“Maybe if you’d worn my jersey tonight I’d have complimented your taco. But...” He shrugs and turns his attention back to the game that’s in full swing around us. “You wanted to show your support for my enemies.”
“Ask me nicely, and I might wear your shirt in the bedroom.”
“There’s one waiting for you when you’re ready for it.”
How presumptive. “Arrogant ass.”
“You love it.”
Can’t argue, because I do.
“Oh, hey. Mom asked me to invite you and your dad to Thanksgiving tomorrow. I know you probably have plans already, and it’s super short notice, but she said if I didn’t invite you, she wouldn’t feed me. And Thanksgiving dinner is my favorite.” He still keeps his eyes on the ice, his head turning to follow the play. I know his insides are crumbling, he wants to be down there with his team, working on his skills, preparing for the big league.
“I was supposed to ask you a couple weeks ago but...”
“You were being a stubborn pain in the ass?”
He grunts but doesn’t answer.
Thanksgiving dinner is epic. I do love it. I miss having both my parents together under the same roof for it. Or even close enough that I could see them both in the same day. If synchronized Thanksgiving dinner prep was an Olympic sport, my parents would have taken gold. Since the split, Oli and I tendto take turns visiting with each of our parents. This year, he’s with Mom and I’m with Dad. Sometimes I wish we could all get along enough to eat at the same table, but apparently Oliver and I have to be more grown up than our parents when it comes to holidays.
“I’ll ask Dad now.” I pull out my phone and text him before I forget, and it doesn’t take him long to reply. “Dad says we’re in. He’ll bring his sweet potato casserole, and he said I’ll bring my apple pie.”
“I’m listening.” Tate tips his ear toward me.
“I heard pie.” Tori nudges me. “If you’re making pie, I want pie.”
The back of my neck heats. “It’s not as good as Megan’s at Get the Fork Out. But it’s a Thanksgiving staple in our house. Dad loves it.”
Tori makes grabby hands as the Snow Pirates score on the ice putting them up one to nothing. Tate growls, he’s muttering to himself about something, it sounds like he’s grousing about the line not being right, but I can’t quite make it out. “Should have brought a fucking notebook.”
Definitely heard that. From the way his cheeks flex, he’s clenching his teeth, his intense eyes are focused on the puck at all times. It’s a lot. I bet he’s even chastising himself for not being down there with his teammates, and if we lose, it’ll be his fault because he was in the rink but not playing with his team or something stupid.
My boy is troubled.
And I’m not sure anything is going to fix it but waiting out the clock to get him back on the ice.
“Would you mind if I invited Oli to Thanksgiving at your house? We usually take turns, but I’d really like to see him.”
Tate nods. “Go for it. Mom said to invite your whole family, but I figured that would be too... complicated.”
Me: Hey, Copycat. Any chance you want to buck tradition tomorrow and come to Tate’s house for my apple pie?
He replies almost instantly.
Spare Parts: I can probably squeeze both in. Let me check with Mom.
Spare Parts: Meeting the boyfriend officially, hey? Sounds serious.
I roll my eyes, but Tate picks up the phone and smirks.
“It is serious, Oli. It is. She told me she loved me.”
“You know he can’t hear you, right?”
“Yet.” Tate taps the end of my nose.
I haven’t typed out a reply to Oliver yet before he replies.
