Page 76 of Never Dance with the Devils
Meanwhile, I’m in black jeans, black boots, and a short-sleeve button-up, also black, which were all hand-selected by Kayla herself. She’d taken pity on me after I’d stood in my closet for an embarrassingly long time, blankly staring at my clothes, which are ninety percentblack or grey, and the rest are all team gear that I wear for team activities or appearances.
It could be worse, I think, eyeing Maddox. He didn’t need help, but Kayla approved hisMeet the Parentsoutfit of khaki pants, a fitted T-shirt plus an unbuttoned shirt over it, and loafers. His shoes alone would’ve had me nope-ing out of this whole thing.
She pauses, mere feet from the entrance to a house that’s bigger than any I’ve seen in person, and I’ve been to the team owner’s house for Christmas parties. Fancy doesn’t begin to describe her family home. On the way here, she called it an estate and I’d asked what the hell that meant. She’d said I’d understand when we got here, and let’s just say… I do. It’s huge and stately, with a water fountain worthy of a museum in the round front drive, which is stacked with expensive cars, SUVs, and one dusty pickup truck I recognize as Kyle’s.
“You’re fine. We’ll be lucky if Kyle’s shirt doesn’t have holes in the armpits, and it will one hundred percent be covered in dog hair.” She tugs at my collar, under the guise of straightening it, but I think she’s just bringing my focus to her and only her. It works. My eyes search hers, finding strength, acceptance… and complete love. “I want you to be comfortable. I know this is hard on you.”
She’s being generous. For a man who doesn’t like people all that much and speaks in grunts more than sentences most of the time, I’m walking into a space filled with people I want to impress and who I want to like me. Plus, the sheer quantity of Kayla’s family is a bit nerve-racking. I know a hockey roster is larger, but it’s easier there because everyone’s wearing their names on their jerseys during training camp, and nobody gets tooangry if you address them as ‘Hey, Asshole’ for a day or two.
I don’t think I can do that here, so I’ve been reviewing names and stories in my head all day like there’s going to be a quiz. Actually, the whole night is pretty much a test.
Of me. Of Maddox. Of the three of us.
I take a steadying breath and nod.
“Let’s do this thing,” Maddox says, grinning like beyond the double front doors are all the new best friends he just hasn’t met yet. “Are you a doorbell kinda family or a walk on in sort?”
Kayla smiles at him. At least she doesn’t have to worry about him.
She pushes the door open and calls out, “We’re here.” Quieter, for only our ears, she declares, “Let the games begin.”
“Kayla!” A slightly older version of Kayla appears in a doorway to our right. The woman is smiling… beaming, actually, and coming right at us with open arms, her skirt swooshing around her calves and her sandals clicking on the marble floor. I stand there awkwardly as she hugs Kayla but overhear the woman whisper, “Watch out for Chance. Everyone else has your back.”
So Kayla’s mother is keeping score too. Good to know.
Kayla nods, acknowledging the insider information, then holds an arm out toward me and Maddox. “Mom, this is Riggs Patrick, and this is Maddox Brooks. My boyfriends. Guys, this is my mother, Miranda Harrington.”
Fuck, it’s happening. I can face down any opponenton the ice, but meeting Kayla’s mother has my heart racing in my chest.Don’t fuck this up, I chant to myself.Don’t fuck this up!
“Nice to meet you,” I stammer, holding out my hand for a polite shake.
But apparently, I needn’t have worried because the next thing I know, the tiny woman is reaching up to my neck and pulling me down for a proper hug. “I’m a hugger,” she explains, patting my back. I freeze, not sure what to do, but before I can react, she’s released me and is hugging Maddox. He’s perfectly comfortable with the unexpected affection, returning it easily.
Is this the battle Kayla’s been worrying about? If so, I’m confused. Where I’m from, hugs are… good? A sign of welcome. But maybe these people are playing an entirely different game than I ever have. Is Miranda ‘measuring how big to make the hole’ like Kayla was talking about?
“I’m the welcome wagon,” Miranda informs us. “I told everyone else to give you a minute to prepare.”
“Thanks, Mom. Alright, let’s do this,” Kayla declares, taking my hand in one of hers and Maddox’s in the other and leading us toward the doorway Miranda came through.
Have you ever seen those movies where a stranger enters the bar and a record scratches from somewhere even though there’s no music playing? That’s what it feels like as we walk into the type of formal living room you’d see on the cover ofArchitectural DigestorRich People Shit.
Even if I’d worn loafers, new ones that have never touched something as normal as a dirty sidewalk, I still wouldn’t fit in here. I’m too rough, too big, too much ofan asshole for this house, this room, and most definitely for these people, who are staring at us from every side and angle, including a teenage girl who’s lying on the floor with her phone still above her face like she was scrolling TikTok until the moment we came in.
“Are these the hockey guys?” the girl asks, her head craning backward as she looks up at me. “You’re massive. What’re you, six-five?”
I don’t know if I should answer her. Or if she’s even talking to me. Maybe she means Maddox? Though he’s smaller than I am.
“Grace, that’s rude,” Kayla tells her. “We don’t comment on other people’s bodies. But Riggs is six-three according to his team page. And Maddox is six-two. Confirm it if you want.” She glances at the girl’s phone, and she immediately starts typing away, seemingly to verify Kayla’s stats.
“You read our stats page?” I ask, surprised. True to her word, Kayla doesn’t have much of an interest in hockey, but she listens to us talk about it and sits between us while we watch replays of past games, so she’s already absorbed some of the basics. Still, I wouldn’t have expected her to seek out our specific measurements.
“We’ve all read your stats pages. And the sports pages, headlines, and Reddit boards,” a blond, blue-eyed man in a tie informs us. Though he’s seated on a couch, one ankle resting on the other knee, he still manages to look down on us as his eyes drip from our heads to our toes and back up again.
Judging by the sneer in his expression, I extend a hand. “You must be Chance, the podcaster. Riggs Patrick.” I don’t say ‘nice to meet you’ because it’s notnice to meet him given his obvious disapproval as he pumps my hand up and down the requisite two times. Hell, I’d respect him more if he refused the handshake. If he’s standing on business, he should do it fully, not half-assed while still acting civilized.
“Did Kayla have you studying flash cards to recognize us all?” he jokes, though it sounds more like an insult aimed at Kayla than one at my intelligence. “Always prepared, that’s our Kayla.”
I don’t like this guy, but he does have a point. Every man here looks like a copy-paste version of the next. Except for Kyle, who seems like the bold font version to the rest of their italics. But family or not, I’m not going to stand by and listen to him talk shit about Kayla.
