Page 29 of Expose on the Ice

She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, stop. I know I look a fright. But never mind that. How are you? How was the game?”

I shrug, falling into the familiar rhythm of meaningless small talk, the same sort of shit I give journalists. “It was a tough one, but we pulled it off.”

“That’s wonderful, dear.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I watched the whole game on television. You played well.”

The praise feels hollow, tainted by everything left unsaid between us. I glance around the kitchen, noting the pristine countertops, the gleaming appliances. Everything is exactly as it had always been, yet nothing feels the same.

“Are you hungry, Carter?” Mom asks, already moving towards the fridge. “I could whip something up?—”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She pauses. For a moment, I see a flicker of disappointment cross her face before she masks it with a smile. “Of course. You probably ate with the team.”

We move to the dining room, settling into our usual seats. The table, the room – the whole house – seems ridiculously large for one person, but the shadows of those missing are heavy. My eyes are immediately drawn to the empty chairs across from me – Sarah’s chair, my dad’s chair.

“So,” Mom says, her gaze following mine. “Are you eating well? Getting enough rest?”

I nod, my responses automatic. “Yeah, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

Her eyes dart to the head of the table – Dad’s empty seat – before returning to me. “And the team?”

I think of Lily, her probing questions and sharp eyes. “It’s all good. No problems.”

Mom’s fingers tap against her wine glass, a nervous tic I remember from childhood. “I saw a story in the Star? Something about following the team?”

My jaw clenches involuntarily. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just PR stuff.”

She leans forward, concern etched on her face. “But they’re not… asking questions, are they? About?—”

“No,” I cut her off, perhaps too sharply. “It’s fine. I promise I’ve got it under control.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Mom’s eyes keep flicking between Sarah’s chair and mine, as if she can’t quite believe I’m there, and that Sarah isn’t. The weight of absence – Sarah’s, Dad’s – presses down on us like a physical force.

I watch as Mom takes another sip of wine, her hand trembling slightly. She looks small, lost in this big house that used to be full of life. A pang of guilt hits me, knowing I’m partly responsible for her loneliness, even though its implementation had been her husband’s –myfather’s – idea.

My eyes are fixed on Sarah’s empty chair, memories flooding back with brutal clarity.

The screech of tires.

The sickening crunch of metal.

Sarah’s scream cut short.

My hands shake. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. “Mom, I have to go.”

“Honey, please, stay for a while,” Mom pleads. “We should talk about everything that happened with?—”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend, but I can’t stop it. “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t sit here and pretend everything’s okay.”

Her face crumples. “But it’s been five years. We need to?—”

“Need to what?” I snap, finally meeting her gaze. “Forget? Move on? Like it never happened?”

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second feeling like a hammer blow, or the pounding of a judge’s gavel. How many seconds has my father spent in prison, covering for me?

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Mom whispers.

But I’m already spiraling, lost in the memories I’ve tried so hard to bury.

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