Fake Skating(8)

No fucking way.

Seeing her was going to suck, but seeing her at a meal with my family, who’d always loved her and would kiss her ass and treat her like a long-lost beloved niece, was going to suck nails.

“Hey, Sarah,” I heard as the door opened behind me and cold air whooshed in.

I turned around as Doug (my dad’s other best friend) slammed the door behind him and said to my mom, “Is Mick Boche really coming over for dinner?”

“God, I told John to keep his mouth shut,” she said, but she was grinning.

Mick Boche—Dani’s grandpa—was a hockey legend. He’d been the best player to ever come out of Southview for sure, a superstar enforcer in the NHL until an injury forced him to retire in his prime.

And even though he lived in town, the guy was notoriously antisocial, which made him even more of an elusive icon. When spotted around town, people ID’d him with a Sasquatch level of excitement.

“So it’s true, then,” he said as he took off his boots and went around me to grab a Busch Light from the top shelf. “We’re breaking bread with Mick Fucking Boche tonight, holy shit.”

“Youare doing no such thing,” she said with a laugh, pointing a finger at him. “This isn’t a fan meet and greet; it’s a nice family dinner for my best friend, and he happens to be her dad.”

“Am I not part of this family? Nice game last night, by the way, Al.”

“No, you literally are not,” she replied.

“Thanks,” I said at the same time.

“Sarah. Come on.” Doug shot me a smile before he said to my mom, “You haveto let me stay. You’re having dinner with my hero, for God’s sake, and all I’m asking is to quietly sit at the table and witness the greatness. I won’t say a word, and I’ll—”

“You alwayssay a word—too many of them, in fact—and the answer is no.”

“He can have my spot,” I said, shutting the fridge. “Because I just want to sleep.”

“And you can,” she said in her authoritative voice, “afterdinner. Besides, I thought you’d be dying to see them.”

“I mean, I am,” I lied, “but if they live here now, I’ll see them all the time, right?”

“I’m going downstairs,” Doug said, disappearing down the steps while yelling, “but I’ll be back up for supper, Sar.”

“No, you will not, Doug—”

“What’s this I hear about Mick Boche coming for dinner?” The back door opened and Ed, one of my dad’s other buddies, came inside and went straight for the fridge. “Hey, Al—great game last night.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“He is, but you’re not,” my mom answered, not even looking up.

“She doesn’t mean it,” Doug yelled from below.

“But Big John said I could,” Ed lied, because everyone knew my dad would never have the balls to go against my mom. “He said I could sit directly across from Mick, actually.”

“Bullshit,” I muttered.

“Worth a shot, though, right?” he murmured to me with a smirk.

“Go downstairs before I hurt you, Ed,” my mom said, which was basically her caving on the whole no-fanboys-at-dinner thing.

Which would make it slightly less terrible.

More people to focus on while trying to pretend Dani Collins wasn’t in my house.

But, like, shit—it wasn’t fair.

I had enough to worry about right now.

Seeing her again—in my house—was just too damn much.

I cannot believe she’s going to be here.

That we’re going to have to speak.

Fuck.

I followed Ed down to the basement and was pleasantly surprised to see that the twins were fully dressed and not in need of my assistance. Thank God.I was good with helping my mom, but five-year-olds were a lotsometimes. Cole and Ashton were staring at the small TV in the toy corner of the room, fully immersed in a show about crime-fighting dogs, while my dad and his buddies watched ESPN on the big screen.

“How was work, kid?” my dad asked, grabbing the handle of his cane and slowly getting out of his chair. His eyes narrowed and he winced as he reached his full height, and I realized that I could barely remember what it looked like to see him moving without pain.

“Slow,” I said. “Thank God.”

“Killer game last night, Al,” Andy said from his spot on the couch. “How bruised is the shoulder?”

Dude, if you only knew.

“Fine,” I lied. “Deep purple but not black.”

“Nice.”

“Mom told me to check on the twins before I get in the shower,” I said to my dad. “Are they good?”

“Yeah—they’re under the spell of Disney, so go shower. The Boches are gonna be here in an hour.”

“Is that what we’re calling them now?” I wasn’t sure why I found that so annoying. “The Boches?”

We’d nevercalled them that.

“I just repeat what your mother says, you know that.”

But it bugged the shit out of me as I went back upstairs and turned on the shower, especially when the Bluetooth speaker cued up “Little League,” the song that always made me think of her.