He agreed to come over and meet my mom and step dad, since our parents' houses are less than a mile apart, and let’s be honest—we would have never lasted the full three weeks without seeing each other. The four days apart felt like a lifetime as it is.
He hovers a little behind me, polite to a fault, shoulders a little too tense for someone who can flatten a six-foot defenseman on the ice. My mom, of course, notices immediately.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, abandoning the oven mitts and wrapping him in a hug before he can even react. “You’re practically family already. Sit, sit—Tom’s carving the chicken, and I made extra pie because Logan said you’re the only one who can eat as much as he does.”
Todd’s ears turn pink. “That’s… probably true, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” Mom snorts. “You can call me Emily, sweetheart. Unless you’re trying to make me feel old.”
Tom chuckles from the counter, knife glinting as he slices through the roast. “Don’t worry, Emily, he’s too scared to call anyone old. Captain Shaw here is the quiet kind, right? Let’s see if he can actually keep up with Logan’s mouth.”
“Tom,” my mom warns, swatting him lightly with a dish towel, but she’s laughing.
Todd’s laugh joins hers—soft, shy, but real—and something inside my chest unclenches. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this until now. Him here, in this kitchen, with my family treating him like he’s always belonged.
We all settle around the table. My mom’s centerpiece is a little crooked—pinecones and a candle shaped like a snowman—but she beams like it’s art gallery material. Tom pours wine. The conversation starts off safely: hockey, travel, the storm forecast rolling in tomorrow.
Then Mom tilts her head at Todd. “So tell me, how long have you been putting up with my son?”
Todd glances at me, smiling. “Depends on the definition ofputting up with.”
“Oh, careful,” I warn under my breath, nudging him.
Mom gasps dramatically. “Logan! Are you threatening him already? You see this, Tom? My son brings home the first man who actually seems to like him, and he’s already starting fights.”
Tom grins. “As long as you don’t break any furniture this time.”
Todd looks curious, and I groan. “Don’t?—”
Too late. Mom’s eyes light up with mischief. “He’s talking about the time Logan tried to impress his firstcrush. You were what, fifteen? That poor Zamboni driver never stood a chance. He revved that thing every time Logan walked by.”
Todd chokes on his wine. “A Zamboni driver?”
“I was hormonal! And he was maybe sixteen,” I protest, but even Tom’s laughing now.
“Oh, please,” Mom says. “You invited the poor guy over to ‘help fix your stick,’ remember? Next thing we know, you’re showing off your new slap shot in the living room. Nearly took out the coffee table and Tom’s beer.”
Tom raises his glass like it’s a war story. “May it rest in splinters.”
Todd’s laughing so hard his shoulders shake. “You broke furniture trying to impress a Zamboni driver?”
“It was an accident!” I insist, face burning. “The stick slipped.”
“Sure it did,” Mom teases, topping off Todd’s glass. “You’ve been breaking things to impress people ever since.”
“Mostly hearts,” Tom mutters, earning another playful swat from my mom.
Before I can defend myself, Mom’s already leaning closer to Todd, eyes twinkling. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s got a good heart, that one. And it’s been talking about you formonths.”
Todd blinks. “Months?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Mom?—”
She waves me off, oblivious to the heat climbing up my neck. “Oh, please, like I wasn’t going to notice? Every phone call—‘Mom, there’s this guy on the team who actually knows how to play defense,’ ‘Mom, this guy makes practice bearable,’ ‘Mom, this guy can read the ice like no one else.’ ‘Mom, I think we actually have a chance atNationals together, he’s so good.’ And now that he’s home?—”
“Mom,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face, but she’s grinning, delighted with herself.
Todd turns toward me, one brow raised, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “All that before we were even?—”
