Page 13 of The Risk Taker

Dad chuckles, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. “Since you’re here, set the table, would you?”

Ryan salutes him with two fingers. “On it.”

He grabs a handful of cutlery and heads toward the dining room.

I follow with the plates, setting them down on the placemats. The table’s already half full with Mom’s famous roast chicken sitting in the center, the potatoes glistening in butter, a dish of cheesy green beans and peppers, still steaming. The smell alone makes my shoulders drop a little.

Dad comes in last, carrying two wine glasses in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. He sets them down, pours wine for himself and Mom, water for the rest of us.

We start filling our plates, passing bowls across the table, and I dive in, biting into a crispy potato.

I love Sunday dinners with my family. It’s one of the only days I don’t have to worry about drills or practice and I have the rare chance to forget about hockey for one goddamn meal.

Except—

“You watch the second period back yet?” Dad asks, arching a brow at me.

Of course.

“Yeah,” I say, stabbing another potato. “Defense collapsed on the left. We got lucky.”

“Sloppy positioning,” he agrees. “They were scrambling.”

“We adjusted,” Ryan pipes up after swallowing down a mouthful.

“Barely,” I mutter.

He gives me a look. “You always have to be right?”

“When Iamright… yeah,” I reply, stuffing a piece of chicken in my mouth.

Dad points his fork at Ryan and smirks. “He’s not wrong.”

I let out a scoff, which earns me a look from him. I know damn well he wants to flip me off right now, but he’s too much of a suck-up when we’re with my parents, wanting to be the good guy and all.

“Pass the salad,” Isabella says, nodding toward the plate of lettuce on my side.

“Say please,” I tease her.

“God, you’re so annoying,” she says, flicking a green bean at me.

It bounces off my shoulder and lands on the floor, making me chuckle.

Ryan snickers. “This is exactly why I sit between you two.”

“No one asked you to,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes. “You’d cry if I stopped coming.”

I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ryan started showing up for Sunday dinners a few weeks after he and my sister got together—once Dad stopped being so pissed at him and I’d mostly gotten over it. Now it’s just what we do. I won’t admit it out loud, but I actually like having him here.

“You’ve had scouts asking about you,” Dad says suddenly, catching me mid-bite. I swallow, keeping my eyes on him. “A couple from the ECHL. One from Alberta. Said they liked your glove work last week.”

There’s so much pride in his voice. It makes my stomach twist into knots.

I force a nod and try to keep my voice even. “Cool.”