Page 75 of Perfectly Faked

victoria

Leo offers to drive, but my mom shakes her head, sniffing at his sports car as she walks by. “Such a dangerous toy,” she mutters under her breath. Leo is heading to practice after brunch, so we have no choice but to take two vehicles to the restaurant.

Before I climb into Leo’s car, Mom turns to me. “Victoria, I want to talk to you about something.” Although she wears a polite smile, I can tell there’s no room for debate. I could make a stink about riding with her, but it’s better to pick my battles, and this one isn’t worth the fight.

I glance at Leo apologetically. “Meet you there?”

He nods as I head to my mother’s monstrous SUV. All the way to the restaurant, I stare out the window, staying quiet while Mom keeps up her usual monologue. She talks about skaters perfecting new lifts and jumps, dropping names like she’s updating me on a leaderboard I’m no longer on. Somehow, I just don’t care about it like I used to, even though my mother clearly is invested.

Each comment feels like another reminder of how far behind I’ve fallen. Even though Leo skates faster than anyone I know, Mom can’t help pointing out all the technical elements hockey players couldneverpick up, not in this short amount of time. And honestly, she’s not wrong. Leo isn’t planning to be my permanent partner, so why would he?

By the time we reach the restaurant—a fancy brunch place that serves overpriced eggs and employs waiters who act like you should be grateful they’re letting you eat there—I’m done talking about skating and my future in the industry.

Leo gives me an encouraging smile before boldly grabbing my hand in front of my mom. Her eyes flick down, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just looks away and strides into the restaurant.

We’re seated at a small table, and I end up next to my mom while Leo sits to my other side. As the server approaches, Mom immediately zeroes in on a few stray crumbs on the immaculate white tablecloth. “It seems this place has gone downhill in the last year,” she says, loud enough for the waiter to hear.

I want to sink into the ground.

Mom has always been vocal about her opinions, but this is embarrassingly rude. I see it more clearly now than I ever did growing up. Back then, I accepted it as normal—a part of my life I didn’t know was unhealthy—comments about my appearance, critiques of every performance, reminders of how I didn’t measure up. The worst part? When I made mistakes, they werealwaysmy fault. Either I wasn’t working hard enough or I didn’t care enough.

Even now, I’m weary of pushing back, especially not in public or in front of Leo. Because no matter how hard I try, Mom will always find a way to make me feel like I’m not doing enough. And I don’t need her dissecting my flaws under a magnifying glass for Leo to see.

When the waiter returns, she doesn’t even glance at the menu. “I’ll take a coffee, and my daughter would like tomato juice,” she adds, folding her napkin neatly in her lap.

Leo’s eyes cut to mine like he’s waiting for me to say something. He knows I don’t drink juice for breakfast.

“And for you?” the waiter asks Leo.

“Two glasses of water, please,” he says.

When the waiter brings our drinks and takes our food orders, Leo slides the second water glass over to me without a word. His fingers brush mine briefly, his eyes darting to look to the side of my face while I stare straight ahead, like he’s trying to figure out why I’m so quiet. He doesn’t know that this is how I deal with my mom—by attempting to keep the peace at all costs. It’s like I’ve become a shadow version of myself, someone who’s just trying to survive under her scrutiny, until she finally says something that makes me snap.

Mom stirs cream into her coffee like she has all the time in the world before she taps her spoon on her cup. “So, Leo, how has it been working with my daughter? Has she made you consider quitting yet?” Her tone is casual, but I know better. She’s poking, testing, looking for cracks.

“A few times,” he says, cracking a smile. “But it’s not her fault. I’m not graceful on the ice like her. She’s been more patient with me than I deserve. You should be proud of her.”

I blink, sliding my eyes to his.Proud of me?After all the fights we had at the start? All the times I wanted to kiss him senseless—and smack him in the same breath?

Working with him lately has been...surprisinglyfun. His willingness to try anything my coach throws at him is impressive, and in return, he’s taught me how to improve my skating game, pushing me to do drills that make me faster and more nimble. My movements are sharper, my turns cleaner, myjumps more precise. Thanks to Leo, I’m learning to enjoy skating again.

There’s still no guarantee I’ll make the goals I’ve been training for, but part of me cares less about that now. Somehow, having Leo here puts everything into perspective. He showed me I’m homesick for a life I’m not living.A good, ordinary life.Everything about this man feels like sunshine to my parched soul.

“Well, I’m not sure a hockey player is good for much,” Mom says, “except paying my husband’s salary.”

Leo doesn’t say a word, but his jaw tightens for a second like he’s holding back—for me.

How does my dad put up with this?I can’t imagine living with someone who despises my career as much as my mom dislikes hockey. She’s always resented the travel, the roughness of the sport, and the time it took away from family. Instead, she threw herself into my career, especially since I was her youngest and her last chance to create a family legacy. Even though I have an older sister, she was never interested in skating like I was. I became Mom’s pride and joy, her miracle baby after two other miscarriages.

But somewhere along the way, her love became tied to my achievements. She didn’t want anyone to steal the spotlight she’d carefully curated for me. Especially not a man. Anddefinitelynot a hockey player.

Mom turns to me, her face all business. “Your coach says you’re making good progress, despite this little arrangement.” She waves her finger between Leo and me.

“Well, Dad thought it was a good plan,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Since he made the assignment.”

“Yes, well, I thought it might knock some sense into you,” she replies.

My hand grips Leo’s knee under the table. His hand finds mine, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze to let me know he’s here, he’s not leaving. My safety buddy has morphed into my emotional support buddy, here to get me through brunch with my mom.

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