I roll my eyes. “I’ve been busy. Sorry.”
“How are you?” she asks, but she doesn’t actually care. She’s just asking because she thinks I’ll ask her how she is in return. She’s a textbook narcissist.
“I’m fine,” I say, purposely not returning the question.
“Well, I’ve been busy planning the wedding…”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Again. Busy? She doesn’t have a day job, and she has a personal assistantanda wedding coordinator. And I know this because the wedding coordinator is a girl I cheered with in high school.
“Have you RSVP’d?”
“Not yet.” I look down at my nails that are in serious need of a manicure. “I’m not sure I can come. I’m really busy with work…” Because yes, Mother, some of us do actually work for a living instead of chasing wealthy assholes.
“No one is too busy for a wedding,sweetie.”
I grit my teeth at her condescending tone.
“If we make the playoffs?—”
Mom starts laughing, a real grating laugh that is like nails down a chalkboard. “Oh, sweetie. The playoffs? Really?Lancehasn’t coached a team to the playoffs yet.”
I glare through the glass of the booth at nothing in particular, my hand balling into a fist because honestly, the way she says his name to me, like he’s just some guy and not my father… it cannot be normal for a mother to evoke this level of rage in her own daughter.
“Actually,Mother,” I bite out, “they’re equal first in their division.”
“So, you’re willing to miss your own mother’s wedding for a hockey game that may or may not happen?”
“Thirdwedding.”
“Hannah, you are mydaughter,” she says incredulously. “You must be there. I?—”
“Mother, I have to go,” I interject. “But, as always, it’s been apleasure.” Ending the call, I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths to collect myself.
What a fucking piece of work. I swear, she gets more insufferable every time I talk to her.
My moment is interrupted by a tapping on the glass, and I open my eyes to see Millie grinning at me, practically bouncing up and down on the spot. I pull the door open with a quirked brow.
“He’s here!” she squeals. “He’s in the conference room right now!”
“Okay, calm down; he’s hardly Harry Styles,” I mutter, stepping out of the booth.
She follows me, hot on my heels, almost crashing into me when I stop at my desk to collect my laptop. I glance back at her over my shoulder to see a cap held in her hand, one withBig Swing, the brand Brookes Devereaux recently started, embroidered across the front.
“What is that?”
Millie looks down at the white cap in her hands. “Oh, this old thing?”
“Yeah, thatoldthing with the Lids price tag still attached to it…” I droll.
She clamps her smiling lips between her teeth, rocking on her feet. “Well, I just thought… maybe you could get a certainsomeoneto sign it…”
With a huff, I snatch the hat from Millie because I don’t think I could ever say no to this woman and, biting back my smile, I hurry for the conference room.
I can hear the sound of overzealous laughter as I head down the corridor, and I refrain from rolling my eyes, instead choosing a smile I hope doesn’t look as forced as it feels. Stopping in the doorway, I knock on the open door, scanning the space. My boss, Patrick, sits on one side of the table. Jared, our head of PR stands by the front of the room holding a to-go coffee. And on the other side of the table sits Brookes Devereaux and an almost carbon copy of Brookes Devereaux, if not at least a decade or two older and a few pounds heavier, both men dressed in polo shirts and ball caps sporting the sameBig Swinglogo.
“Oh, hey, Hannah,” Patrick says, jumping up to greet me.
I enter tentatively, feeling awkward with all eyes on me, and I swear to God, maybe I’m hearing things, but I’m pretty sure someone in the room just let out a low whistle. I bite back thewhat the fuckthat lingers on the tip of my tongue, grinding my molars together instead.
