Chapter 13

"A black eye," my mom comments archly later that evening as we sit around the kitchen island, devouring the plates full of steaming pasta and chicken in front of us courtesy of Rory, who'd changed the sheets in the guest room, moved her things into my bedroom, and then came down and started dinner.

Like a girlfriend would.

Christ.

Now, I'm staring at my plate, still spinning from the turn of events.

Rory seems unaffected, though, playing the part of my girlfriend with surprising ease.

I guess not surprising.

My mom is good at making anyone comfortable, and Rory is a nice person with a big heart. It's no surprise that they hit it off. Probably because my mom raved about her cookies, but also because my mom ultimately wants me to be happy, so she would give any woman in my life the benefit of the doubt before forming her own opinion.

Not that her opinion took long to form.

Case in point?

"I love her," my mom whispers in my ear, all but bouncing in her seat.

I glance up at Rory, who's carefully folding her napkin, and know it would be far too easy to love this woman.

And…I'm tap-dancing in dangerous territory now.

"How was your nap?" I ask, trying to divert her. And myself.

Not a shock.

It doesn't work.

For either of us.

My gaze is drawn back across the table.

Her grin is wide.

And knowing.

Christ.

I go for diversion again. "Mom?"

Her brows come up.

"I asked how your nap was?"

She studies me, and I brace, waiting for her to say something else about Rory.

She doesn't. "Fine."

But my relief only lasts a second.

Because then she's back to the shiner I'm sporting from practice.

"Why the black eye?" Her eyes pin me in place. "I know it wasn't from your last game."

Always with her finger on the pulse.

Always watching each of our games.

I sigh, know it's pointless to try to keep the truth from her. "I lost my temper and punched Pat."

Those brows rise higher. "King," she begins, "how often have I said that violence isn't the?—"

"I bet he deserved it," Rory mutters.

I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth, reeling from the whiplash of disapproval to pleased, Mom to Rory.

"Explain," my mom demands.

"Pat is a total jerk," Rory says, bailing me out. "He's been actively trying to cause drama with the team."

My mom's eyes widen.

"He's always got a snarky comment, loves to degrade women, and doesn't care about bringing the team together. In fact, he's doing everything he can to destroy it."

If she only knew.

It's that…and so much fucking more.

I can barely stand to be on the ice with him, let alone to have to be in the locker room or on a plane with the asshole.

The shit he says about Chrissy, what he insinuated about Rory, how he talks about women and treats his teammates and?—

He's scum.

And I get to play eighty-two fucking games with him.

Just the thought has my blood boiling again.

"So what?" my mom asks. "You took issue with something he said?"

My gaze flicks to Rory and then back to my mom, and I know she gets it with that one look. Gets that he said something about Rory and I lost my cool and…she might not appreciate me starting—and then finishing—a fight with my teammate, but she gets it.

Because she always taught me to stand up to bullies.

Because she knows that I would never stand for my woman to be bullied.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I did take issue with it."

My mom scoops up a forkful of pasta, brings it to her mouth then chews and swallows. "Well," she says, tone casual—far too fucking casual when it's paired with the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "I'm glad that you stood up for yourself." A beat. "And everyone else." Her mouth quirks. "Does he have a black eye as well?"

"No."

"Oh," she says and I don't miss the disappointment in her tone.

My lips twitch. See? She can't stand bullies. "He has two."

Nodding approvingly, my mom pats me on the shoulder. "That's my boy."

Rory laughs softly but then does me another solid and turns the topic of conversation away from my black eye and my asshole teammate. "I've heard about your apple pie from no less than three Eagles players," she says softly. "Is there any way I can tempt you into teaching me the recipe?"

My mom grins. "Will you trade it for your Everything cookie recipe?"

Rory nods. "Absolutely."

My mom extends her hand over the island for Rory to shake. "It's a deal."

"It's a deal," Rory agrees.

I look between my mom and Rory, warmth pulsing in my belly and my heart as they seal their agreement with a handshake.

Sitting here like this, like we're a real family…

Well, it feels normal.

Feels like the most normal thing I've ever done. As though I've done this same thing for years and years and years.

And I can pretend I've never done anything else.

That it's always been Rory and me—just the two of us against the world and?—

You're not your father.

I still, ice pouring through my veins at the cold, female voice in my mind. It blasts through the false reality I was building, steals any of the teasing I was going to allow off my tongue just moments before.

Reality hits hard.

Luckily, though, the two women sitting at the island with me don't recognize the sudden turn in my brain.

They're too busy bonding.

Christ.

This has to be the stupidest thing I've ever done—including punching Pat in full view of the public, fans pulling out their phones and recording the action on the ice.

It's probably circulating social media as we speak.

It's likely going to give Jean-Michel even more reason to dislike me.

