“Nicholas, darling, you didn’t even come find your mother when you got here.”
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your own mother. Ashley had to tell me you’d arrived.”
“Who is Ashley?”
“My assistant dear.”
“I thought Marie was your assistant.”
“Was, darling.” She turns towards the ballroom, eyes snagging on Andrew. Nicholas wants to hide him away, can’t believe he brought Andrew here on purpose. What kind of fucking asshole is he using him to try and one up his parents? The worst kind of asshole, that’s who. The kind that doesn’t deserve someone as good as Andrew King.
“He isn’t your usual type.”
Her shrewd gaze makes Nicholas feel mildly ill.
“Leave him alone.”
“So testy, Nicholas. You were always such an emotional child. So prone to tantrums and big feelings.”
“I was a child.”
“Not a child now, yet still so moody. Besides, I was only going to go say hello and introduce myself since you didn’t. You let your father meet him, it’s only fair.”
There it is, the only reason she cares. Because his father got something she didn’t. He has no idea how the two of them are still married when they can’t stand each other.
“He’s not like you.”
“Like us, dear. You’re one of us, even when you try to run.”
“I’m not running,” Nicholas grits out. “I’m playing hockey. Something I’m really fucking good at, which you’d know if you paid any attention to my life.”
“Hockey,” his mother sighs like he’s said something distasteful and not a professional sport beloved by people around the world that pays millions. A sport he loves. “Your—what’s his name, please tell me he doesn’t play hockey, too.”
“Andrew is an accountant.”
“An accountant,” his mother says. “How…reliable.”
“The fuck are you implying?”
“Your language is so uncouth,” his mother sighs. “We tried so hard with you. Raising you wasn’t easy, you know.”
Nicholas's eyes roll so hard, they almost go into the back of his head. Somehow, he’d forgotten how fucking infuriating his mother could be, her delusions and gaslighting on another level.
“You didn’t raise me,” Nicholas reminds her. “The multiple nannies did.”
“I’m still your mother,” she sighs. “I need a drink to handle this conversation. Get me one, darling.”
His mother needs a drink to handle everything, Nicholas thinks bitterly, the uncomfortable realization that his own tendency to drink his feelings away was the only thing his mother ever truly taught him.
If Andrew weren’t here, Nicholas would tell her to get her own fucking drink, but there are too many people around, any of whom could be reporters, knowing his parents and how they love the chance to control their media narrative. He won’t bring that kind of attention to Andrew, knowing he would hate it.
“What kind?” Nicholas grits out.
“A French martini,” she answers, turning to a woman beside her who Nicholas doesn’t recognize. “Edith, dear, have you met my son, Nicholas? He’s a famous NHL star.”
How it is that his mother manages to both belittle his life choices and find a way to use him as a trophy piece is beyond Nicholas who wants no part in whatever proverbial dick measuring contest she’s trying to engage in. He doesn’t bother excusing himself, ignoring his mother’s quacking about his bad manners as he stalks over to the bar, ordering himself a top shelf glass of cognac which he gulps down in a single go and a nice red wine for Andrew.
