The room quiets immediately. He waits until it does. Another choice.
“Before anyone eats,” he says, calm, steady, “and before Savannah decides she’s going to run this dinner,” that gains a few laughs. “We wanted you all to know that we’re getting married Christmas Eve at two p.m. We want you all there, our family, the people who matter. And we’re asking that no one let it leak. Whatever we want shared, Sofie and her team will handle it. So obviously that means you’re all invited,” Deacon adds. “Which means expected.”
Applause breaks out, clean and earned.
Deacon looks down at Savannah and presses a kiss to her head without hesitation. Not symbolic. Not performative. Real. This is what matters, not Kyle’s sudden interest, not his engagement, not his scrambling to be part of Savannah’s —Malyshka’s— life for public praise. This. He made a choice and it was not to be part of Claudia and Savannah’s lives. Their story has moved on without him. I hope this makes it perfectly clear to him, and he backs the fuck off.Piece of shit.
We’re all seated, and Deacon says grace.
I am relieved thatTsarinais not across from me, which would have been my luck, or unluck.
I clock Hank the second the first course hits the table.
He’s trying to play it cool. He’s not fooling anyone who’s paying attention.
The soup is poured tableside, butternut squash. Hank leans back slightly, and it’s obvious this isn’t something he’s used to, or perhaps he thinks the bowl might do something if he moves too fast. He waits until the server clears before he picks up his spoon, eyes tracking the surface like he’s bracing.
He takes a bite, and his eyebrows lift, just a fraction, surprise flashing before he reins it in. He chews carefully, nods once to himself like he’s recalibrating expectations on the fly.
Okay. So that’s happening.
I keep my expression neutral, eyes down. I grew up eating to survive, not to admire. But I know precision when I taste it.
Hank mutters, “I didn’t know soup could do that.”
I almost smile.
The next course lands, pears and burrata arranged like art. Hank straightens, glances at the plate, then at me, like he’s checking whether there’s a right way to start.
I give him nothing. He goes for it anyway. Halfway through the first bite, his eyes close, just for a second.
I watch him file it away.
When the mains arrive, turkey carved clean, potatoes smooth, no lumps.
He looks pleased, like home has arrived.
By the time dessert arrives, he doesn’t react at all. He just eats.
This isn’t about the food. It’s about being comfortable outside of your norm, outside of your comfort zone. About being wanted at the table and longing to be at another. He’s probably wondering why he’s here while others are not. Deacon, the only remaining player from the buyout, our veteran brought him into our circle off the ice just as he did Faulker and me, that means something, and one day Hank will get that it means family can be found and not just blood bound, too.
Chapter 6
Thanksgiving
Sofie
Thanksgiving worksbecause it has rules, even when these two come in and change the plans by meeting their prep school ‘friends’ at the parade and throw off the day.
Sit. Smile. Eat what’s put in front of you. Pretend the table is stable even when you can feel it wobbling.
My father is having a good day.
I know the second I walk in because he’s already dressed, navy jacket, white shirt, no tie. No confusion in his eyes. He kisses my cheek cleanly, calls me Sofie without searching for it, asks if I’ve eaten. Not where I came from. Not what time it is. Eaten.
I take my seat to his right. Always the same seat. Close enough to intercept. Far enough not to look like I’m hovering.
My sisters arrive like they’re stepping onto a stage.
