Chapter 8
LIVELY
Matt scoffed. "Man, who do you think you're talking to?
" He said before I could even get a word in, and the other guys' chuckles punctuated the words, "I mean, did you already forget how he's been lying there, staring at his phone for six fucking hours, waiting for his ‘partner’ to respond to one of his messages? "
The room turned rowdy with laughter as Dylan said, above the noise, "Yeah, he's mighty happy with his pairing, alright."
"Right? How can we be sure he's even gonna be able to handle checking her?" That was Mason. "Because,right now,you seem more likely to propose marriage on center ice."
I flipped him off for that, but he had a point. The thought of potentially hitting Hailey during the game made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with normal pre-game nerves. But the thought of her checking me ?
"At least, she'll touch me if she's trying to separate me from the puck." I said, and Dylan made a disgusted noise.
"Just listen to this idiot. That's it. I'm calling psych services. This is beyond my paygrade." He said, and the guys all burst out into raucous laughter.
Man, fuck these guys.
Jokes aside, though, I knew how they were feeling about our arrangement.
Sharing the rink meant sharing trust. And trust?
We didn't need a soothsayer to tell us that there was no trust lost between our teams. The two years when we'd had to share a rink with them hadn't been pleasant years, and I couldn't say we didn't have a role to play in the why of it, but the last thing we wanted now was a repeat of those times.
My job now wasn’t to fuel their doubts; it was to lead.
“Look,” I said. “I get it. This is weird. But bitching about it won’t change shit. We can either spend the rest of the season whining, or we can figure out how to make this work.”
And they all knew which option we were going to pick.
"The girls hate us, and for good reason," I continued, my tone hard, "so we're just going to have to suck it up and make. Nice."
"Yeah, I mean, of course, you're right..." Dylan finally conceded.
Evan exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Man, why do we gotta pay for the sins of those bastards?” He grumbled and I just blinked back at him.
Evan could be petulant when he wanted to be, but the key was to not encourage him or he'd push it even further.
Mason muttered something under his breath, but it sounded vaguely like agreement.
Matt, the agent of chaos, just smirked. “I don’t mind at all. Have you seen their roster? Because let me tell you, boys—those girls are fine.”
Logan perked up. “Wait, hold on. We never actually established the most important part of this arrangement.”
I sighed. “Which is?” I could already feel the beginnings of a killer headache thrumming at the base of my skull.
His grin turned wolfish. “Which ones are off-limits?”
Whistles and a few groans filled the room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dylan muttered. Ha, at least, there was still one person thinking with their damn brains in here. That was why he was Vice Captain.
Matt, unbothered, started counting on his fingers. “Okay, so obviously Baleman—”
I shot him a glare so deadly it could’ve cracked the ice at the center rink.
He held up his hands, laughing. “Hey, hey. Just saying. We all know she's a no-go.”
Logan nodded sagely. “True. Baleman’s basically spoken for.”
Shit, these idiots were going to be my ruin one of these days. They'd better not go around saying that shit where any of the Blizzard Belles could hear or I was fucked. I barely resisted the urge to throttle him as it was.
Matt, still counting, continued. “Okay, so Baleman’s off the table. And I guess any of the ones with boyfriends—”
“Oh, like that’s ever stopped you before,” Mason muttered.
Matt ignored him. “—but everyone else?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Fair game.”
Evan shook his head. “You’re an actual menace.”
“I prefer the term opportunist .” He quipped, flashing a wisecracking grin.
Dylan rubbed his temples. “You know, some of us are actually here to play hockey.”
Matt gasped. “Blasphemy.”
Logan clapped a hand over his chest. “Dylan, I’m deeply disappointed in you.”
These little shits. Dylan and I exchanged a look before shaking our heads like a duo of disappointed Dads with their dumb teen sons.
"Careful what you wish for, Matt. I don't think any of the Belles are going to be ‘fair game’." I warned him, but his stupid, cheeky grin only widened.
Well then, I guessed it was better to leave him to his fate, then. Fools, they say, learned from experience, after all.
Sighing, I grabbed my phone off the rug before rising to my feet. “Alright, fun as this has been, we’ve got practice in the morning. Get the hell out of my apartment.”
Predictably, no one moved.
These little...
