Page 1 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
Chapter one
Whitney
The snow falls in soft, swirling patterns outside my window, blanketing the world in white. It’s the kind of scene that belongs on a postcard - perfect, serene, and inviting. The kind that makes you want to curl up under a blanket with a good book, a cup of cocoa in hand, and a fire crackling nearby.
For a moment, I let myself get lost in it, in the way the snowflakes dance under the glow of the streetlights, in how the world outside seems quieter, softer. Winter has a way of making everything feel still, like time itself slows down, pressing pause on reality.
But reality never really pauses, does it?
“Whitney, are you even listening to me?” The sound of my mother’s voice on the other end brings me back to reality. Sharp. Impatient.
I sigh, dropping the rag I had been using to wipe the kitchen counter and glancing back at the window. The snow looks colder now, less inviting. With a shake of my head, I walk over and pull the blinds shut, shutting out the winter wonderland along with the false sense of peace it brought.
“I’m listening, mother,” I say, pressing the phone closer to my ear as I grab the rag again and return to wiping down the already clean kitchen counter.
She huffs, unimpressed, muttering something about how I’m always distracted, but I tune her out for a moment. My gaze flits to my laptop on the dining table, where I’d been editing a reel earlier - soft jazz, candlelight, and a montage of scenic shots from Lake Como. My draft for my next blog: “10 Dreamy Winter Destinations to Add to Your Travel Bucket List” is ready, just needs editing tonight.
Many people think that my life as a lifestyle and travel influencer is picture-perfect - carefree, adventurous, enviable. If only they knew.
“When are you coming home for your brother’s wedding?”
I resist the urge to groan. "I’m not quite sure yet. But I’ll definitely be there for the wedding."
"That’s not good enough," she snaps, her tone argumentative and pushy.
“What’s the rush?” I counter, walk to the laundry room, and toss the rag into the wash basket. “The wedding’s still four months away. I’ll be there, mother. You don’t have to worry.”
“Oh, I do have to worry,” she bites back, “because if I don’t, you will show up the night before, make an appearance at the ceremony, and then disappear again like you always do. This is your brother’s wedding, Whitney. You are not going to breeze in and breeze out this time.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes for a moment. “I don’t breeze in and out.”
“I’m not having that conversation with you. This is your brother’s wedding, Whitney. You need to be home to help with the planning. Family is coming together for this."
"Mom, Keith and Laura probably have everything under control already," I say, keeping my voice even. "I doubt theyneed my input on centerpieces, cake flavors, and other planning details."
“That is not the point!” She exhales sharply, like I’m exhausting her. "Janet, Rosa, and Edward will be here next week. You shouldn’t be the only one missing."
Of course. At the mention of their names, my stomach twists uncomfortably. “Oh, joy,” I mutter under my breath.
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady,” she snaps. “You cannot be the only one missing. Do you know how that will look? You already don’t have much of a relationship with them, except for Keith, and even you two..."
Gee, I wonder why that is. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying it aloud.
“I expect you home next week,” she continued. “And don’t think you can weasel your way out of this. The whole family has something important to discuss, and we need you here.”
I exhale, gripping the phone tighter. “Fine. I’ll come home,” I say, the words clipped. “I’ll stay for a while, then head back here and come back again closer to the wedding. Happy?”
There’s a beat of silence. “As long as you show up and stay long enough to contribute. No last-minute escapes, Whitney.”
“Got it,” I reply flatly. “Anyway, I’ve got to go,” I say, cutting her off before she can start another tirade. “I have some more chores to finish.”
Before she can reply, I end the call, letting the silence of the room fill the space where her voice had been.
I set the phone down on the counter and lean against the edge, letting out a long, slow breath. My mother has a way of turning a simple conversation into a guilt trip marathon, and I am left wondering why I even bother arguing with her. She always wins, one way or another.
I press my lips together, inhaling deeply through my nose. “Next week,” I mutter to myself.
“Next week” suddenly feels far too soon.
