Page 60 of Playing it Safe

The door opens as we reach the steps. An older, shorter, wider version of Cameron grins at me — same jaw, same dark eyes, different nose. He's wearing a Red Sox T-shirt, jeans, and an expression of pure, uncomplicated welcome.

"You must be Briar." He opens his arms. "Get in here."

Mr. Miller wraps me in a hairy bear hug. He smells like Old Spice. Not the new fancy scents, but the original. “I’m Don.” His accent makes the O hard, but the twinkle in his eyes is bright. “Welcome to the madhouse, sweetheart.”

I wonder whether Cameron knows he calls me that with the same inflection as his father, or if this is just how the Miller men refer to women. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."

"Don. Please. Mr. Miller is my father, and he's dead." He says it cheerfully, clapping Cameron on the back. "Good to see you, son. You look tired."

"I just drove nine hours, Pop."

"Then you should've flown." Don takes the cat carrier off my shoulder before I can protest and lugs it inside. I don’t miss Cameron’s concerned look as his father takes the heavy bag.

The house is exactly what Cameron described, and more. It's narrow and deep, with rooms stacked like railroad cars, every surface covered with photos, tchotchkes, and evidence of a family that fills the space to capacity. The kitchen smells of baking brownies. A Celtics calendar hangs on the wall. A crucifix hovers above the doorway to the living room, and a framed photo of the boys in youth hockey jerseys sits on the mantle.

A woman steps out of the kitchen, flour dusting her apron, her arms already open. "Cameron Donovan Miller, it has been four months." She pulls him down — he has to bend nearly in half — and kisses both his cheeks, then holds his face in her hands. "You look thin."

"I'm two-twenty, Ma."

“These trainers don’t let you eat red meat.” She releases him, then turns to me, and I see Cameron's eyes in her face. "Briar." She sounds emotional, and I wonder just what he told them about us. I know they know he’s been staying with me…

"Mrs. Miller."

She wags a finger at me. “None of that, sweetheart. You call me Colleen." She takes both my hands. "Let me look at you." She does — really looks, the way DD does, assessing — and then she smiles with a warmth so immediate it takes my breath away. "You're even more beautiful than the picture. Cameron, she's gorgeous."

"I know, Ma."

"Come in, come in." She pulls me toward the kitchen. "I made some things. Sit. Tell me everything. How long have you been playing hockey? Do you like Boston? Have you been here before? Cameron, get my grand-cat out of that carrier. He's probably terrified."

The kitchen is small and full of light. I sit at a table that's been in this room for decades — I can tell from the scratches, the slight wobble, and how it fits the space exactly. Colleen pours me tea I didn't ask for, sets a plate of blueberry muffins in front of me, and starts talking. She doesn't stop. She talks about the weather, the neighborhood, Cameron's childhood rink, the parish fundraiser, the Uprising game she watched on television, and the goal I scored in the first period.

"I screamed so loud that Don thought I was having a medical event," she says. "He came hustling from the garage."

"She did," Don confirms. "I was holding a wrench."

A door upstairs slams, and feet pound down the stairs. A girl — tall, dark-haired, maybe sixteen — bursts into the kitchen and freezes when she sees me.

"Oh, my god." She covers her mouth with both hands. "Oh my GOD."

"Briar, this is my sister Nicky," Cameron says from behind me, where he's been trying to free Puck from his carrier. The cat has other plans.

"Hi, Nicky."

"You're BB Beckett from the Olympics.” She fans herself. "I have your poster in my room. May I show it to you? Can we take a picture? Oh my god, I told everyone at school, and nobody believed me."

"Nicky," Colleen says. "Let the girl breathe."

"I just need one picture." Nicky is already beside me, phone out, arm extended. I smile. The photo is taken. Nicky looks at it and lets out a sound like she's been electrocuted. "Wait until Katie Mahoney sees this. She has the gall to say Boston will win this next one. Believe that?”

Cameron finally extracts Puck, who takes one look at the kitchen full of Millers and retreats under the table. Nicky drops to the floor to pursue him. Colleen pushes another muffin toward me.

The brothers arrive in waves. Patrick first — quieter than the others, looking a little hungover, if I’m honest. David next — loud, a back-slapper, offering immediate commentary on the Uprising's defensive strategy that's actually not bad. Ian last — late, apologetic, borrowing gas money from Patrick before he even says hello.

"So you're the one who's been keeping our boy in Pittsburgh," David says, dropping into a chair.

The phrase catches me off guard. “Keeping him? No, I⁠—”

“Sure, sure.” David grins. “The house. The season. Can’t come visit blah blah.”