13. Aaron

13

AARON

I shove a forkful of mashed potatoes—made by Triple J—into my mouth and chew. Chew some more. Try not to gag.

Ugh. I hate mashed potatoes in the first place. And these particular mashed potatoes taste worse than usual.

Almost… oily .

But Jimmy—who is currently dressed in an orange and red knit monstrosity with a roasted turkey on the front along with the words “Let’s Get Basted!”—is looking at me expectantly, so I smile and give him a thumbs-up as I hurriedly reach for my water glass. Down a huge gulp.

“Do you like them, Cap?” he chirps happily. “I added a secret ingredient.”

I cough, gasping around the uniquely terrible taste of oily potatoes. “And what would that be?”

Across the table from me, Liv covers her mouth. I assume to hide a smile. Or spit her own potatoes into a napkin.

For a few minutes back there, I forgot about everything and everyone except Olivia. From the moment she arrived at the front door, looking cute as all hell in a short, dark gray t-shirt dress, her hair loose and wavy around her shoulders, she was all I saw.

As I led her inside, my entire focus was on her, barbed banter and sparks flying as we verbally sparred back and forth.

Kind of like old times, but with today’s version of Olivia in front of me. She was always gorgeous, tall and leggy and striking with her bright hair and glinting eyes. But she’s somehow even more attractive to me now than her teenage self was to me back then.

I love how self-assured she is. How she carries herself with her head high and her lips slightly parted like she has a witty comeback poised on the tip of her tongue at all times.

And then, she had to go and mention the effing cockroach.

I’m used to her trying to insult me—as I mentioned, I kind of live for it—but it was very effective in bursting my flirty-flirt bubble and swiftly reminding me of everything that’s going on right now. Despite my problem-solving skate earlier today, the whole situation is still weighing on me.

On instinct, my fingers toy with the bracelet on my left wrist, smoothing the leather down against my skin.

“Horseradish!” Jimmy announces proudly, yanking me out of my thoughts. “Plus some honey. Oh, and a good splash of canola oil.”

I do everything in my power not to wince.

“What a creative ingredient list to add to mashed potatoes,” I manage to choke out.

Triple J is a great hockey player, and a stand-up guy who’d do anything for the people in his life, but I swear his brain is wired differently. Like he’s tuned into some extra-terrestrial frequency that we mere mortals can’t pick up.

“J, that is absolutely disgusting.” Dallas voices what everyone else is thinking. “Why didn’t you just use milk and butter like a normal person?”

Triple J glares at him indignantly. “I wanted to spice things up, add a little je-ne-sais-quoi, you know?”

“I do not know.” Dallas’s face is incredulous. “Haven’t you heard of bacon? Sour cream? Grated cheese?”

“And where’s the originality in that, Cooper?” Triple J demands. “Who wants to eat boring old potatoes that follow a boring old recipe?”

“Everyone, that’s who!”

I can’t help but laugh. As the two of them continue to argue back and forth, I push my mashed potatoes to the side of my plate as surreptitiously as possible before digging into my stuffing, which tastes infinitely better.

Questionable potatoes aside, the meal’s going surprisingly well. Most of the team is here, along with their better halves and a smatter of sticky-fingered, over-excited children. Reagan came, and so did Stefani—our team chef and nutritionist, and the one responsible for making the incredible stuffing I’m currently shoveling into my mouth.

Laughter rises around the room as people eat and drink and, in Colton and Griz’s cases, get a little merry. The two of them have decanted their beers into a couple of the glass pumpkin decorations I bought at Hobby Lobby earlier in a last-ditch attempt to be a good host, and are now having a chugging competition.

Jake wins and, luckily for him, Sofia laughs at his antics instead of publicly disowning him for being a man-child.

All in all, I’m glad Jimmy came up with this plan. All this togetherness is surely good for team morale.

“A toast!” Colton announces grandly when everyone’s finished eating, raising his pumpkin high. “To our captain, for hosting us today!”

I smirk. “I don’t believe I had a choice in the matter.”

“To our captain, for putting up with our B.S.” Dallas shouts, and everyone laughs. “May you lead us all to victory this year.”

“No pressure,” I joke, even as I feel pressure. I shake it off and raise my glass high, saluting my teammates. “To the Cyclones!”

