Page 17 of Empty Net

I’m sure my mother would think that. She was engaged to my father a month after meeting him and married him a month later. That was over thirty years ago, and they’re more in love today than they were back then.

Maybe they’re why I don’t hate relationships as much as my teammates do. I’ve always had their love as a reminder that they don’t always turn out shitty.

“How’s the party going?” she asks. “Must be fun if you forgot to call your mother.”

My mama loves me, but she takes every opportunity to guilt me. I’m pretty sure it’s her motherly duty or something.

“It’s fun. Just been watching Lawson make a fool of himself as usual.”

“That poor Rory.”

I laugh. My parents haven’t met my teammates or their girlfriends, but since I tell them everything, they seem to know them and are fully invested in their shenanigans.

“Saw your game last night,” my dad says, tossing cards across the table to his friends, that cigar still hanging precariously out the side of his mouth. “You played a good one, kid. That save with your paddle was incredible.”

It wasn’t. I wouldn’t have had to make it if I hadn’t given up the rebound to begin with, but my dad has never said a bad word about my game before. When I’d lose when I was younger, he’d pat me on the back anyway, and we’d go for ice cream. If I won, it was the same thing. My parents’ steadfast support is the one thing I could always count on, but sometimes, I wish they’d just tell it to me straight and be honest when I play like shit.

“Thanks,” I say anyway, not wanting to get into it because I have a whole list of examples of sucking lately.

It’s like that when you’re a player, though. Fans might see a great save or goal, while players will see all the ways they could have done better. No matter how loud someone on social media is, nobody critiques our game more than we do.

“We’re looking forward to the trip you arranged for us. I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s been too long.”

With me being in Seattle instead of playing in New York, where I spent most of my professional career until a horrible year sent me to the expansion team now known as the Seattle Serpents, my parents haven’t seen me play in a couple of years now. So, for Christmas, I bought them plane tickets. I think my mother started shopping for rain gear about two seconds after she opened the tickets.

“But until then, we’re going to watch every one of your games, kid,” Dad promises.

We talk about my dad swindling his friends out of money, her shifts at the hospital and the crazy stuff her patients are doingthis holiday season, and how Russ is getting in deep with Katie, leading my mother to believe that this time next year, they’ll be engaged. This, of course, leads to a repeat discussion of my singlehood.

When I finally get her off the phone, I have no idea how much time has passed, just that I’m out of vodka and in dire need of another drink. I slip my phone into my pocket, resting against the building. The music thumps so loudly through the speakers that I can feel it vibrating against my back. I should probably go back in there before someone—namely Lawson—comes outside looking for me, but I can’t seem to make myself move.

It’s not that I’m not having a good time—I am—I just can’t stop my mind from racing. From the many, many questions about my game to why Lilah looked like she was about to cry to how I’m absolutely loathing the thought of going back to an empty apartment again, it’s all too much, and even this party can’t distract me from that.

But maybe more vodka can.

I rise from the bench, ready to head back inside, then the doors burst open. The sound of heels clacking against the concrete perks my ears, and now I’m on edge for a whole different reason. The person moving across the balcony is the same person I’ve been looking for since she disappeared on me over an hour ago.

Lilah.

Her gait is a little wobbly, and I can only wonder how much she’s had to drink since I last saw her. She holds her phone in her hand as she props herself up against the balcony. A loud woman shouts on the other end of the line, asking about who Lilah is seeing.

I should leave, should give her privacy, but I’m rooted in place, especially when Lilah sighs loudly, visibly upset with whoever she’s talking to.

“I did not hang up on you, Mother. IsaidI was hanging up, which is vastly different from just getting off the phone. Now though—now Iwantto hang up, and I’m three seconds away from doing so.”

I barely hold back my laugh at her sassiness. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have a distinct feeling, especially based on the irritation radiating off her, that she would be completely justified in hanging up on her mother.

“Lilah!” the older woman gasps dramatically. “Do not speak to your mother that way!”

“Well, then, maybe my mother should stop trying to marry me off to the highest bidder.”

Isthatwhat had her so upset earlier? Because if so, I don’t blame her for crying. I’d be upset too if my parents were trying to pull off some archaic bullshit like that.

Her mother scoffs. “They’re just dates, Lilah. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Yes, a date with someone I’ve never met before who I highly doubt has any interest in me other than the fact that I’m your daughter doesn’t at all sound like you’re trying to pawn me off on whoever has the most money.”

“Do you truly think I’m such a horrible mother that I’d do that?”

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