Then, the front door swings open, carrying snow and icy wind inside. A stunning older woman, elegant even in her winter layers, steps in, shaking the snow from her coat. I can only assume it's Bash's mom, as she has the same icy blue eyes.
“Bash,” she calls, “we're here.”
We jerk apart, scrambling to regain composure and not look guilty. I tug at my sweater and plaster a smile on.
A silver-haired man follows close behind her. He could be no one other than Bash's dad, an older version of him with the same charming smile, striking good looks, and that darn dimple. He carries several bags as the steady stream of friends and family keeps coming. Laughter and conversation overlap as everyone carries wrapped packages and covered dishes brimming with food. The room erupts into cheerful chaos as it fills, gifts piling up around the tree while platters and trays now fill the breakfast bar.
I watch as Bash's mom steps into the kitchen and pulls him into a tight hug. The others gather around, greeting him with backslaps and handshakes. For a moment, I feel out of place. But then, Bash's mom turns her attention to me.
“And who's this beauty, Bash?”
He glances at me and reaches out, drawing me to his side.
“This is my friend Amelia,” he replies with a bright smile, making my mouth water at that bite-worthy dimple.
“Amelia,” he continues, “this is my mom and dad, Lois and Ray Duchesne.”
I smile and nod politely as he continues introducing me to everyone. It's a blur of names and faces that I know I won't remember. I'm so nervous about meeting these people who are so integral to him, and I hope to make a good impression. It's then that I realize how much Bash means to me. I want to be accepted into his orbit.
“Aren't you the star figure skater? Olympic hopeful?” Bash's cousin Rudy blurts, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Amelia Ki—”
“Amelia Smith,” I cut in, more sharply than I intend.
The room quiets a bit.
Rudy pauses, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I could've sworn—”
“I'm Gord Smith's daughter.”
I throw the name out there like a shield, and it works, eliciting the desired effect.
Suddenly, the room is in a whirlwind of excitement.
“Did she say Gord Smith?” someone gasps.
“TheGord Smith?” another squeals.
“I have one of his rookie cards. Do you think you could get it autographed for me?”
“Bash, is this one of your stunts?”
“No way!” A guy nearly fumbles a plate of deviled eggs as he's pulling them out of the fridge.
“He's the reason I started playing hockey.”
“My aunt swears he once signed her chest in a bar in Calgary.”
Oh, boy. Yeah, that sounds like dear ol' dad.
“I didn't know he had a daughter.” The comments just keep coming.
“I named my dog after him back in the day,” one guy laughs. “I swear! Gordie! Ha! He was a great dog.”
“My dad still talks about Lord Gord,” adds one man, eyes wide.
The room buzzes with chatter. People swap stats and memories of watching his most iconic moments. Someone mentions dorm room posters, and another recalls a mom so obsessed she once had a full-blown shrine to him in her teenage bedroom.
Bash's dad starts telling a story from early in my father's career, how he saw Gord take a puck to the face and skate right back out to finish the game.
