Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (53)

“But you’re right.” I step back. “I shouldn’t have done it behind your back.”

She meets my gaze. “I’m paying you back—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt. “I get where you’re coming from, but what I did wasn’t for any other reason than wanting to help out. So, no, you’re not going to pay me back.”

She doesn’t like that answer. “Just—don’t do it again.”

“I can’t promise you that. But next time I want to do something for you, I’ll tell you first.”

“I think you mean ask.”

I don’t, but I’ll let her think that for now. “You know, you can say thank you and move on, right?”

She huffs, silently simmering by the sink. “Thank you.”

I don’t expect her to be okay with this immediately, but I don’t want her to think it’s a bigger deal than it is.

Taking the boiling pot off the stove, I move to the sink to drain the pasta into a colander. Sage doesn’t move.

When I move back to the sink to wash the pot, my phone rings and our heads snap to where it lies on a kitchen towel by the stove. “Do you mind getting that?” I ask, showing her my wet hands.

She nods once and brings it over. “It’s your mom.”

“Answer it.”

Her eyes widen. “She’s video calling you. What if she realizes we’re lying and I’m some gold digger—”

“Answer the phone, Sage.”

“Hi,” she says when she finally answers, waving at the phone screen.

My mom is silent for a long time, and Sage’s gaze bounces from mine to the phone. She’s nervous. It’s cute.

“Ian! Come quick, it’s Eli’s girlfriend,” my mom shouts. Sage is smiling when she twists to show me the screen too. “Oh, Sage, we’ve been begging our secretive boy to let us meet you. You’re just as gorgeous as you are in your dancing videos.”

Then my dad pops into the screen, beaming brightly. “We made all our friends at the country club follow your account. You have some big fans here in Connecticut.”

Sage chuckles. “Thank you, that means a lot.”

“Is he treating you well?” my mom asks. “What’s your number? I’ll call—”

“Mom,” I scold.

She deflates. “Right, sorry. Apparently, I can be overbearing when I’m excited.”

“Don’t be rude, Elias.” Sage shoots me a narrowed glance. “I’d love to catch up with you whenever you want to call.”

My mom beams in victory when she gets exactly what she wanted. “Are those carnations? Those are my favorite flowers.”

Sage appears stunned, and when she turns back to the camera, she bites the inside of her cheek. “Elias wants me to have a favorite flower, so he buys me a new bouquet every week.”

“That is so romantic!” My mom practically swoons, and wears a satisfied smile. “Will you be coming home with Eli in his offseason? We’d love to meet you in person.”

Sage stutters. This thing between us will be over by then, and I can tell she’s not going to lie to my mom or give her any false hope. Jane Westbrook has that effect on people.

“Mom, we’ll call you later. Sage just got back from teaching, and she’s exhausted. Right, baby?”

The word slips past my lips, and I freeze. And so does Sage. Her head snaps to mine, and her eyes are wide like I cursed in front of my mother.

There’s a palpable awkward tension before my mom clears her throat. “Okay, send me her number, then, Eli.”

I wipe my soapy hands and take the phone from Sage when they hang up.

“They seem really nice,” she says, backing away to where she left her purse. “Which one of them did you take after? I couldn’t tell.”

The question throws me off. I face the sink again and continue rinsing the dishes. “Neither,” I say. My response is curt.

Maybe too curt because she doesn’t say anything after that. The next thing I hear is her walking out of the kitchen and the door to our—my room closing.





TWENTY-THREE


SAGE




WALKING PAST BUS stands with your fake boyfriend’s face on them is an odd reality.

I spent the entirety of the bumpy ride back home from work on the phone with Jane Westbrook. Elias’s mother is as sweet as they come, and it’s no wonder Elias is such a gentleman.

Since his parents are retired, they spend most of their time on vacation, and she told me on their most recent one they attended the ballet in Paris. Apparently, I’ve had an influence on them.

On my way down the block to the apartment, my phone vibrates again, but this time it’s a video call from Sean. When I answer it, I point the camera to the large posters of Elias on the bus stand, and Sean’s favorite, number twenty-two, on another poster beside it.

“I wish I was there,” he says when I flip the camera back to myself.

“Want me to sneak you out?” I joke.

“You’re a terrible influence.” He laughs. “But I actually called to ask you something.”

“What’s up? Is it to get you a signed jersey?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks for sending that, by the way. They’re sick. Josh was stoked to get one too.” He moves to his closet to show me his brand-new Toronto Thunder jersey, with the back signed by the entire team. “I got it in the mail a few days ago.”