Don’t get too invested
“I’M SORRY, HENRY. IT WAS JUST A FLING.” THE BRITISH HOST sweeps her gaze
over the remaining swimsuit-clad couples strategically draped on wicker beach furniture. “The rest of you are still on the road to forever. Good night.”
“Holy shit, that was intense.” Wyatt is agape. “That Scottish dude seriously just waltzed into the villa and broke up Annabeth and Henry.”
It’s Saturday night and my family is gathered in the great room of our house in Brookline. Well, technically it’s just a living room, but it’s been referred to as “the great room” for as long as I can remember. Likely because of its soaring ceilings and the wall of windows. It’s my favorite room in the house. I love the built-in bookcases and super comfortable sectional couches surrounding the huge stone fireplace. The room opens onto one of the many decks on the property, this one overlooking the main section of the expansive yard that houses the pool and gazebo.
On the other sectional, my mother is clicking the remote to put on the next episode, while Dad shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“I’m rooting for Mac and Samantha,” he says while chewing. “Seriously?” I demand. “Mac is such a jerk. All he does is criticize her
wardrobe.”
“He’s only following her lead,” Dad says in Mac’s defense. “She’s constantly complaining about his appearance. She told him his ears were small, and the poor dude was considering surgery.”
“Those two are way too toxic,” I argue. “I’m on Team Cam and Abby.” “Cam!” Dad balks. “Come on, Stan. He uses way too much tanning oil.”
“He does,” Wyatt agrees. “Looks like he crawled out of a baby oil factory explosion.”
Mom howls with laughter.
“I am obsessed with this channel,” I tell everyone.
“Dude. Same.” Wyatt steals the last pieces of popcorn from my bowl.
He devoured his own within five seconds of Mom handing it to him. “Are you really?” I ask suspiciously. “Or are you making fun of me?” “No, I’m into it. Plate Pleasers? Genius.”
Mom nods in agreement. “I love those cute little judges. That one kid who never likes any of the contestants’ dishes is hilarious.”
“The way that little asshole scrunches up his nose,” Wyatt agrees in delight. “Love it.”
Bergeron suddenly hops off his dog bed and lumbers toward one set of French doors, where he stands and whines.
“Don’t put the next episode on yet,” I tell Mom. “Bergy needs to go out.”
“I’ll let him out.” Wyatt heaves himself off the couch. I use the break to duck into the kitchen to pop another packet of popcorn into the microwave. While I wait for it, Dad wanders in and throws his arm around me.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Stan.”
I rest my head against his broad shoulder. “Me too. I needed this.”
The past few days have been…intense. But I don’t plan to fill my father in. Whatever’s happening between Luke Ryder and me is going to stay between Luke Ryder and me. At least for the time being. Besides, even if I could make sense of it, no daughter wants to casually let her father know she’s planning on having sex with someone tomorrow night.
If I go through with it.
After what happened between us in the shower, I’m a little terrified to see this through. Because the voice in my head, the one that taunted me a while ago—that it’s not anxiety he instills in me, but passion—well, it may have been right.
And that’s scary.
“Any updates about Team USA?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. But hopefully that changes after our first game. Fairlee and his staff will have to be paying closer attention then, right?”
“Presumably.” Hesitation flickers through Dad’s gray eyes, the same shade as mine.
“What?”
“I’m going to assume the answer to this is no, but…do you want me to give Brad a call and—”
“No,” I say sharply.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, backing off,” he says with a laugh. “I knew it would be a no. But I wanted to throw it out there. If you ever need me to put in a good word for you, you know you can just ask.”
“I know,” I tell him.
And we both know I’ll never ask.
Not once in my life have I asked my father for favors. To use his clout or connections to help me get ahead. Every elite hockey camp I was accepted to over the years, every college offer, every award…I desperately want to believe they came to me based on merit.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling low, I let the inner critic, the cynic, rear its ugly head, whisper that maybe merit had nothing to do with it. But it’s such a crushing, demoralizing feeling that I try valiantly to never listen to that voice.
“What about you?” I ask. “Given any more thought to who you’re picking to help you with the camp this summer?”
“A little. I have a short list, but nothing set in stone yet.” He then provides me with the perfect opening to plug Ryder. “You have any suggestions?”
I think it over, before answering in a careful tone. “Will Larsen would be a solid choice, but he doesn’t like to make waves, so I don’t know what kind of authority figure he’d be. I’d consider Kurth, but you know how weird goalies can be sometimes. Luke Ryder has really stepped up as cocaptain, so he’d be a good choice too.”
“I don’t know about Ryder. He’s a great player, but he has a bad attitude.
His behavior at Worlds is a cause for concern.”
“He was eighteen. Anyway, like I said, he’s leaning into the leadership role lately.”
I’m pretty sure I’m lying right now. I haven’t crashed any more Briar men’s practices, but I highly doubt Ryder is leaning into anything other than wanting to be left the fuck alone.
“You’re really singing Ryder’s praises lately. What’s up with that?”
“I told you, I’ve been working with him. Beckett Dunne too,” I add, so he doesn’t think I’m spending a bunch of alone time with Ryder, getting fingered in locker room showers.
“But you wouldn’t recommend Dunne for the camp?”
“Dunne doesn’t take anything too seriously. He’d treat the camp as a lark. Ryder and Larsen would step up. In my opinion.”
“But between Larsen and Ryder, you’d go Ryder.” That cloud of suspicion hasn’t cleared from his expression.
The microwave beeps, allowing me to put my back to him as I go to refill our popcorn bowls. “Probably. But that’s me. Go with whoever you think is the best fit.”
The next morning, we have breakfast out on the back patio in our sweats. While my parents and I munch on our bacon and eggs, Wyatt, who inhales every meal in five seconds flat, throws a stick for the dogs. He sings them a dumb song before each throw. I’m only half paying attention to it, but it goes something like, It’s alright, it’s okay, a stick’s coming your way, hey- hey. I’m surprised Dumpy is participating, but the golden lab bounds after the stick each time, actually matching our eternally wired husky’s breakneck pace.
“Did you give Dumpy steroids?” I ask Dad, who snorts.
At one point, they lose the stick, and Wyatt and the dogs proceed to prowl the lawn in search of it while my brother continues to sing that stupid
ditty.
“Hey, champ,” Dad calls over the railing of the stone deck. “Despite what the song says, it doesn’t look like a stick is coming their way, hey- hey.”
“Don’t lie to the dogs, Wyatt,” Mom pipes up. I keel over laughing. I love my family so much.
The lighthearted feeling in my chest wavers, however, when my phone lights up on the table. I hastily reach for it before my parents see the notification.
RYDER:
You still coming by later?
My heartbeat accelerates. Trying to play it cool so that my dad doesn’t pounce, I casually drag my fingers over the keypad to type a response. Just one word. I don’t need much more than that.
