Page 267 of Branded
Suitably chastised—and, I supposed, suitably provided with the proper amount of Pop-Tart motivation—we shut up and listened to Kathy tell us about the rest of the details she and her fiancé had decided on.
My younger sister was getting married.
Christ, that was wild.
As was the brutal reality that I was single and apparently equipped with a bad picker.
Then we listened to Sam talk about his new job—he was really liking the position and his new manager, and even with school, it was manageable. Margot’s update was that she was still slogging through grad school applications while working as a barista and focused on the art of making the perfect latte.
My parents were settled and happy (this being communicated by my mom while my dad—man of few words—sat back and listened).
The only time I had heard my dad say more than a few words was when I had paid off their house. He was equally pissed-off and touched, mostly because after he’d initially refused the money, I had gone around his back and taken care of the remaining mortgage directly with the bank. My parents worked hard. They’d sacrificed for me.
It was easy to make the decision to live a bit smaller than some of my teammates for a couple of years after getting my first big, non-rookie contract (and bonus after winning the Cup).
And it wasn’t a sacrifice to live in a decent house and have one nice car (rather than several very nice cars and a mansion).
My life was good.
But seeing the expression on my parents’ faces when they’d learned the house was free and clear was a hundred times better.
Which meant that even with Kathy’s wedding expenses, they were still going to be able to take a cruise this year.
Something my mom had dreamed of for as long as I could remember.
So, we talked about that (and I managed to sneakily get the name of their travel agent—I’d see what kind of upgrades I could arrange for them) and then it was my turn to be on the hot seat.
“Not much,” I told them when they asked me what was new. “Doing some on-ice conditioning, getting ready for the season.” I shrugged. “The usual.”
“Are you still dating that girl?”
“Chelsea?” I asked.
“The blond one with the pinchy face,” Margot supplied.
Yeah, I supposed that sounded about right. Chelsea had made it very obvious when she wasn’t pleased…and made my life pretty unpleasant when she wasn’t. Now that I thought about that, she hadn’t been shy about showing that during the one interaction she’d had with my family, either.
“No,” I said. “We broke up.”
I didn’t miss the relief on multiple faces.
And seriously, my picker was broken.
“Anyone else have any updates?” I asked, wanting the eyes off me and onto someone else. Anyone else.
Because the woman I really wanted—and probably the first woman my family would actually like, damaged picker or not—wasn’t interested in exploring the spark between us.
“Tell me about the woman who’s put that look on your face,” Kathy said.
“What look?” I went for innocent.
It didn’t work.
“The kicked-your-puppy look,” Margot said. “I can feel the pathetic through the call.”
“Seriously, this is how you treat your big brother?” I grumbled. “What happened to respect?”
“I lost it the time I saw you puking up Three Musketeers after trying to tell me you could eat a dozen of them,” Kathy said matter-of-factly.