“You mean our apartment,” Dylan corrected, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
I was just about to respond to him when my phone buzzed with a notification, and my heart just about exploded inside my chest.
I dug it out of my pocket with one jerky move, heart in my throat, as I swiped up on the screen lock, only to find a message from... My dad.
Fuck.
The moment I saw my father’s name on my screen, the easy humor curdled in my chest. His message was brief, clinical:
Dr. Summers : Family dinner by 6. Come to the hospital.
No greeting. No context. Just a demand, wrapped up in the brittle efficiency that had always defined our relationship. ‘Family dinner’, huh? That meant that they were both going to be there; my mom and dad. And it was 5:15 P.M. right now, too.
My stomach twisted, and it wasn't out of nerves exactly. It was just that I’d long since stopped expecting anything different from him. Yet some stupid, stubborn part of me still felt like a kid waiting for a pat on the head that was never coming. And I hated that.
My grip on my phone tightened as the noise of the room faded into the background. The guys were still talking, laughing, throwing jabs at each other like always; but I felt like I was standing a few feet outside of it, looking in.
Dylan must’ve noticed the shift first, because his voice cut through the haze. “Yo. Lively.”
I blinked and lifted my head, to find out that every pair of eyes in the room was on me.
Dylan frowned. “What’s up?” There was concern in his eyes, and, for a split second, I almost caved. Almost let the words tumble out of my mouth.
But I also knew that concern was the only thing I could allow them to have for me when it came to this: my family.
Sure, they knew that I was a ‘rich kid’ and that my parents owned one of the biggest hospitals in the Bay area, but that was as far as they knew.
They didn't know that my relationship with my parents was about as warm and fuzzy as a damn ice bath, and I figured it would be better to keep it this way.
So, I just let my lips curve into an insufferable smirk, shaking off whatever look Dylan was giving me, and rolled my shoulders back like I was shrugging off a bad hit.
"Nothing," I said, flipping my phone over in my hand before stuffing it back into my pocket. "Just a dinner thing with the 'rents. No big deal."
Dylan's frown deepened, but Matt let out a low whistle, effectively cutting off whatever my vice-captain might’ve said.
"Well, well, well," Matt drawled. "Summers is having a rich-people soirée tonight. What’s on the menu? Caviar? Golden steaks?"
Logan smirked. "Nah, nah, it's gotta be something classier, like foie gras with a side of—what’s that fancy-ass water called? The one in glass bottles?"
"Ehh, Perrier?"
Evan snorted. "Man, you uncultured asses. It’s Voss."
They all erupted into laughter like a bunch of goddamn hyenas, and I rolled my eyes, flashing my middle finger in Matt’s stupid, grinning face.
"Real funny, dickheads," I muttered, but I let the ribbing roll off my back like I always did. Let them think it was a fancy dinner at some expensive restaurant where my mom would gush about the latest hospital expansion and my dad would nod approvingly while cutting into a hundred-dollar steak.
Because that was the version of my family they knew. And that was the version I let them believe in.
No one needed to know what these dinners were actually like.
I turned on my heel and headed into my room to grab my stuff. The sounds of the guys still joking around drifted through the walls, but I barely heard them over the way my pulse thumped against my ribs.
It was just dinner. I’d survived plenty of them before. Didn't stop my hands from getting clammy as I pulled open my closet, though.
Pushing the dread deep, deep down, I grabbed what I needed: a hoodie, my keys, and, at the last second, my practice gear.
If I was going to have to sit through an evening of thinly veiled passive-aggression, I was damn well going to blow off steam afterward.
By the time I walked back out, slinging my hockey bag over my shoulder, the guys had made themselves even more at home, Logan sprawled across the couch like he paid rent here, while Matt continued tossing that damn puck in the air.
Dylan arched a brow when he caught sight of my gear. "You bringing your stuff to a fancy dinner?"
"Yup," I said, popping the 'p' as I grabbed my stick from the wall. "Figured I’d hit the ice after."
That set off another round of heckling.
"After?" Logan let out a low, knowing whistle. "Damn, Cap, they stressing you out that much?"
Oh, you have no idea , I thought. I didn't say it out loud, though. I just shot him a look. "Eat shit, Logan."
He just grinned back at me.
