“Who was it from?” my dad asks as I shuffle to the kitchen table wearing my brand-new fancy pants.
My eyes dart to Ryan, who seems just as curious.
“Uhh...a Christmas gift from someone I work with.”
Not a lie.
“That’s awesome, Vee. I’m so glad you’re making friends here.”
Yeah, that’s one way to describe Zanders.
Taking a seat at the dining room table, I fill my plate with a little bit of everything until you can barely see the white porcelain underneath all my food. Ryan and my dad pop up from their seats to grab themselves fresh beers, and my mother uses it as a prime opportunity.
“That’s an awful lot of food, Stevie. There’s so much added salt.” Her voice is hushed, quiet enough that my brother and dad can’t hear. As I mentioned before, Ryan is protective but rarely recognizes that the person I need protection from the most is our own mother.
As soon as my brother and dad come within hearing distance, her faux innocence is back as she brings her cloth napkin to her mouth, dabbing the corners of her perfectly lined lips.
“I’m glad you guys could all make it to the game.” Ryan takes a seat, clearly out of the loop to my mother’s antics, before putting a fresh beer in front of me. As soon as the glass touches the table, I grab it and chug half of it without taking a breath.
“Me too, Ryan. We are so proud of you.”
The beer is thick as it runs down my throat, but it’s my mother’s words that almost cause me to choke. Could it be any more obvious who her favorite child is? I swallow the cold liquid, but I do so with an exaggerated eye roll.
“Do you have something you want to say, Stevie?” My mother places her hands in her lap, cocking her head while looking at me, testing me to speak up.
Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas.
“Nope.” Pushing my food around my plate with my chopsticks, I keep my focus away from the judgmental woman sitting across the table from me.
“Do you not think we’re proud of you?”
Well, that sincere question is a little shocking. My eyes dart across to my mom’s blue-green ones, expecting her to keep surprising me by telling me she is proud of me.
“We are so proud of you, Vee,” my dad cuts in, but I already know he feels that way. I want to hear my mother say it.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, which sounds a lot more like a disagreeing hum than an agreeable one.
Dinner continues, and I stay quiet. Anything I want to talk about—the shelter or the funky little thrift store I stumbled upon last week, are all going to be met with my mother’s disapproval, and I don’t want her to taint the things I love. She can hate on my body or my job that I’m not all that passionate about, but the things that bring real joy to my life, I don’t want her to touch those.
As the three of them are deep in conversation, my mother enthralled with Ryan’s life here in Chicago, I pull out my phone, thinking maybe I should send Zanders a message on Instagram to thank him for my new loungewear.
And I kind of want an excuse to talk to him, too.
You’d think something as simple as sweatpants wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but just that small piece of being comfortable during this uncomfortable family dinner means a lot. Plus, Zanders made my gift entirely about me, besides the price tag that is very Evan Zanders. Vastly different than the pair of nude pumps my mother gave me.
I don’t have his number, and he doesn’t have mine, but access to his DMs is enough to connect to the famous hockey player.
I figured his Instagram would be showing off his extravagant Christmas, but there’s nothing on display. Over the last six weeks, since I started following the Chicago defenseman, he almost always has something posted to entertain his fans. He’s rarely quiet, so this is strange.
“You done, Vee?” Ryan stands over me, his hand on my plate, ready to clean up the table.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You didn’t eat anything.”
“Not hungry,” I lie.
He bends down, looking over my shoulder at my phone. “Is that Evan Zanders’ Instagram?”
Fuck.
“Nope.” Exiting out of the app, I hide my phone in my lap.
“I can’t stand that guy.” Ryan continues to the kitchen, hands full of dishes. “He gives a bad name to Chicago sports.”
“Have you ever even talked to him?” My tone has too much of a bite as it comes out of my mouth, and Ryan catches on right away.
“I don’t need to. He gets plenty of coverage in the media. I know exactly the kind of guy he is.”
“Well,” my dad interrupts, wearing a sly grin. “Vee actually knows the guy. So, why don’t we ask her? What do you think about him, Stevie?”
All eyes turn towards me, and suddenly I feel like my family can read every inappropriate thought I’ve ever had of Zanders. Too many vivid details from that wild night in DC flood my mind, causing heat to creep up my cheeks.
“He’s fine.”
“Fine, huh?” One too many brow pumps come from the old guy at the table.
“Thank you for that, Dad, but can you not?” Turning back to my brother, I add, “He’s not as bad as you think. The media doesn’t do a very good job at portraying him, but there’s more to him than just the bad boy stuff.”
Ryan’s eyes are lasered in on me, doing that twin thing where he tries to read my mind.
“Or so it seems.” I casually shrug, keeping my head down as I scurry to the couch, needing to avoid my brother’s stare and his mind tricks.
“Brett’s coming to town,” are the words Ryan uses to change the subject.
Well, thank God I didn’t eat because it’d be coming back up right about now.
“Oh, is he?” my mother bursts. “Stevie, did you hear that?”
“Heard it.”
“That’s so exciting. I love Brett. What’s he doing here?”
“There’s a charity gala coming up, and all the major sports teams in the city will be there. He needs to network, so hopefully, I can introduce him to some people I know. Get him a job here.”
“Here?” Quickly turning around, my eyes widen with bewilderment.
“Yeah, here. I told you about him coming a few weeks ago.”
“I know, but I didn’t think that meant he would be trying to work here. Live here.”
“I think it’s great,” my mom interrupts. “Brett is such a handsome boy. Stevie, you should be grateful he’s coming to town. Maybe he will give you another chance.”
What the hell? “I don’t want another chance!”
Oh shit. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas.
“Vee, you don’t need to give him another chance if you don’t want to,” my sweet dad adds.
My mother, on the other hand? Mortified that a woman would be so loud.
“What went down between you two?” my brother asks.