“Six plus me.”
“Seven,” Taz mouthed and I knew he meant Cinder.
“Six hockey players are coming to my house.”
“Seven if that’s okay. I can tell them—”
“Don’t you dare tell them no. What time?”
“Eleven?”
“Make it noon. I need time to cook properly.” I grinned, then winced as my jaw hurt.
“I’ll make the lasagna. And the chicken. And probably the tiramisu because I’m not letting your friends leave my house hungry. You tell them to come hungry, Dante. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“And you take it easy today. No pushing yourself. Those ribs—”
“I know, Ma. I’ll be careful.”
“You better be. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up and looked around the table. “She’s thrilled. She’s cooking everything. We should probably show up hungry.”
Morozov grinned. “Your mother sounds like my mother.”
“Italian mothers,” Max said knowingly. “Like the French, they feed you until you can’t move.”
“Hungarian mothers too,” Varga added.
Max stood up, draining the last of his coffee. “Eleven-thirty meet back here. Russo, finish eating. Everyone else, we’ve got video session at nine-thirty. Don’t be late.”
The table dispersed.
My mom’s house looked exactly the way it had looked for the last fifteen years—a narrow brick townhouse, the kind of place that had been in the neighborhood since before the neighborhood decided it was trendy. The front steps were swept clean. Thewindow boxes had pansies in them even though it was only March, because my mom had opinions about when spring started and winter could go to hell.
I stood on the sidewalk with six professional hockey players behind me, and a team medic, and felt the specific anxiety of bringing your entire life to meet your mother.
The door opened before we reached it. My mom stood there in her apron—the good one, the one with the embroidered flowers that my grandmother had made—and her face did that thing it did when she was trying not to cry but was going to cry anyway.
“Dante,” she said, and then she saw my face and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, baby.”
“I’m fine,” I said, for what felt like the hundredth time in twelve hours.
She pulled me into a hug that made my ribs scream, and I didn’t say anything because this was my mom and she needed this. When she finally let go, she turned to the small army of hockey players on her front porch and her face transformed into something that could only be described as delighted.
“You must be the team,” she said. “Come in, come in, all of you. I’m Gina Russo, and you’re all too skinny.”
“Ma’am, I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being too skinny,” Taz said, with that dry delivery of his.
“Too skinny,” she repeated, ushering us all inside. “Dante, introduce me properly.”
I did the introductions while my mom memorized names with the efficiency of someone who’d spent thirty years teaching middle school. Max got special attention when I mentioned he was captain—she shook his hand with both of hers and told him he had kind eyes, which made Keegan snort and Max go slightly pink.
The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes and bread, the smell of every Sunday of my childhood. My mom had set up thedining room table with the good dishes, the ones we only used for Christmas and Easter.
