Page 136 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
He should pay attention to the ice, not whatever I’m doing.
“You seem distracted.” My mother clears her throat during the first intermission, putting on that smile she uses when she’s about to say something cutting.
“Just working, Mom. This is my job.”
“Hmm.” She surveys the crowd like she’s cataloging everyone’s net worth. “Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. Though you know, sweetheart, you’re going to be too old to change careers someday. Everyone likes a feisty young lawyer. No one wants to hire a middle-aged washup just starting their second career.”
“Mom.” I bristle, my spine straightening. “I’m barely twenty-three. Besides, I’m not washing out of my public relations career.”
“Be serious for a moment, Juliet.” My mom grabs my chin, gazing at me. “This is not a stable career. And being engaged to another hockey player isn’t exactly wise, either. This is all very…”
She trails off. A flash of heat licks the back of my neck.
“What? Spit it out, mom. Say that you think hockey is low class.”
Her eyes narrow. “You said it, not me. And just so you know, your father feels that your fiancé hasn’t gone through the proper steps to propose to you. Right, Tom?”
“Huh?” Dad looks over from the ice. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I told her that her fiancé didn’t even have the decency to ask you for her hand in marriage!” My mom sniffs as if this is the worst behavior she can think of.
“Can you two not fight right here?” he whispers. Dad looks between us, his brows descending. “There are other people not fifteen feet away. We don’t want to spread our private family business all over.”
What a cop out. I fold my arms across my chest and look down onto the ice, furious. Hunter looks up into the box and points directly at me, that cocky grin spreading across his face.
My cheeks flush hot. He should definitely pay attention to the game, not flirting with me from the ice.
“Well,” my mother says, sounding pleased. “He’s certainly... athletic.”
“You really have no idea.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. I put my fingers against my lips, as if to stop more insane words from escaping my lips.
My mom glares at me, and I fix my gaze on the ice.
I watch the game, noticing things I might have missed before. The Havoc guys are still a little sloppy, but they’re less scattered than they were a month ago. Passes are connecting. Jett actually chirps a rookie about his stick handling and gets chirped back, which is progress of a sort.
It’s not pretty hockey, but it’s looking liketeamhockey. I’m not a hockey announcer or anything, but even I can tell that they’re playing better.
And Hunter? Hunter is downright magnificent. The better the team plays, the better he gets. He feeds off their energy and growing confidence. He’s been in a better mood lately too, less likely to snap at reporters or glare at teammates who make mistakes.
So different from when I first laid eyes on him a few months ago.
Midway through the second period, Thorne gets into it with a player from the other team. It’s not a big deal, just a shoving match after a dirty hit. But for once, Hunter doesn’t go in fists first. Instead, he skates over and stands beside Thorne, backs him up without bulldozing through the situation.
Afterward, I watch on the big screen TV as Thorne mutters something that looks likethanksunder his breath. Hunter nods. That’s it. That’s enough.
“Yes!” I clap. “That’s right.”
“Excuse me, dear,” my mother says, standing abruptly. “I need to powder my nose.”
She disappears toward the restrooms, leaving me alone with my father, who’s been quietly nursing the same beer for the entire game.
“She means well,” he says without looking at me.
“Does she?”
“In her way.”
That’s about as deep as conversations with my father get these days. Before I can figure out how to respond, a man in an expensive suit appears beside me.
