“Am I to your liking, Your Majesty?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m making sure you’re eating.”
“Stop. She looks amazing,” Marissa says.
“She always looks amazing. That’s not the point,” Pres responds. “She was losing too much weight.”
“She didn’t look so amazing when she used to wear all those baggy clothes,” she points out.
“Yes, she did,” Pres responds.
“Can you stop talking about me? I’m right here.”
“What baggy clothes?” Wade asks.
“She wore things that were like three sizes too big for her,” Marissa says.
“First of all, two sizes too big. Second of all, I had my reasons,” I say. “Third of all, I don’t understand how my attire affects any of you.”
“All right, let’s go before Lyla gets hangry, and we have to deal with even more of her bitchiness,” Pres says, ushering us inside.
Once we’re sitting in a booth — Pres and Marissa on one side and me and Wade on the other — we order drinks and appetizers.
“Did you know Lach was going to retire?” Marissa asks Pres, who shoots her a look. “She already knows.”
“There’s no way to fucking miss it,” Wade says, signaling around to the TVs I’m avoiding.
“I had a feeling he might,” Pres says. “His dad had cancer and wants to step down from the company, so it was only a matter of time.”
I frown. “He hates his dad.”
“I guess the cancer diagnosis put things in perspective,” he says. “At least for his dad. I think Lach is still a little resentful, but his dad’s a fucking billionaire, so I’m sure it’ll help.”
“I can’t imagine him wanting to even see his father,” I say.
“His parents live together, so it’s not like he can avoid him anymore.” Pres shrugs. “I think they’re trying to navigate whatever is left of the father-son relationship.”
“Are you okay with Pres talking about him?” Mar asks.
“Yea, I’m fine. Really.” I shoot them both a pointed look and a smile that appeases them.
What I want to say, but don’t, is that they never had a father-son relationship. It’s hard to make sense of anything he just said. Lachlan was born to be on the ice. I can’t imagine he’d just leave it. It’s probably hypocritical of me to say that since I left soccer, but that was different. That was taken from me. His retirement makes no sense. Unless his dad offered him a shit ton of money. . .I can’t imagine him accepting money over hockey, though. Ugh. I need to stop. It’s none of my business.
“Hey, you okay?” Wade asks, touching my hand on the table.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I blink and look at the menu.
“Why don’t you call him?” Pres asks.
“You know why.” I stare at the menu.
“He’s done with hockey, Lyles,” he says, “And it’s been three years.”
“Do you think time matters?” I look at him over my menu. “Lach is a public figure now. If someone takes a picture of us. . .”
“He’s not famous,” Marissa says. “He’s just an athlete.”
“With a lot of fucking fans,” I respond, pointing at the TV screens I’m avoiding. “There’s a chance a picture of us will be out there and I can’t risk it. Not yet.”
