"The wagyu here is excellent," she says, smoothly steering the conversation as Ben and Adam launch into rapid-fire medical talk that might as well be Finnish. "Though Jamie tells me you're quite particular about your pre-game meals?"
"I, uh..." I focus on unfolding my napkin with military precision. "Yeah, I try to stick to a routine."
"Smart," Jamie's sister, Lola, chimes in. "I do the same before big court cases. Though I doubt my protein bar and triple espresso breakfast would cut it for professional athletes."
"You'd be surprised," Jamie says, with a grin. "I've seen guys survive on nothing but coffee and determination during playoff runs."
"Jamie Alexander," Alexandra scolds, but her eyes are twinkling. "Don't be ridiculous!"
Jamie grins behind his water glass, clearly enjoying pushing his mom's buttons a little.
"Jamie tells me you've been helping him adjust to Seattle?"
"Well, sure. The whole team helps new players settle in," I say carefully. Under the table, Jamie's knee brushes mine again. This time I can't make myself pull away.
"Still, it must be nice to have someone looking out for you," she says to Jamie, but her eyes never leave my face. "Especially given your terrible experience in Florida."
The protective surge that hits me is instant and overwhelming. "Jamie's been a great addition to the Sasquatch," I say, maybe a little too forcefully. "It was absolutely Florida's loss when they traded him."
I glance over to find Jamie staring at me, a soft expression on his face that makes my chest ache. Alexandra's smile could power the city of Boston.
"Well," she says finally. "I'm glad he has such a passionate advocate in his corner.
The conversation shifts as Jamie's dad looks up. "Speaking of Florida, I've been reading fascinating research on Hemingway, and how he—"
"Dad," Jamie groans. "Not everyone wants to analyze nineteenth-century literature over dinner."
Something flickers in Alexandra's expression. She watches me for a moment with kind eyes, as her husband keeps talking about literature, apparently not bothered that no one is paying much attention to him.
When the waiter appears beside her, she eyeballs my nearly empty plate. "Rylan, did you enjoy your chicken? she asks softly. "You should order some more."
"Oh no, I'm fine." I straighten my silverware, avoiding her gentle concern. "Jamie wasn't kidding. I watch my intake pretty carefully."
"Mm." She smiles. "There's nothing we can tempt you with? I mean, the rest of us have all stuffed ourselves with this delicious pasta, I hate that you're missing out. Although I understand you athletes do need to be conscious…" Her eyes are twinkling.
Her eyes twinkle, and even though she's being a little pushy, her simple concern hits me right in the chest. It's been years since anyone fussed over what I eat. Jamie's hand twitches toward mine under the table before he catches himself.
"Mom tends to get a little pushy around food. She claims it's how she shows love," Jamie says, shooting his mom a raised eyebrow.
"I know I know. I'm a caretaker at heart, so it comes from a good place. But I'm sorry if I'm pushing too hard," she says, the smile still on her face. "I think it's partly the Italian in me. Food is a whole thing with us."
"Seriously, she's not kidding about that," Lola chimes in. "Impossible to be on a diet around my mother, which was both a blessing and a curse as a teenage girl." She grins as Alexandra just waves her hand at her daughter.
"Teenage girls should not ever be on diets! That's partly why we have such an issue with obesity in this country!" she says. Speaking about food, though we're all going to be in Seattle for Thanksgiving in a few weeks. What are your plans for the holiday, Rylan?"
The question sounds casual, but there's something in her eyes that suggests she already knows what my answer will be.
"I usually just..." I adjust my water glass so it's in alignment with my plate. "We a game the night before Thanksgiving, so..."
"You'll join us for dinner," she says, so naturally it takes me a moment to process. "It's nothing fancy, just a family dinner at Jamie's apartment."
"Oh, I couldn't—"
"I insist." Her tone is gentle but brooks no argument. "No one should be alone on Thanksgiving."
The simple statement hits something raw in my chest. Jamie stills beside me.
"Mom's a great cook," he says with a fond smile. "Even if she does try to analyze everyone's food choices for hidden psychological meaning."
