Page 48 of Love so Cold

"Thanks," I say, breathless from the exertion and the exhilaration. "Feels good."

"Feels good? Dude, you look like you were born to play hockey! You won us the game!" He punches my shoulder lightly.

The cheers die down, and we go to shake hands with the other team. Matthew and I are the last to leave the ice, still buzzing from the adrenaline of the game. As I take off my skates, I can't shake the warm glow inside me. It's more than the satisfaction of a good play; it's the sense of belonging somewhere, being part of something.

We make our way to the locker room where the team is celebrating, and then out to the lobby. Matthew's parents are waiting for us with smiles on their faces.

"What a game!" Shaun, Matt's dad, says, patting us both on the shoulder.

"We're so proud of you both!" Nancy, Matt's mom, says. "We're going to celebrate with dinner out!"

I smile as we head out to the car. It feels like I'm a part of this family. In reality, I know I'm not, but I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if I were, just for a dangerous second.

As we pile into the Friendly's restaurant, Matt says he's got to go to the bathroom, and the rest of us sit down. Nancy looks first at her husband and then at me.

"Victor, can we talk for a moment?"

"Sure," I reply, looking between the two of them.

"We've been talking," Shaun begins, his eyes kind. "And we've seen how well you fit in here—with us, with Matthew..."

My heart starts pounding, a mix of hope and fear tangling up inside me. I swallow hard, not daring to assume anything.

"We want you to be more than just our foster son," Nancy says, her voice laced with something that sounds suspiciously like love. "We want to adopt you, make you officially part of our family. What do you think about that?"

For a moment, the world tips on its axis. The word "adopted" hangs in the air like a promise, one I've been too scared to let myself believe could come true.

"Really?" The word comes out as a choked whisper,my blue eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You—you want me?"

"Of course, we do," Shaun says, reaching out to pat my hand. "We love you, Victor. And we want you to be our son, forever."

"Forever" echoes in my mind, a sweet sound I've longed to hear my whole life. I nod, unable to find my voice, unable to do anything but agree to this miracle they're offering me.

"Yes," I finally manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Their smiles light up the space between us, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to bask in the warmth of a family that wants me. Just as I am.

***

The morning sun barely peeks through the curtains when a sharp knock jolts me awake. My heart races as I sit up, scanning the room that's become more familiar each day. Before I can even rub the sleep from my eyes, Mrs. Lawson, the social worker, steps in, her face a mask of practiced neutrality.

"Victor, there's been a change. You need to gather your things," she says briskly.

"What? Why?" I stammer, confusion fogging my brain. "I—I'm supposed to be here. They're adopting me."

"Plans have changed," is all she offers, avoidingmy gaze.

Panic claws at my chest. I scramble out of bed, throwing clothes into the duffel bag that never quite got unpacked. The Thompsons' home, with its warm kitchen and laughter around the dinner table, had started to feel like mine. A real family was within my grasp, and now it's slipping away.

"Can I say goodbye to Matthew?" I plead, my voice cracking.

"There's no time. We have to go now."

The house is empty as we walk downstairs. I can't understand what's going on, and Mrs. Lawson isn't telling me anything.

The car ride is a blur. I press my forehead against the cold window, watching as trees and houses whip past, taking me farther from the life I'd barely begun to live.

We pull up to a house much smaller than the Thompsons', with chipped paint and a yard cluttered with toys. Inside, kids swarm like bees, loud and restless. I'm just another face, another name to remember, or forget.

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