Page 112 of With the Assist

“There he is,” my mom says. “You found the place after all.”

Let the passive-aggressive bullshit begin.

“I did grow up here.” I force my voice to remain neutral. “Luckily, it’s been warm this week. Getting up your driveway would’ve been tough if the snow had stuck.”

Dad nods once. “Traffic wasn’t bad?”

“Pretty clear actually.”

That is the extent of my welcome home. No hugs or smiles, just small talk. The weather. The drive. Safe neutral ground.

My mom turns back to the stove, then glances over her shoulder. “We were hoping you’d bring your girlfriend.”

She stirs the soup as if we haven’t already had this conversation. Which we have, when I repeatedly told them that Wesley would not be coming. Yet again, they only hear what they want to hear.

“I told you she wouldn’t be.” I smile to hide my annoyance. “She’s with her family.”

She hums, clicking her tongue. “That’s a shame.”

I picture Wesley standing here with her hand brushing mine. The room would feel less suffocating just by virtue of her being in it. I always feel steadier when she’s close, like my edges smooth out without effort.

It hits me hard enough that I have to swallow.

That is not a casual thought. That is not a fling thought. That is a boyfriend’s thought.

I run my hand along my jaw. Ever since training on Tuesday, I’ve been thinking about her nonstop, no longer trying to stop myself from wanting her. Our kiss replays on a constant loop in my head, thinking about what we could’ve done if it hadn’t been broad daylight in a public parking lot. My mind flashes with images of her on her knees or me on mine. The possibilities would’ve been endless.

Shit. I can’t get hard in the kitchen with my parents. What is wrong with me?

I clear my throat and turn to Delaney. “How are classes going?”

Her face lights up immediately. “Oh my god. Do you want the short version or the one where you get trapped into listening to me talk for ten minutes?”

“Hit me with the long one.” Maybe her ramblings will make this day go faster.

She launches into a story about her sophomore year and a professor who refuses to use email, sending out actual letters instead. She’s had a group project that nearly ruined a friendship. She is completely at ease as she discusses her late nights fueled by bad coffee and worse decisions.

Mom laughs, and Dad shakes his head with a smile.

I stand there, nodding along, laughing at the right moments, feeling like I’m watching through glass.

Delaney belongs here in a way I never quite have.

She finishes her story with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway. I survive. Barely.”

“You always do,” Dad says.

Delaney glances at me. “So, New York. I saw you score and know you won. How’s that adding to the season?”

“It’s good,” I say, looking between the three of them. “If we keep it up, we’ll be playoff-bound.”

Before I even finish my sentence, Mom turns back to the stove, and Dad resumes chopping, neither one saying a word. The moment closes as quickly as it opened.

“Oh,” Delaney says. “That’s great.”

I nod and let the topic drop. There is no point. I’ve learned the rhythm. When the conversation turns to hockey, it’s all veiled disappointment and silence.

Delaney shoots me an apologetic look. I shrug in return.