Page 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

victoria

M y phone rings next to the bed, dragging me out of the deepest, most comfortable sleep I’ve had in ages. Leo’s arms are still around me, his face resting against my hair, his breathing deep and even. I silence the ringer and snuggle closer, letting myself savor this moment with him just a little longer.

There’s only one person who calls rather than texts—Mom. And I’m not about to interrupt this rare, peaceful moment with Leo to face her inevitable morning critique about why I’m not at the rink practicing.

A text message buzzes next. Slowly, I reach for my phone on the nightstand, careful not to move Leo’s arm.

Mom

I stopped by your place to take you out for breakfast as a surprise. Seems like I’m the one who got the surprise. Your elderly neighbor told me your apartment flooded and you’re staying at a friend’s house. She gave me your new address and I’m on my way over.

My stomach knots. I’d never told my parents about the flood because I didn’t want them insisting on me staying at their house or finding out I was at Rose it’s an accusation. Like she knows I should’ve have gotten up two hours ago for a morning workout.

“Um, it was a late night,” I reply, trying to smooth out my hair. “I’ll change if we’re going someplace fancy, and then we can head out.”

I stand firmly in the doorway, hoping my body language screams don’t come in .

“May I?” she asks.

Before I can answer, she steps past me, sniffing out evidence like a crime dog. Does she suspect I’m not alone?

I stand there awkwardly as panic seizes my body. As long as Leo stays upstairs, maybe I can get her to leave.

I take in a sharp breath. This is fine. Totally fine! I’m an adult now. I don’t need my mother’s blessing. So why does her opinion matter so much to me? Maybe it’s because deep down, I still want her approval. After all this time, I still want her to be proud of me, to accept me no matter what.

“Jaz and Sloan are my good friends,” I explain quickly, playing with my fingers. “They offered me a place to stay while my apartment gets fixed.”

“It must have been quite the leak,” she says, her tone neutral but loaded. “Your neighbor said you’ve been gone weeks.”

“The carpet was ruined,” I explain. “And the landlord’s been dragging his feet on repairs.”

Even though I called a repairman first, my landlord said he “knew a guy” who could do it himself. Knowing his track record of letting things fester until they become twice as bad, he didn’t do anything until I threatened him with a few angry voicemails.

Mom’s lips press into a thin line. “You didn’t tell me how disgusting that place was. The whole complex smells like a pig farm. There was even someone yelling... inappropriate things.”

I don’t explain that it was a bird—that would only make it worse.

She glances around Rose & Thorn with a mild frown. “This place at least seems like a small step up.”

“They’ve been very gracious,” I say defensively.

Her attention shifts to a large bag in the hallway, the Crushers’ logo in full view. She nudges it with her foot like it’s contaminated. “Whose is this?”

“Oh,” I say quickly, my mind racing. “Jaz’s husband plays for Dad’s team. Or maybe it’s Vale’s old bag. He’s playing for the NHL in Tampa now, so he’s only here on off days.”

I pray she lets it go, but her eyes narrow. Just then, a thump echoes from upstairs—Leo, dropping something on the floor.

Mom’s gaze snaps to mine. “Is someone here?”

“Oh, well, you know, Jaz and Sloan have extra bedrooms. They rent rooms to a couple of hockey players.”

Her brows knit together. “Who?”

I shift on my feet, feeling like I’m being interrogated by the police. “Just some guys on the team. You probably wouldn’t know them.” Even though my mom is the coach’s wife, she hardly pays attention to the roster.

She crosses her arms. “Victoria, who is upstairs?”

Before I can answer, Leo jogs down the steps, his usual confidence dialed up a few notches. “Good morning, Mrs. Jenkins,” he says, flashing one of his disarming grins.

Looks like he’s going to try out his charm on my mom. Good luck with that. It’d be easier to charm a rock than my mother.

Mom whirls towards him and blinks a few times. “What are you doing here?” she says, her tone about as far from charmed as humanly possible.

He gives her a sweet smile. “Living here. Moved in the day I started with the team, before your husband became coach.”

I know exactly what he’s doing—trying to convince her this arrangement has nothing to do with me. Smart. But my mom’s no fool.

Her gaze snaps back to me. “He lives here... with you?”

I fiddle nervously with the hem of Leo’s sweatshirt, suddenly feeling very small. “Not with me,” I mumble, though I know that in her eyes, it doesn’t matter. The implication is already there.

I need to get her out of the house before she starts dissecting every detail of this arrangement, asking questions about the nature of our relationship, judging me for falling for the same man she warned me against. I know she has no business being here, and Leo would gladly remind her of that fact if I allowed him to.

But when she shows up with that accusatory look in her eye, I still seem to fold just like I did when I was a child. And let’s be honest, being mothered in all the wrong ways is the kind of thing that keeps therapists in business. I’m the daughter of a perfectionist—her constant frowns at every mistake, the relentless pointing out of all the ways I don’t measure up. How’s it possible that I’m still the little girl standing on the ice rink, hoping I can make my mom proud? I can’t win . But for some reason, I keep trying, even when it’s hopeless.

“How about while you two catch up, I’ll just go upstairs and get my things for practice afterward.” I give Leo a warning look before heading upstairs— don’t you dare mention last night.

“Sure,” Leo says. He can handle my mom—he’s been through worse on the ice. What scares me is what she’ll say to him.

I fly upstairs and set a record for fastest makeover in history. Bag? Check. Teeth? Brushed. Hair? Smoothed over. Still in Leo’s sweatshirt? Absolutely. It’s the one thing I won’t change about myself, no matter what my mom says. Wearing this sweatshirt gives me superpowers I didn’t know I possessed, and right now, I need every one of them.

When I come back down, Leo is standing by the front door, wearing his jacket. My mom is beside him, looking far too pleased with herself.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice casual.

“Are you going with us?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Your mom invited me,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulder, making it very clear what the nature of our relationship is. “Said we have so much to talk about.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “Are you sure about that? Don’t you have things to do?”

“Nothing more important than this,” he says before looking at my mom. “Consider me all in.”

I don’t know what game Leo’s playing, but he doesn’t know what my mom is capable of. This isn’t hockey—it’s a battlefield, and she’s been training for this moment her entire life.