Refusing to let him take her to his place, to Chrissy or Rome's either.

Then falling asleep and giving Rory the opportunity to go back to that bastard's house to retrieve her things—thus putting her in Phillip's crosshairs.

Now I'm blasting the Eagles' drama in the locker room back into the public eye when we've been on a winning streak (both in the standings and amongst our fan base).

I can see the headlines already.

I can see Jean-Michel's disapproving mug.

It's superimposed on the other faces who've looked at me like that throughout my life—former coaches, my parents on occasion, women I've dated, exes, and…Rose.

Who's not just an ex.

But the ex who made me realize that I will never have what my parents have.

Because I'm not that man.

Because—

A palm lands on my thigh, squeezes firmly enough that I snap out of my thoughts, realize that I've been leaving my mom and Rory to talk.

Which is fine.

They're both good talkers.

The problem now is that they're both staring at me.

Waiting for me to answer a question I didn't hear.

"Well, for me," Rory says, her voice gentle, her grip on my thigh still firm. "I first saw him on the ice." Her lips quirk as she glances up at me. "I'm afraid I wasn't very nice," she admits, expression contrite. "I thought he was a bit of a playboy and I'm not a hockey fan"—she shrugs, her smile self-deprecating—"or wasn't a hockey fan, anyway. But it's hard not to be swept up in the sport when my boss owns the team."

"Oh," my mom asks, "do you work for the Eagles then?"

A shake of Rory's head, sending her blond locks drifting across my arm. "No," she says. "I work for Oak Ridge—the vineyard that Jean-Michel owns."

I know that look on my mom's face.

Apparently, so does Rory because she grins. "Yes, the wine is delicious. And yes, I can get you some."

My mom laughs. "Am I that obvious?"

Rory lifts her shoulder in a delicate shrug. "No," she says. "But that is the typical conversational track that occurs when I mention working for a winery. I'm not in production itself, but I do design work—the labels, the signage, brochures, graphics for the website." She smiles. "I get to do a little of everything."

Not planning.

Just letting life tell her what her next task is.

Why do I feel like I've just unlocked some of the puzzle that is Rory?

"She's excellent at her job," I tell my mom. "You should see her designs."

Those fingers tighten on my leg and I feel Rory's eyes on me. I can't keep my gaze from going to hers—not in a million fucking years.

"You think that?" she asks softly.

I brush her hair back from her face, tuck a loose strand behind her ear. "Absolutely."

"Phillip—" She clamps her lips together, eyes sliding closed for a heartbeat.

I bend my head, whisper for her ears only, "That asshole had no clue how fucking amazing you are."

She swallows hard, squeezes my thigh again and then pulls back her hand.

I know she hears me.

But she doesn't hear me.

And I know that before all of this between us is done, I need to make sure she does.

"Tell me about teaching, Stella," Rory says a moment later. "I bet that was the definition of a little of everything."

My mom grins and shakes her head before picking up the conversational gambit, telling Rory some of my favorite stories about teaching and her kids and the drama that came from working for a school.

"Oh no, not the finger paint!" Rory says, laughter having her bent almost in half, her shoulder bumping into my chest.

I like that.

Like her close.

My mom nods. "Yup." She sighs, but she's laughing too. "I don't think I've ever seen such a mess."

Rory giggles. "I bet."

"It's just lucky I keep a change of clothes in my classroom because what I was wearing went straight into the trash."

"Oh no!"

A shrug. "It comes with the territory," my mom says, mouth curved. "Luckily, I was pretty good at cleaning up messes, what with six kids and all."

"I don't know how you did it." Rory shakes her head. "I like kids, but a classroom full of them? And I like my clothes. I don't think I could be calm if I lost an entire outfit to finger paint."

I bet she could.

But I don't say that.

I'm happy to sit here, listening to them talk about nothing important and yet everything that really matters—life and laughter and family.

"Speaking of clothes," my mom says, "I noticed yours are in the closet in the guest room, Rory." Her eyes flick to mine. "Is there a reason for that?"

I feel my lungs convulse.

Rory's hand clenches on my leg and I watch panic slide over her like a heavy blanket. "I—um…"

I cover her fingers with my own, link our hands together.

"You know how I am with my closet," I say lightly. "Rory doesn't believe in color coding, so our clothes exist much more peacefully in separate spaces. Isn't that right, princess?"

Rory unsticks. "Yeah," she croaks. "You know how organized he is." She shrugs. "I'm not remotely as organized. Plus"—she smiles—"King was here first and had all those suits. It makes sense he gets the bigger closet."

My mom's gaze flicks from me to Rory.

Then back to me.

"And the wedding dress?"

Rory freezes.

I freeze.

But my mom doesn't.