Page 33 of On the Power Play

After he'd left abruptly from the restaurant the other night, she thought it was dead in the water. It was all so confusing. They’d seemed to get along just fine, which was best-case scenario. Most of the hockey players she'd known growing up were arrogant assholes, though that could've had more to do with the fact that they were sixteen and obsessed with their newfound abs and biceps. Maybe the problem had been her?

"Would I know him?"

Delia raised her eyebrows. "I thought you already saw the headlines?"

“I saw the pictures. I didn’t have time to read about them.”

Delia finished the banana, then stood to throw the peel in the trash. “Do you follow hockey?”

Her mother scoffed. "I'm Canadian, aren't I?"

"Not officially." Delia grinned. Her mother had her test scheduled in April to gain Canadian citizenship in addition to her French, but until then, Delia was going to take every opportunity to rub in her immigrant status.

Her mom didn’t look impressed. "Name, please."

Delia pursed her lips. "Jack Harrison."

Her mother's eyes widened. "Jack Harrison? As in the man who played one night for the Blizzard last month?"

Delia nodded. "He signed an official contract for the rest of the season."

"Aurelia has his face as the background on her phone."

"Aurelia? Your manager? Isn't she, like, fifty?"

Her mother laughed. "I'm fifty!"

"Are you thirsting after thirty year old men?"

"No, that's your job." She booped Delia's nose. "I love this, Delia. You need to let loose. Live a little. None of this publicity stuff, have a real affair?—"

"Mom!" She groaned as her mom walked toward the front entry.

"I'm just saying. If not with Jack Harrison, you need to have a strong, capable man sweep you off your feet."

Delia sighed. "I don't think that's a thing anymore. Guys now just lie about their stats online and ask for topless pics before your first date."

Her mother set her Tupperware of vegetable soup on the stairs and pulled on her coat. "It might require you to meet men in real life."

"Perfect. I'll get right on that. It'll be super easy to find someone while I'm being swarmed by photographers."

"I think paparazzi were waiting outside our gates the other day." Her mother slipped on her runners.

"I'm sure they were. Christian said they're working with the HOA to beef up the security."

Her mother motioned for Delia to meet her at the door. "I know this is strange. We'll navigate this together, mon chou. But please, eat more bread and don't give up on romance." She wrapped Delia in a hug.

Delia breathed her in. Her soft floral perfume, the clean scent of the lotion she’d always used on her face. She pulled back and met her mother’s eyes. "Have you? Given up?"

Sadness tinged the edges of her mother's expression as she put a hand on Delia’s cheek. "Never."

_____

Delia walked into the studio after shielding her face from the dozen photographers camped out past the security guards. She didn't mind it most of the time, but that morning felt more abrasive than usual. Probably because she hadn't been able to escape blurry pictures of her next to Jack's all morning.

She'd seen pictures of herself waving through the restaurant window. Her profile obscured by Jack's shoulders. The back of her head as she listened to Mary chastise her. But the one that she'd looked at the longest showed half her face looking up at him squinched with laughter. She'd legitimately laughed Friday night. With someone other than Mary. She'd eaten tacos. In public.

"Delia, my love, are you ready to make magic?" Finn Gallagher grinned as she dropped her purse in the chair against the wall of the booth. Why did everything sound sexy in his Irish accent?

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