Page 111 of Him
I glance down at the cutting board in front of me. As far as I can tell, I haven’t committed any major onion-related crimes.
“Um…” I meet Cindy Canning’s eyes. “Well, that’s kind of a trick question. Nobody taught me, per se. My parents have a cook that comes in four times a week to prepare meals and—wait, I’m sorry, did you call me Ryan Theodore?”
She waves her hand as if the question is inconsequential. “I don’t know your middle name so I had to make one up. Because, sweetie, you really needed to be middle-named for mangling those poor onions.”
I can’t stop the laugh that flies out of my mouth. Jamie’s mother is so fucking awesome. I’m far more relaxed in her kitchen than I expected to be.
Jamie and I arrived in California two days ago, but since I had a game the first night, Jamie went to his folks’ place while I stayed at the hotel with my teammates. After the team crushed San Jose, I did the usual post-game press, and then yesterday morning I drove up to San Rafael to join Jamie and his family.
The big holiday meal today will be the real test of their acceptance. I’ve already met Jamie’s mom and dad and one brother. So far, so good.
“These need to be chopped into smaller pieces,” Cindy tells me. She smacks my butt to move me aside, then takes my place. “Have a seat at the counter. You can watch while I chop. Take notes if you need to.”
I grin at her. “So I guess Jamie didn’t tell you how much I suck at cooking, huh?”
“He most certainly did not.” She fixes me with a stern look. “But you’ll have to learn, because I can’t spend all my time worrying that my baby boy isn’t being fed over there in Siberia.”
“Toronto,” I correct with a snort. “And I’m sure you can guess he’s the one who’s been feeding me.”
Now that the hockey season is underway, life is hectic as fuck. Practice is brutal, and our schedule is exhausting. Jamie’s my rock, though. He comes to all my home games, and when I drag my tired self home from the airport after an away game, he’s waiting there to rub my shoulders, or shove food down my throat, or screw me until I can’t see straight.
Our apartment is my safe place, my haven. I can’t even believe I considered trying to make it through my rookie season without him.
It’s easy to figure out where he got that nurturing gene from, because his mom has been fussing over me all day.
Another snort sounds from the doorway, and then Jamie’s father strides into the kitchen. “Toronto,” he echoes. “What kind of city doesn’t have a football team? Explain that to me, Wes.”
“They do have one,” I point out. “The Argonauts.”
Richard narrows his eyes. “Is it an NFL team?”
“Well, no, it’s CFL, but—”
“Then they don’t have a team,” he says firmly.
I stifle a laugh. Jamie warned me that his family was football fanatics, but I genuinely thought he was exaggerating.
“Where’s Jamie?” Richard glances around the kitchen as if he expects Jamie to pop out of a cupboard.
“He went to pick up Jess,” Cindy tells her husband. “She wants to have a few drinks tonight so she’s leaving her car at home.”
Richard nods in approval. “Good girl,” he says, as if Jess can somehow hear him all the way across town.
I have to admit I was terrified to meet Jamie’s family. I mean, I already know they’re good people. But a father and three older brothers? I had this nagging fear they’d hate me just on principle. You know, for being the guy who’s fucking their baby boy.
But Jamie’s dad has been great, and I’ve already met Scott, who’s staying here at the house. The three of us went out for beers at a sports bar last night, and when the highlights from the previous night’s games played on the TV screens, Scott had clapped his hands against the table and shouted, “That’s my brother!” every time I skated into view. And when the goal I scored late in the second flashed on the screen? Jamie and Scott went nuts.
Yup, my first ever NHL goal. I’m still fucking ecstatic about it. This past month, I’ve been seeing more and more playing time, and last night was a record for me—twelve minutes of ice time, and a goal for my efforts. Life is good.
So good, in fact, I’m feeling more generous than usual, which is why I slide off my stool and say, “Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to call my folks to wish them a happy Thanksgiving.”
Jamie’s mother beams at me. “Aw, that’s so sweet of you. Go ahead.”
I duck out and fish my phone out of my pocket. Fuck, I’m even smiling as I dial my parents’ number in Boston. The smile fades fast, however. It always does when I hear my father’s voice.
“Hey, Dad,” I say gruffly. “Is this a good time?”
“Actually, it isn’t. Your mother and I are on our way out. We have reservations at six.”