Everyone cheers and raises their glasses (or various drinking containers) accordingly.

“To spending Thanksgiving with all you beautiful people!” Reagan adds.

“To the best hockey team on earth!” Triple J pipes up.

The cheers get louder.

“TO THIS BEING THE SEASON WHEN WE FINALLY WIN THE STANLEY MOTHERF?—”

“Kids!” I swiftly cut Perez off. “There are kids here!”

Seb shoots me a grateful look, which is a little funny seeing as his son is, like, two months old and a little blob of a human who can’t understand anything being said right now.

“Whoops.” Colton grins goofily, swaying on his feet. “I mean, to the Cyclones winning the Stanley FRICKING Cup!”

He looks ridiculously proud of this delayed correction, but nevertheless, everyone gets to their feet and clinks glasses. It’s the sort of festive, celebratory scene that would make anyone feel warm and fuzzy inside.

After cheersing everyone in my immediate vicinity, I turn to Olivia. But instead of joining in the celebration, she’s chewing her lip while texting with one hand.

Anyone except Olivia, apparently.

“Not going to cheers your favorite hockey player?” I ask her with a waggle of my brows.

“Mmm?” she says, holding out her glass without even looking up from her phone screen. My words must sink in belatedly because her head snaps up, her eyes fix on me, and she smiles slyly. “Jimmy and I clinked glasses already.”

Anyone else might have missed it. Might just assume that she was simply distracted by a run-of-the-mill text. But I know Olivia, and I know that, while she has an excellent poker face, she holds all her cards in her eyes…

Sophomore year of high school, she joked about my (very ill-advised and short-lived) faux-hawk hairstyle with a big smile, but those eyes stayed flat. Turned out she’d just gotten a D on a test.

A year later, she laughed about how Arjun Singh turned down her invitation to the Sadie Hawkins dance, but her gaze was glued to the floor to hide the hurt.

That night, my senior year when I tumbled through her bedroom window and we talked on her bedroom floor, her eyes were sparkling and bright. But by the time I left, I’d accidentally extinguished all of those sparks. Let both her, and myself, believe for a moment that we could have something we couldn’t. That I could feel something I shouldn’t.

A few months ago, when she unceremoniously crashed into me in that club, and her eyes were flashing with the same panic I felt seeing her again for the first time in years.

And, right now, in front of me in my dining room, her smile is fox-like and sexy and cunning, but her eyes are defeated.

Something is wrong. And it’s tied to whatever she was just doing on her phone.

Who upset her?

I want to ask if everything’s okay, but knowing Olivia, she’s not going to volunteer that information in front of all these people. And especially not to me.

So, I try another tactic instead.

“Okay, fine,” I say with a shrug, hoping to propel her back into playful mode and take her mind off of whatever’s going on. “If not your favorite hockey player in the room, then the sexiest one.”

I’m gratified to see the mischief make its way back into her hazel eyes and dance there for a moment before she leans over and extends her glass to Dallas.

My teammate—who has uncharacteristically shown up to dinner without a female companion—gives her his best smile. “Cheers, Griz’s little sister.”

“Cheers, second best defenseman on the Cyclones,” she says silkily, her eyes shining.

Dallas quickly clocks what she’s saying—he plays defense on our first line next to Jake, and she’s clearly seconding him to her brother. He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re mouthier than your big brother. I like it.”

Dallas is now donning his bedroom eyes, gazing at Olivia like he’s a starving man and she’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. This little exchange flares up a protective instinct in me. Makes me kind of want to deck my own teammate. Which is absolutely absurd.

“Hell yeah, she is,” Jake crows proudly, more animated than usual thanks to his beer-buzz. And also more obtuse, because he’s clearly missing Dallas’s not-so-veiled flirting. “And she’s right, too.”

Liv sits back down and leans forward on the table, her expression triumphant. “Done, Marino. Anyone else you’d like me to clink glasses with?”

I shift forward, too, so my elbows are on the table and I’m mirroring her pose.

“How about a toast to your host for the evening?”

“Fine.” She gives me a little smile as she holds up her margarita, still gloating over what she thinks was her win. “Happy now?”

I tap my glass against hers. “Absolutely.”

And I am. Because for once, I’ve actually made her happy, which feels like my win.