Page 63 of Goal Line
“Let’s eat before the food gets cold,” my mom says, absolutely no emotion in her voice as she gestures toward the house behind her.
Luke drops another kiss on the top of my head and tucks me up against his side as we follow our parents up the stairs and onto the deck, which runs along the entire length of the house. When we get there, I note that Preston and Tucker are nowhere in sight.
“Preston and Tucker didn’t come?” Luke asks his mom as we move toward the table.
“No,” she says, giving his arm a pat. “Preston stopped by to talk to your dad about some business stuff, and Tucker was kind enough to pick up a dress I’d ordered in the city and drive it up here for me on his way to the restaurant.”
Luke nods, and I wonder if he’s relieved about their absence or was hoping they could run interference? That is, assuming that they support our marriage and would be willing to back us up? Based on Preston’s text about the lack of a prenup, I have no idea how the Hartmann family feels about this. I also have no sense of what it’s like to have siblings.
We take our seats around the large glass table, where grilled steaks and skewers of shrimp sit on platters, surrounded by a large bowl of grilled veggies and smaller bowls of potato, pasta, and green salads.
My stomach rumbles loud enough that Luke hears it over the crashing waves below us, and he chuckles. He knows that it’s been hours since I ate on the plane and that Baby Squashhas probably devoured all the nutrients from that meal, leaving me starving. After a decade of closely monitoring every last thing I put into my body, one of the highlights of the past few days in LA was actually eating what I wanted, when I wanted.
We load up our plates in silence before Frank finally says, “All right, kiddos, tell us what’s going on.” His white hair is ruffling in the ocean breeze, his pink cheeks glowing from the golden light of the sinking sun, and his light eyes twinkle. I’m pretty sure he’s enjoying this, but I’m not certain which aspects of this situation make him happy and which he might be concerned about.
I move my hand from my lap to Luke’s thigh, giving him a little squeeze. I know he said he’s best when following my lead, but it’s like I’ve forgotten the story we’d concocted in LA and perfected on the flight home. I’m at a total loss for words.
Luke takes my hand in his, gliding his thumb across the monstrous ring on my finger, before he looks at my parents and says, “I’ve been in love with your daughter for as long as I can remember.”
It takes everything in me—every bit of training I’ve ever had, every ounce of practice smiling for the cameras no matter how I feel inside—to keep myself from gasping. This is so wildly different from the “slowly figuring out we had feelings for each other” storyline we developed with Morgan.
Why is he going off script about this?Did he momentarily forget what we were supposed to say, like I did? Because now it’s all come back to me with total clarity, andthis is not it.
Though honestly, he sounds entirely believable, so maybe this is the right direction?
I’m busy thinking about how we’ll probably need to let Morgan know about this, when he glances over, giving me a small and affectionate smile before leaning back in his chair, raising his arm, and resting it over my shoulders. The pads of his fingers toy with the bare skin at the top of my arm, sending goose bumps down to my hand and a wave of longing through my core.
“And recently, I finally started hoping she returned those feelings.”
How recently? What is he talking about?Is he trying to tell me something right now, or is this part of the “let’s sell this story” plan and I need to step up my faking it game?
“We’ve been secretly dating for about...” He pauses, glancing at me, like he’s trying to do the math in his head. “...nine months? It started when I was still living in Calgary and went to visit Eva in LA this past fall. Because of her competition schedule and my hockey schedule, we were only able to meet up in person a few times over the winter and spring. We quickly realized we didn’t want to keep doing the long-distance thing. So we decided to get married, as quickly as possible.”
Okay, at least that part of the story follows the narrative Morgan concocted for us.
“And you couldn’t have told us thisbeforeyou got married?” his mom asks, and from her tone, it’s obvious she’s hurt.
“We knew what we wanted and didn’t want anyone to try to talk us out of it,” I say, softening my voice so it doesn’t come out sounding defiant. We’re grown-ass adults and we don’t technically need our parents’ permission, or even their blessing. But somehow, I know we’d both be happier if theybestowed their best wishes on us. Our families have been super close since before we were both born, and the relationship has remained strong all the way up to this very moment. There are personalandprofessional ties between them, and we don’t want to strain that for our parents.
“Why would you think we’d try to talk you out of it?” my dad asks, and by the way Frank tilts his chin as he waits for our answer, he clearly has the same question.
“We weren’t sure. We also didn’t want a big wedding,” I say. “This relationship has grown and changed over time, and because only the two of us knew about it, we wanted it to be just the two of us at the ceremony as well.”
“That fact that you got married in Vegas, when we were all there, and didn’t even invite us...” Elise’s voice trails off as she looks out at the ocean and clears her throat.
“We weren’t trying to hurt you,” Luke says in a rush. “But we talked about it a lot, and this was the weddingwewanted. We’re about to be parents ourselves?—”
Luke stops speaking when the collective gasp sounds around the table. “Shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “Forgot we hadn’t gotten to that part.”
“Surprise,” I say, lifting my hands above the table and giving them a little shake—the awkward jazz hands match my equally stilted laugh.
“How far along are you?” my mom asks, and I jump to the shitty, but probably correct, conclusion that she’s asking only so she can figure out how much this might fuck up my skating career. I try to give her the benefit of the doubt, because maybe that’s not what she means—but the fact that’s my first guess speaks volumes about her caring more about my career than about me.
“Almost twenty-eight weeks.”
My mom’s nostrils flare as she takes a deep breath in an apparent attempt to calm herself, but it makes her look like a horse that’s about to rear up.
“How can you be that far along?” Elise asks, looking at me. “You’re not even showing.”
