My heart squeezes with love. “Ken Hartley is the freaking best.”
She nods, wearing a wistful smile. “Yeah. He is.”
My eyes find Rory on the ice, and my chest feels tight. Pippa and I have the best dad, and maybe I don’t like Rory, but I don’t wish a bad dad on him.
“They mentioned a trip out here next month. Let’s invite Mom to one of your classes.” Pippa wiggles her eyebrows. Outside of physio for the team, I teach yoga, both on Zoom and in-studio. “I think it would be fun.”
My stomach sinks as I watch the game. Hayden bodychecks a guy from the other team against the boards in front of us. “That’s probably not going to happen.”
“What if we eased her into it? We don’t have to start with a hot class.”
The whistle blows as the ref calls a penalty, and people around us shout their disagreement. I exhale a long breath out of my nose, putting my response together for my sister as my stomach tightens in frustration.
“She doesn’t feel comfortable in yoga clothes,” I explain. “Being in a yoga studio reminds her of how much her body has changed since she used to dance.” Our mother was a ballerina in her teens and early twenties. “She won’t do it.”
I rub my sternum, dragging my palm over the front of my jersey as I think about her.
“How many times did she insult herself when you went home?” I ask. “How many times did she make a negative comment about her body or say she was on a diet?”
Pippa’s throat works. “A lot.”
“Exactly.” We stare at the ice, and I know Pippa’s thinking the same thing I am.
We want more for our mom. We want her to love herself. It’s why I’m opening my own inclusive fitness studio one day. Everyone deserves to move and feel good in their body. Everyone deserves to love themselves.
The fans roar, and I pull my attention back to the game. Rory nabs the puck, skating away from the mess of players like a bullet. He’s on a breakaway toward the net in front of Pippa and me. He’s moving so fast his skates barely touch the ice, deft and with complete control. My pulse stumbles at his expression, so powerful and focused, and around me, spectators brace themselves.
I don’t see the puck until it’s already in.
Noise explodes—fans hollering, music blasting, the horn they blare for every goal sounding—and lights flash around the net.
A strange, proud feeling moves through me as the players gather around Rory, celebrating.
“Admit it,” Pippa says over the noise. “That was incredible.”
I huff, laughing despite myself. “Don’t tell Miller.”
The players break apart for another face-off, and when Rory turns, I prepare to roll my eyes at his cocky grin.
His expression is flat, unimpressed, and tired. The emotional kind of tired, the kind that wears you down and makes you feel like things will never get better. He’s wearing the same exhaustion I feel after hearing my mom list her flaws, all the reasons her body isn’t good enough. A looming sense of dread gathers within me, and I feel a pinch of regret.
Rory Miller is supposed to be a cocky asshole who can have whatever he wants, not a burned-out hockey player with a crappy dad.
Before I can think more about it, the puck drops and Rory snags it. Just as he swings around the net, a player from the other team crosschecks him into the boards, smashing his face and helmet against the glass.
The fans loudly demand a penalty as the ref blows the whistle. Rory winces, rubbing his lip. It’s bleeding.
“Shit,” I whisper as my stomach knots. “Is he okay?”
Pippa’s gaze slides to me. “Why do you care?”
I think about how warm his hand was around mine the other day and the zinging trail of sparks his touch left along my skin.
“I don’t.” My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t want him to get hurt, though.”
Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve up. “Interesting.”
A knocking noise on the glass has us whipping our heads. Rory waits on the other side, his lip already swelling. I can feel a thousand eyes on us. He points to me, then taps his chin. His eyes glitter with teasing amusement.
“Oh my god.” My face burns, and I want to disappear.
“Kiss it better,” he says through the glass.
My skin is on fire. “No.” I give him a hard look.
“I need it,” he insists, still smiling. “And it needs to be you.”
I’m sweating under this stupid jersey. My face appears on the Jumbotron. That means it’s on TV. Oh god.