Page 63 of Fresh Ice
“Darling,” Cynthia said, and it took Alonso a second to realise she was talking to him. “What are you up to after the awards? You have to come celebrate with us.”
Levy snorted. “Mom, we might not win, you know.”
Cynthia tutted. “You’ve both already won…in our hearts.”
Cody and Levy groaned dramatically as Cynthia giggled. “Oh, hush. So, you’re joining us, right? Bring your parents.”
“Uhm…yeah. Okay. It’s just my dad, though.” Alonso’s dad probably wouldn’t do anything awful in front of them…probably.
“Oh. Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah, she’s just not a big hockey fan.” Alonso shrugged. He didn’t hold it against her. She’d tried in the beginning—it was his fault that she had given up trying to reach him.
“Ah, Okay. Well, how are you getting there?”
“I was actually here to ask you that,” Alonso replied and was promptly pulled into the room to discuss logistics.
It was dumb, but it was the first time in a while he felt at home.
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In the end, neither Levy nor Alonso got the Calder, the trophy going to a Russian player who had matured in the KHL before making it to America.
Alonso clapped politely and tried not to laugh when Levy’s mom went, “Oh, boo.” They were all sitting at the same table, so hopefully the camera wasn’t aimed at her or the way Cody elbowed her in the side with a mischievous smile.
Alonso’s dad was silent and stiff during the ceremony, which Alonso was grateful for.
He knew there were a few afterparties happening when the ceremony concluded, but he, Levy, and their parents opted to go out to supper together instead. Levy’s parents chose a cute, family place with a friendly host at the door.
“I need a burger in me,” Cody said as they sat down, picking up the huge menu. Alonso wanted to agree, but there was no way he could eat that in front of his dad.
Cynthia turned to Alonso’s dad. “You must be proud of your boy. He played so wonderfully this year.”
Alonso’s stomach clenched, but there was no stopping that train wreck. “Well, I try to teach my son not to settle for mediocrity, so we have to admit his first year could have gone better. The boy who won—that was determination.”
The rest of the table blinked at Alonso’s dad, obviously stunned.
Cody cleared his throat. “Well. The Calder winner was quite a bit older, wasn’t he? Seems unfair.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, of course, but that’s a bit of an excuse, isn’t it? It’s important to strive for perfection.”
“Ah. Well. Perfection is a bit of an elusive goal, right? Subjective, at least.”
Alonso’s dad raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Not sure if my son would agree with that. Alonso?”
Alonso stared at the table, mortified. “Uhm…I don’t know,” he mumbled.
His dad sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you to speak up? Come on, son. And take your hand out of your mouth, it’s a disgusting habit.”
Alonso jerked his fingers away, hiding them under the table. He flinched as something brushed his hand and then grabbed it, settling when he realised it was Levy.
Alonso grasped Levy’s hand back, squeezing tightly. A wash of emotion went through him, of relief and gratitude and something warmer, deeper, that he didn’t want to name or acknowledge.
The meal was awkward but better than it could have been. Levy’s parents picked up the conversation, not exactly ignoring Alonso’s dad but not giving him a chance to criticise Alonso further.
By the end, though, Alonso was absolutely exhausted. His dad refused Levy’s parents paying the bill, looking at Alonso sternly to do the same. It was an awful ending to an awkward meal.
Levy stopped Alonso as they got to their hotel. “Uh, you gonna get that thing from me now, Olive?”
