Page 2 of Penalty Box Kisses

"I'll send her a message later tonight," I say, standing up. “Thanks, Mia.”

“You owe me.” She laughs and reaches for my untouched beer. I walk out of the pub, the Seattle air crisp and smelling of rain. For the first time in weeks, the pressure in my chest eases just enough for me to breathe.

It’s a crazy fucking idea, but I’ve done crazier.

CHAPTER TWO

RORY

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce usually makes me feel like I’m home, but tonight it feels like a trap. My mother’s dining room in the Fox family home is a masterpiece of over-decorated intimidation, all lace doilies and candles that smell like a spa. At the center of the table sits Edward Vernati, a man whose personality has the approximate depth of a saucer of milk.

"Edward was just telling us about his collection of Xbox games," my mother says, her eyes gleaming with the terrifying light of a woman who has already picked out the bridesmaid dresses. She leans forward, nudging the plate of lasagna toward me. "Isn't that fascinating, Rory?"

I take a bite of pasta that suddenly tastes like cardboard. "Absolutely fascinating."

Edward smiles, and it’s a slow, creepy smile that makes my skin crawl. When did I get so desperate that my mother tries to set me up with the neighbor’s forty-year-old video game-addicted son? "I can teach you to play if you want." Ick.

“Maybe some other time.” Like when hell freezes over.

Across the table, my father and brother are watching the train wreck with matching smirks on their faces. They know the drill. They’ve seen me endure the tax attorney, the third-grade teacher, and the guy who spent forty minutes explaining the ethical implications of cryptocurrency. My mother is a force of nature, and currently, that nature is set to 'marrying off her old maid daughter.'

"So, Edward," I say, desperate to change the subject before he starts detailing his winning stats again. "Mom mentioned you just moved back to Seattle."

"I had to," Edward agrees, leaning a little too far into my personal space. I can smell his cheap drugstore cologne. "My mother needs help around the house."

I feel a muscle in my jaw jump. I need to find a way to get my mother to stop throwing every single man under forty-five at me. Sunday dinners have gotten to be about as fun as a root canal without anesthetic.

The walls feel like they’re moving in, inch by thick inch. This is the third 'casual' dinner this month, and the pressure is starting to feel like a physical weight behind my eyes.

I look up at Edward, who is currently explaining his mother’s many health ailments. He looks like a nice, boring, not-my-type kinda guy.

The rest of dinner is a blur of Edward’s monotonous drone and my mother’s pointed glances. By the time I’m finally able to escape to the kitchen under the guise of helping with the dishes, I feel like I’ve aged a decade. My mother follows me, clutching a stack of dessert plates.

"He’s a good man, Rory," she whispers, her face a map of deep lines and genuine concern.

"Mom, you have to stop," I say, leaning against the counter. "I’m perfectly capable of finding my own dates."

"I beg to differ," she says, her voice hardening. "You haven’t had a date since high school."

Ouch, that hurts. How do you argue with the truth?

I retreat to my apartment an hour later and find Mia curled up on the sofa, a glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other. She looks up as I drop my keys on the table with a sharp, metallic clang.

"That bad?" she asks, her voice sympathetic.

"You have no idea." I collapse into the armchair, feeling the air leave my lungs in one long, exhausted hiss. “His comb-over had a comb-over. And he spends all his free time trying to beat his friends at Xbox games.”

Mia winces. "Okay, that’s a new level of grim. Even for your mom."

“She invited him to the family barbecue on Saturday.” I’m already mentally drafting my symptoms: a scratchy throat, maybe a low-grade fever. Nothing dramatic.

Mia goes still. She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table with a careful little click and pulls her knees up under her, the way she does when she’s about to say something she’s been sitting on for a while. “I might have a way to get your mom off your back.”

I sit up straighter. “I’m listening.”

“Harper’s brother.”

I look at her, wondering where in the world this is going. “The hockey player?”