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My guess is that it’s the guys pulling his chain even when they know there’s nothing there, and the gossip slinking through the team and the coaching staff until it hit the big office. But I need to be sure.
I don’t bother watching the footage, although Vic’s voice is still chatting away as I pull up the comments. I don’t have to scroll very far before I see the first insinuation that we’re a couple.
I roll my eyes at the last one. Trolls will troll no matter what, and I’ve seen enough to confirm that the talk isn’t just from the team. I’ll need to tackle this publicly. I’m just unsure if I can go the route of setting Varg up on a few public dates, or if I need him to put out a statement. I open the video again and see the comment count has gone up again. And it’s the tiny detail I missed the first time around, missed because I didn’t pry further than the initial thread, that has me squaring my shoulders and sucking in a fortifying breath.
Victor Varg has liked every. Single. Comment.
And now I have to murder him.
”There’s a woman here for you,” my mother vibrates in the kitchen as she passes along the information.
Maria Varg does not look old enough to have three children in their thirties, but I can’t argue with the year on my birth certificate. We all have the same dark blonde hair and hazel eyes, although Anna has curls like nobody’s business. Erik and I get waves when things get a little long, but nothing like the Shirley Temple corkscrews that our older sister beats into submission. Although the way my mother wiggles her eyebrows as she grins at me makes me wonder if she’s still a middle schooler instead of nearing sixty. I’m a grown adult with a bank account and a job. It’s possible I could want some privacy.
There was a time in my childhood—when my brother first got sick—when I would have given up almost anything to have her take an interest in my life, to chat about any girls that had caught my eye, ask how my grades were doing. I don’t blame her. Having a kid who needs multiple rounds of chemo and numerous surgeries, all while facing the loss of his dream, can’t be easy for anyone. Let alone a single mother. Anna was already in college and had a fancy internship no one wanted to ruin for her. Erik had enough on his plate with the cancer, so it was just me and mom.
I learned quickly to smile and tell her I was fine. Fine is relative. I didn’t have cancer, and I had made it to the juniors, the USHL. I was absolutely fine. Just somewhat invisible.
Now sometimes it feels like she’s been trying to make up for those years of distance. She pries like it’s an Olympic sport and she’s taking home the gold come hell or high water.
“She’s pretty.” Mom’s brows wiggle again, and I can see the questions behind her irises. She’s like a pressure cooker, ready to pop.
“I know. All my women are pretty.” I slide the juice carton back into the fridge and eye the Tupperware with today’s date on it. Pasta. It’s always pasta before games. Different shapes, different sauces, different veggies. Still pasta.
There’s a smack to the back of my head and I grin, closing the fridge.
“I only meant that I see all women as beautiful in their own unique ways.” I press a kiss to my mother’s temple. “Don’t worry, mom. I’m not a giant, superficial asshole. Just a little one.” I wink at her and she rolls her eyes right back.
“You’re too charming for your own good,” she says. “So who is she?”
I have no idea who’s at my door. I’m not expecting anyone and the only women who drop by unannounced are women my mother loves. Quinn, my brother’s fiancée, and her best friend Jen. Quinn rarely comes over without Erik. They’re pretty much super-glued to each other, and I usually meet somewhere away from the house so that my mother doesn’t get any ideas like the one she’s clearly having now. About marching us down the aisle and drowning us in rose petals. My mother means well, but she gets a little overzealous at the idea of her babies finding their true loves.
“Well, seeing as she’s out there and I’m in here, I’m not sure who she might be.”
I have a guess, though, because 1) she has to be someone from the team or team office if she has my address—I learned the hard way to keep it unlisted—and 2) she clearly knew the right things to say to get into my house and past my mother. Any obvious slip up, and my mom would have had the police escort her from the front gate.
My brain trips over itself, scrolling through a million images of the woman Iwishwas in my front entry, but I know better than to assume. My best guess is Sadie, the dark-haired, darker-eyed assistant trainer. My balance was off at practice yesterday and she’s probably here to follow up with some exercises to ensure there’s nothing serious.
Sadie is the most junior trainer and we all know she’s the one sent to hunt us down if it requires a drive. If she’s here in an official capacity and has showed up in her Arctic gear, mom would let her in, even without an explanation. And Sadie’s sweet. Cute in a quiet, tutor-the-football-captain kind of way. She just isn’t the woman I want to be in my entryway, and not because the trainers are secretly sadists.
“Don’t keep her waiting. It’s rude,” my mother says, “I raised you better than that.” She nudges me toward the door.
My mother is tall, but not nearly as tall as me and Erik, so I make a show of standing my ground as she pushes harder.
“I’m going,” I tell her. “Don’t forget eavesdropping is rude, too.”
“I would never.” The mock outrage is accompanied by a wink. Eavesdropping might not be my mother’s style, but she’d definitely just waltz into the room and stare at us like a sideshow attraction. She wouldn’t even pretend to be looking for something or clean. She’d just watch us, probably with a snack. Not popcorn or pretzels either, probably cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto or Brie baked in puff pastry. She’s a classy lady.
I make my way down the hallway and let out a sigh. This house really is too big for just me and my mother, but I wasn’t thinking much about property size when I bought it. I was more concerned with having a place before pre-season training started. Maroni’s wife is a realtor, and she showed me three basically identical houses—ones that looked remarkably like her own home—in the same neighborhood as several of the other Arctic players.
Maybe when I put in an offer and got a home inspection and signed the closing paperwork, I was imagining having my whole family gathered around my dining room table for Thanksgiving dinner. Or Christmas. Or, more likely, a Fourth of July barbecue, considering we’re usually playing games during the holiday season.
Not that mom or I cook, but Anna is passable in the kitchen and her wife is a goddess with baked goods. Erik can handle making sandwiches, but Quinn is a fantastic chef. I thought of the house as aspirational. A place where our fractured family could come back to each other. We’re getting closer every day, even if we’re not quite there yet.
The curve of the grand staircase comes into view, and standing under the giant abstract light fixture is a woman staring daggers in my direction.
“Hello kitty cat.” I lean my shoulder against the door frame and cross my arms over my chest. “Follow me all the way home?”
Did I say daggers? The look she sends me is a flamethrower or a bazooka, ready to separate my skin from my bones and reduce me to ash. I grin wider.
