Page 35 of Lace 'em Up

“Right,” I say, snagging the binder, closing it up and setting it to the side. “I think you’ve seen enough, princess.”

“You call her once a week?” Rory asks.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I love my mom. She’s the original GOAT—raising six kids virtually by herself for half the year when my dad was playing and then coaching, all while working a full-time job.”

Rory’s face changes. “What does she do for work?”

I shove the binder back onto the shelf. “She’s recently retired, but she was an elementary school teacher.”

“Surrounded by kids at home and at work.” She smiles, and it’s soft this time rather than filled with mischief. “Your mom must be pretty special.”

I nod. “She is definitely that. Truthfully?” I pause and Rory nods. “She’s amazing. And just as busy now as she was when she was working—volunteering her time, visiting her kids.” I grin. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she has her own schedule that we’re not privy to.”

“You had to get it somewhere.”

You’re not your father.

I freeze, grind my back teeth together, hating those words, the woman that implanted them into my head.

“You all play hockey, right?”

Thankful for the distraction from the bullshit in my head, I grab on to the conversation gambit. “All of us play except for Annie. She’s a skating coach now for a team in New York, but before that, she was a competitive figure skater.”

“Did she go far?” Rory asks.

“All the way to a silver medal at the Winter Games.”

Admiration on her face, in her voice. That nice I’ve seen so often directed at other people making a reappearance. “That’s amazing.”

I lean back against the counter. “She is.”

A pause, her expression considering. “And what’s your dad doing while your mom is doing all that traveling and volunteering?”

“He’s still coaching.”

“And they’re both in Minnesota?”

I blink. “How’d you know?”

“Those long O sounds?” She grins. “Next thing I know, you’ll be saying you betcha.”

I jokingly narrow my eyes. “You really want to go down that road, Prickle Princess?”

Her brows lift dangerously. “I thought I told you to cool it with the cactus talk.”

“Are you threatening me, Tiny Spikey Queen?”

“Yes.”

She’s fierce, those green eyes sparking now, and I can’t help the laughter that bursts out of me at this ridiculous conversation—something that distracts me enough that I don’t really process what she’s doing, what she’s moving toward.

My binder.

I jerk forward. “What?—?”

She holds up my planner threateningly. “You really want to go down this road, Sir Organizer Color-Coding McGee?”

“Excuse me?”

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