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I make it through the first four games before I cave and drive to the gated neighborhood I’ve visited exactly one time before. I park my car in the circular driveway and ring the doorbell. My heart is trying to escape, thundering against the curve of my ribs. What am I doing here? This is insane. I have only a few more days without him. I’ve survived longer trips. I’ve survived entire off-seasons. If I’m this desperate, I can distract myself with work, or call Palmer to whip my ass into shape on a run from hell, or… or I can go back to my couch and curl up in a cozy blanket and obsessively watch all the film footage I have of Vic. Dammit.
For all I know, nobody’s home.
“Tristan?”
Right. Too late to bail now without looking like an idiot.
“Hi.” Shit, I don’t know what to call her. Maria? Ms. Varg? I know Vic told me his parents aren’t together. What if her last name isn’t Varg? Why didn’t I think to ask? “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Of course not, sweetheart.” She enfolds me into a firm hug, right there on the stone steps. “Come on in.”
She’s tall. Not as tall as Vic—few people are—but tall enough that I have to reach up to pat her shoulder. I’m not sure what else to do. I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. Vic touches me constantly too, but it’s not the same when it’s a precursor to sex. Or while sharing my slightly too-small bed. Even my siblings run in with the one arm kind, a squeeze into their sides and a quick ‘thanks’ before we step back.
“Thank you…” I trail off.
“Maria,” she supplies with a wink. “Although as my daughter-in-law, you are always welcome to call me mom.”
A vice tightens around my chest and my arms drop limply to my side. It’s too late to turn around and walk away. That would be rude, suspicious. Also, not a move that calm, cool, collected Tristan Grant would make. The last time I was here, and she opened the door to let me in, I didn’t crumble into a mess of feelings on the front stoop. Of course, I was a little focused on murder at that time.
I need to regroup. Coming here was a bad idea.
“Oh honey, Vic warned me you were a little skittish, and here I go making things awkward from the start. Come in, come in. I’ll make us something warm to drink.”
I follow Maria into the house on autopilot. Without rage blinding me like last time, I can take in the ornate swirls carved into the grand staircase—the man has a grand staircase—the crystal chandeliers dripping from the vaulted ceiling, the slick shine of the marble floor. Why the hell is the man staying in my too-small apartment when his house looks like this?
The kitchen is bigger than my apartment and my neighbor’s put together and I think his island has more prep space than all my countertops combined. Although we put my counters to good use the other day. Not a thought I should have in front of the man’s mother. I blush and catch the tiny smile as Maria ducks her head.
She puts an honest-to-god kettle on the stove and clicks on the gas burner before sliding a wooden box toward me. There are more types of tea than I know what to do with and several fancy-looking hot cocoa packets.
“Chai is in the upper right-hand corner.” She points and I fish out a packet. “I’ll steam some milk. Vic mentioned you prefer a latte.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I knew Vic remembered my drink order. Robbie let that tidbit slip, but it’s one thing to buy me one at a coffee shop. Stocking his kitchen with the ingredients? In a home I’ve been to exactly one time to yell at him? Telling his mother how I take my preferred caffeine? That’s different. Right?
Maria is waiting for my response, so I nod. “I do. Thank you.”
An awkward silence descends over both of us as we wait for the kettle to boil. I didn’t realize how involved making tea could be. I usually stick a pod in my brewer or make a pit stop on the way to work. Although it’s not the waiting that’s weird. It’s the fact that I’m here at all. Aside from seeing her at games, and that one fateful trip I made here weeks ago, well, I don’t know Maria Varg at all. It’s ridiculous that I barged in here needing… something.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your day,” I say, my voice smaller than I intended. I give myself a mental shake. Time to pull up the big-girl panties and buckle up the armor.
“Oh honey, don’t worry about that.” Maria adds the water and my tea bag to a shiny white mug with the Arctic team logo on the front.Vic’s number is on the back. Her own mug has a tiny chip in the rim and a green shamrock on the front. There are two numbers on the back, twenty-five and twenty-six written in chunky block print. “I would have texted you, but Vic said to give you some time to settle in. That’s thelasttime I listen to my idiot son. You take oat milk, right?”
I nod, trying not to choke on a laugh as Maria pulls a carton out of the massive fridge and adds a healthy pour to a small black frother.
“The first time is always the hardest. It doesn’t geteasier, but you learn ways to manage with them on the road.”
My eyes snap to hers and she’s offering me another soft smile, one I recognize from her son. “I’m sorry?”
“His first road trip since he moved in. It’s harder when you get used to them being underfoot.”She pours the hot milk over my tea and hers and then pushes the cup toward me. “I’m not a chef, by any means, but it’ll warm you up a bit.” Another smile.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say, finding the bravado that was missing just a few minutes ago. “I’m used to the trips. I’ve been with the Arctic for a few years now. The guys travel all the time and I typically stay here…”
Maria shakes her head. “It’s not the same, honey.” She moves toward the large wooden table at the back of the room and sits down, patting the bench next to her. I sink into it, my knees feeling weaker than I realized.
“I just…” I take a deep breath, sucking chai scented air into my lungs. I study the rim of my mug, tracing my finger around the smooth edge. I don’t recognize the Shamrock’s as a team and I know Erik never made it to the juniors. That means the mug is from before the boys turned sixteen. What must it be like to have a mug for that long? To have a parent that kept it for as long as Maria did? She didn’t even toss it when it chipped. She still brings it out and uses it. The way it’s cradled in her hands, I wonder if it’s her favorite.
I don’t think my mom ever kept anything of mine.
“I’m just a bit all over the place,” I say and take a sip, feeling the tea warm me deep into my chilled bones. I didn’t realize I was cold. I think I’ve been cold since Vic pressed a kiss to my temple on his way out the door to the airstrip.
