Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (94)

“Some children appreciate their parents’ support,” scolds my mom.

“I always appreciate you guys.” I pull her in for a tight hug. Jane Westbrook is short, only five foot two, so when she hugs me back, her face barely comes to my chest.

My dad slaps a hand on my back. “Our friends came over to watch your final.”

I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Are you kidding? You played a hell of a game, son. The commentators even said so.”

“Exactly. You don’t score three goals on a fluke,” adds Sage.

My mom is beaming so wide I’m sure it’s hurting her face. “It’s so nice to finally see you in person, Sage. How long are you two here?”

“We head out tomorrow,” I answer. With Sage’s rehearsals we only have one free night.

My mom doesn’t approve but waves us inside quickly. The patio is arranged in their backyard for an outdoor dinner. The long table is decorated with flowers and candles. My mom made a huge roast chicken dinner like we’re having a Christmas feast. I have no complaints because her food is my favorite. She’s the reason I enjoy cooking.

As we help bring out the food and set the table, Sage appears lost in thought.

“You okay?” I ask, pulling her from her daydream. The only sounds out here are the quiet clinking of utensils against plates and the soft hum of my parents’ conversation.

“Yeah,” she replies. “I’m just acclimating. I’ve never sat at a table like this before.”

One would think she’s referring to the food or the patio, but I know she means family.

My lips graze the side of her temple. “Guess I’m taking a few of your firsts too.”

“You’re taking a lot more than just a few,” she whispers.

We pass around the side of roasted vegetables, and my dad cuts into the chicken. “So, how long have you two been together?” he asks.

“A few weeks.”

“Months,” I correct. “We’ve been together for three months.”

“Right.” Sage laughs awkwardly, hiding her face behind a long gulp of water.

“Who keeps track anyway?” my mom says. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been for us.”

My dad feigns offense. “Thirty years next month.”

My mom plants a kiss on his cheek in a silent apology. The rest of our conversation mostly revolves around Sage, and I love it. She looks happy here. But when the conversation pivots to my teenage years, I grow stiff.

“You’ve come a long way, Eli,” my mom remarks. “I didn’t like how you became after the world juniors.”

“Jane,” my dad admonishes.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice trembles, and tears well in her eyes. “If someone messes with my kid, I can’t help but feel angry.”

“Mom, you don’t need to carry that anger,” I assure. “But I am sorry that I’ve caused—”

“Why would you be sorry? If anything, it’s our greatest regret that we ever doubted you,” she interjects.

I had no clue my mom carried that day with her as heavily as I do. The weight of disappointing them has always burdened me, but realizing it affects them just as deeply releases something in my chest.

“It’s okay,” I offer, but her expression remains somber.

Sage squeezes my hand. “I would be angry too, but Elias has come so far that I’m in awe of him every day. You two did a great job.”

Her words work like a balm, smoothing away the tension from my mom’s face.

For the remainder of dinner we skirt any conversation about my recent past, and my parents regale Sage with stories from my childhood instead. Embarrassing, but they make her laugh.

When we’re finished with dinner, we head inside. “Eli, your room is exactly as you left it. I’ve stocked the bathroom with some toiletries,” she says, turning to Sage with a warm smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”

When my parents head to the living room, I pull Sage toward the opposite side of the house, to my room. Halfway down the hall, she hops onto my back, and I swing open my door and playfully deposit her onto my bed. My room has always been a slate gray color with a king bed and an en suite. I was never the type to decorate with posters or have colorful bedsheets.

Sage floats around my room, her gaze wandering from the vinyls gifted by Kian, to the stack of books on my bedside table, to the pictures of my family—the guys and my parents.

She smiles at the picture of younger me and my parents wearing custom T-shirts with a picture of the three of us and the words “The Westbrooks” printed on them. “Do you want kids?” she suddenly asks.

The question surprises me but not nearly as much as I would have expected. “Do you?”

She laughs. “You can’t just copy my answer.”

“Well, if we’re having them together, I think I’d want your input,” I say.

“This is probably a bad time to tell you about my husband, then.” She glances over her shoulder to catch my unamused expression. “I think I want to adopt.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I was so scared of Sean having to go through foster care, but seeing your parents tells me there’s some good out there. And I’d like to be a part of it someday.”