Matt, ever the instigator, rubbed his chin like he was contemplating something serious. "Y’know, maybe we should all start bringing our gear to family dinners. Just in case we need to skate off the trauma after."
Dylan shot him a deadpan look. "Your mom still calls you ‘Muffin’. Only trauma you'll be shaking off would be all that extra fat from eating too much damn dinner."
The room exploded with laughter, and Matt groaned, hurling a pillow at Dylan, who dodged it easily. "Low blow, bro."
Still, even with all their teasing, I could feel Dylan’s eyes on me, sharper than the rest. He wasn’t fooled by the way I was deflecting…but he didn’t push. He never did, and for that, I was grateful. That was why we were best friends, and why he was the best vice-captain I could ask for.
I adjusted my grip on my stick and jerked my chin toward the door. "Alright, I’m out. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone, you assholes."
"Can’t promise anything," Logan said, already stretching out further on the couch.
"Yeah, we’ll be sure to leave some scraps for you when you crawl back in at dawn," Evan added with a smirk.
I just shook my head and shoved open the door, stepping into the chilly night air. As I walked to my car, I exhaled slowly, watching my breath curl in the cold.
Time to put the mask back on.
The drive to the hospital was uneventful, the city lights blurring past as I kept one hand on the wheel, the other absentmindedly running through my hair.
It was already 6:06 P.M. By the time I pulled into the underground parking garage, found a spot near the elevator, and cut the engine, I was pretty much over it, and I hadn’t even met them yet.
The hospital loomed in front of me, all sleek glass and polished steel, its massive logo backlit against the darkening sky.
Even now, close to evening, the place was alive with movement—doctors walking briskly across the entrance, nurses chatting by the doors, visitors pacing anxiously with cups of coffee clutched in their hands.
I knew this place like the back of my hand.
Had practically grown up in its halls, trailing after my father as a kid, always careful not to step out of line, not to embarrass him.
I didn’t know why I still felt like that kid when I stepped inside.
The elevator ride up to my father’s office was quiet, the soft ding of each passing floor the only sound.
When the doors slid open, I saw my parents already seated at the private dining table, my mother elegantly poised with a glass of red wine, my father reviewing something on his tablet, always working, even at dinner.
"Lively," my mother greeted me with a polite and distant smile as I approached, even though her eyes were cold. "You’re late."
"Traffic," I lied smoothly, sliding into my seat.
My father didn’t even look up. "You should plan ahead, then. It's embarrassing to have to teach you simple social etiquette at that age."
"George," my mother interjected tiredly.
"But then, what can I expect from a son who refuses to listen?"
Ah. So, we were getting right into it. Did I have it in me to even point out the fact that he was the one who'd sprung this dinner on me barely thirty damn minutes ago?
No. No, I did not.
So, I plastered on my most charming grin. "Noted. I’ll consult the stars next time." I said, deciding not to let anything that happened from this moment on get to me.
My mother sighed lightly, setting her glass down. "Must you always be so flippant?"
Right, because Dad was being such a jolly peach, huh?
"It’s a gift," I said, reaching for the menu. "What’s for dinner?"
They didn’t laugh. They never did.
The meal went as it always did—stiff conversation, occasional questions about hockey that felt more like obligations than real interest, and the inevitable pivot toward what I was going to do after college.
"Your father spoke with a colleague from the Garret-Sinai Clinic today," my mother said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "They’re very interested in taking on promising young surgeons."
And there it was. Shit, just like clockwork.
They never gave up on this shit. They weren't ever going to be satisfied with me just volunteering down at the children's wing—no, they wanted to control every damn aspect of my life all while treating me like I was some cog in the machine of their egomaniacal empire.
I was lucky that I'd gotten into Northgate University with an athletic scholarship, or else they'd have strong-armed me into going for Medicine and Surgery instead of hockey that I wanted to pursue.
And they hadn't given up on that even until now.
Just imagine talking about young promising surgeons to a third-year athlete.
They fully were aiming to wear me down into going back to college again, just so I could read medicine.
I forced a bite down my throat, using all the nonchalance in me to keep my unbothered mask in place. "That’s great," I said, "Hope they find someone."
A pause. Then my father finally looked up, sharp eyes pinning me in place. "This isn’t a joke, Lively."