
“Everyone loved Sullivan,” I said, biting back a smile as I caught sight of him talking to my dad with big gestures and a wide smile.
“Did you?” Sam asked, her smile teasing like she already knew the answer.
I shook my head. “He was nice to me, but he wasn’t…” I trailed off, searching for words that wouldn’t offend the girl who’d chosen Sullie over Ryder.
“He wasn’t Ryder.” Her voice was kind, as if that was the answer she’d been hoping for. “And now? You two…”
I sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Why?”
I shrugged, wishing she’d turn to talk to someone else. The attention didn’t sit well with me.
Barely tasting the mashed potatoes, I shoveled them into my mouth before washing them down with a giant gulp of wine. It went down the wrong pipe, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Coughs racked my body, and Teddy’s giant hand thundered on my back.
I wheezed, trying to catch my breath, and finally lifted my gaze to the table, where every eye was on me.
“She lives, ladies and gentlemen.” Teddy grinned.
“Theodore.” Mom glared at him. “This is not your home. Lower your voice.”
“Mina,” Dad muttered, rubbing his eyes.
“No. Don’t you chastise me, you son of a bitch.”
There it was.
The bitterness. The hate and anger that had taken the mom who once took me to the local coffee shop every Friday after school for a treat. The one who’d tucked me in and read to me. The one who’d stopped being my mother the moment I decided the truth was important.
Everyone froze, stunned, waiting.
“Mom,” Teddy’s brow creased. “Can we just?—”
One look from her cut him off.
“How you can invite that man to spend the holiday with you after what he did to our family…” She threw her napkin on her plate and stood. “I have tried to sit here like a polite guest, but I can’t anymore.”
I snorted at the thought of her being a polite guest when all she’d done was glare at everyone.
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Do you have something to say, Sydney?”
I did. I wanted to. Instead, I shrank back into my seat.
“That’s what I thought. I guess you’re finally learning to keep that mouth shut when it’s not your business. ”
I’d learned that a long time ago. I was prepared to go back to eating, to forget her words and try to get through the rest of the night.
Teddy’s hand slid into mine, and I knew he was hoping for the same thing.
That was what our family did—ignored the problems, blamed other people, and pushed through.
No one spoke for a long moment, not even Mrs. Cassidy, despite her many interventions when I was a kid. Sam and Frankie both stared intently at the table. Dad wouldn’t meet my eyes. He’d left me to her for so many years; it shouldn’t have been surprising he put me at her mercy now.
The scraping of a chair against the hardwood. A tall figure rose to his feet, the deep timbre of his voice directed at my mother.
“Are you finished?” Ryder asked, arms crossed over his chest.
“Son.” His mom shook her head.
“No, Mom. You taught me to stand up when someone is being bullied, and that’s what I’m doing.”
Dad surprised me by saying, “Bullied? Her mother is speaking to her, boy. Watch your words.”
I sank further into myself. Mom and Dad never agreed on anything—except the need to put me in my place, apparently.
Ryder reached for his wine glass and drained it in one gulp. He looked down at Sam. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do to your Thanksgiving dinner.”
She nodded, urging him on.
Sullivan grunted. “Keep going.”
Me? I had no words, no voice. It had been taken from me many years ago .
Ryder sighed. “Okay, we’re doing this.” He pinned Dad with a look.
“Sir, with no due respect, you two have been bullying Sydney since she was a child. I wasn’t around when it started, but I see the effects now.
As a kid, she was so joyful. Loud, yes, and honest, but also free with her smiles, open with her words.
And then, you made her do the unthinkable.
She had to reveal that your family was broken. No, she didn’t break it. That was you.
“ You had an affair, and you let your daughter be the one to reveal it. I know it hurt you, Mrs. Valentine, but frankly, right now, I don’t give a fuck.
Your daughter is amazing, and you don’t see that.
She’s kind and determined. Despite her shyness, she can tell grown rock stars how to dance.
When she laughs, it’s hard won and worth every bit of effort.
“You stole her voice. For years. And now, she thinks she doesn’t deserve to have one, that no one will have any interest in what she says, thinks, feels.
But she’s wrong. Her own parents might not care about who she is, but she matters.
” His eyes found mine and held. “She matters a whole hell of a lot.”
Tears stung my eyes. “Fuck.” I wiped them away, whispering to myself. “Get it together, Valentine.”
But I couldn’t.
Mom and Dad looked at Ryder like his words made no sense, neither appearing chastised. Instead, Mom straightened her shoulders indignantly.
When she started speaking, I bolted.
Sliding from my chair, I ran through the kitchen where untouched pies sat on the counter.
I stopped just long enough to snag the pumpkin double-layer pie Rowan had made for us before leaving for a different Thanksgiving.
It wobbled in my hands as I sprinted into the entryway, and I managed not to drop it as I yanked the door open and dug into my pocket for my keys.
Inside my car, I let the tears waterfall over my cheeks while I leaned down and scooped up a bite of pie with my tongue. A few more bites—eating like a dog—calmed me down enough to turn on the car.
When I got home, this entire pie was a goner.
And then, I’d try not to think of them again.