21. Chapter 20
Gray
My heart pounds in my ears as we pull up to Ash’s parents’ house for dinner a few weeks later. What the hell was I thinking to agree to this?
This isn’t just any dinner. This is a meet-the-family dinner we had to drive seven hours up to Canada on Thanksgiving Day to have.
Luckily, Ash’s parents live just over the border in Niagra-on-the-Lake.
His sisters live much closer, one in Buffalo, New York, the other in Hamilton, Ontario.
We’ll spend the night so we don’t have to do fourteen hours of driving in a day.
“I can’t do this,” I blurt out as Ash turns off his Aston Martin in front of the sage-colored ranch-style house. There’s already two other cars in the driveway, which means his sisters likely beat us here.
Ash raises a brow. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
“I’ll wait in the car,” I say.
“I’m not driving back to Connecticut tonight.”
“Just bring me out a blanket and pillow after dessert,” I insist.
Ash gives me an indulgent look and gets out of the car. He comes around to my door and tries to open it, but I lock it quickly. Ash gives me a look through the window that says ‘Really?’ and unlocks the door with his fob. He yanks it open before I can hit the button again.
“Let’s go,” he says. “My family doesn’t bite, and my mother is an amazing cook.”
I sigh and get out of the car. I’m wearing a knee-length teal dress and flats. Nice but not overly fancy.
Ash closes the door, then goes around to the trunk and slings both my overnight bag and his own over his shoulder. He comes back and offers me his arm. I take it, because what else am I going to do?
The front door flies open as we ascend the porch stairs and a woman in her fifties rushes out with a huge smile on her face. Ash drops the bags on the porch just in time to catch her as she flings herself into his arms.
“You made it. Right on time,” the woman says as she pulls back and cups his face in her hands. “Did you have a good trip? No problems at the border?”
“The guards hassled me about not playing for a Canadian team,” Ash tells her with a smile, “but otherwise everything was fine.”
The woman’s blue eyes swing to me, and I freeze like a rabbit spotted by coyote. Her smile widens as she surges toward me, and I force myself not to scurry back from her. She pulls me into a hug, and my eyes widen as I hug her back awkwardly.
“And you must be Gray,” the woman says. Her face goes serious for a moment as she pulls back. “Or do you prefer Dr. Mackey?”
I nearly choke. I’d never make my fake boyfriend’s family call me by my title. “Gray is more than fine,” I tell her.
“I’m Ash’s mother, Sigga,” the woman says as she steps back.
I manage a smile of my own. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Mom, at least let them get inside first,” a younger woman with golden brown hair says from the doorway.
Sigga waves a dismissive hand. “Right, right. Come on in.”
She heads into the house, and Ash and I follow her into the living room where we’re greeted by another woman and an older man who is unmistakably Ash’s father.
Ash hugs his father and sisters, and they all turn as one to look at me.
“Gray,” Ash says, coming to stand next to me, “this is my father Gunnar, and my sisters Inga and Petra.”
I can’t help my blink. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that with the last name Gunnarsson, Ash’s father would be named Gunnar, but it still takes me by surprise.
Working with hundreds of students a year, you’d think I’d be used to different international naming conventions, but this one slipped by me.
Ash turns to his family as he puts an arm around my waist. “This is my girlfriend, Gray Mackey.”
His father and sisters step up to shake my hand and greet me warmly.
I look at Ash. “Is…Ash an Icelandic name?” I ask him softly. It never occurred to me to question it, but the rest of his family all have names that sound distinctly Icelandic.
“No, it’s not,” his sister Inga answers before he can. “In fact, the word for ‘ash’ in Icelandic, aska, is feminine.” She wears a half smirk, and I’m suddenly sorry I asked.
I look at Ash with apology, but he must be used to this because his look is resigned.
“Ash was our first child born in the US when we moved there from Iceland,” Sigga explains. “We wanted to give him an American name, and one of our neighbors at the time suggested Ash because one of the volcanos had just erupted back home in Iceland.”
“I think he was joking,” Gunnar cuts in.
Sigga shrugs. “We checked, and it was a common enough name for boys over here, so we decided to go with it.”
“We gave him a good Icelandic middle name, though,” Gunnar adds, making me think the name Ash was mostly his wife’s idea. “So he can use that when he visits Iceland.”
“Which I do,” Ash says to me softly.
I think back to my search on Ash and try to recall his middle name. Dagur, I think?
“The council never would’ve approved the name Ash,” Inga notes.
“Council?” I ask.
“Iceland has a council of three people who approve names for children,” Petra explains. “They reject anything that isn’t Icelandic enough. They would’ve had a problem with the word being feminine.”
Inga shakes her head. “There have been gender exceptions before,” she says.
“A family went to court to let their daughter keep the name Blaer, even though it’s a masculine word.
They won the case, but probably because the name at least has some basis in Icelandic.
They likely would’ve rejected Ash for being too American. ”
I recall Inga is a lawyer, so her familiarity with the case isn’t surprising.
“I’ll bring those to the spare room,” Gunnar says, taking our bags from Ash. He’s clearly trying to change the subject or just get out of the room. “Sit down and relax.”
We all sit down in the living room and Sigga brings out a charcuterie platter.
She goes back into the kitchen and returns with two bottles of wine and two glasses.
There are already wine glasses on the coffee table that must belong to the other family members, and Inga and Petra both pick up half-full glasses when they sit down.
Ash and I sit next to each other on the loveseat, and he slings his arm over the back of it, almost on my shoulders but not quite.
I wish he’d just touch me already because I can practically feel his arm there.
My skin tingles with its nearness, like there’s some kind of magnetic field trying to draw me toward it.
It’s more distracting than if he was just touching me.
“Ash said you like wine,” Petra says, smiling warmly at me. “These bottles are from local wineries. Did you know the Niagra-on-the-Lake wine region has close to seventy wineries?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, surprised.
“Including Wayne Gretsky’s winery,” Inga says, although the comment is contemptuous.
I look at Ash. “Wayne Gretsky has a winery?”
“Yeah, it’s not far from here,” he says. “If you want, we can visit some of the wineries tomorrow before we leave.”
I must be crazy, because his eyes seem soft as he looks at me.
“I’d like that,” I say.
“Riesling or Merlot?” Petra asks me as she holds up the bottles Sigga brought in.
“Merlot, please,” I say. I hold up my glass, and she fills it. I swirl the wine and take a sip. It’s dry but smooth, and I get those familiar notes of cocoa and clove that Merlot is often known for. It’s well-made wine.
“Tell us about yourself, Gray,” Petra says. “Ash has been short on details.”
I give Ash a panicked look. He told me more about his family on the way up, but he didn’t mention what he told them about me. I’m also not sure what they know about how we met, and I’m afraid of unraveling whatever he might have said to them.
He seems to read my thoughts because he says, “They know how we met and why you’re working with me.”
“Is it really true you study trash talk?” Petra asks.
“More broadly, I study Sport Communication,” I say. “Trash talk is my focus area.”
“And why did you choose that?” she asks.
“I grew up in a family of trash talkers,” I say. “We all play competitive volleyball, so family picnics can be a bit hardcore. I’ve always been fascinated by how aggressive language and verbal sparring can affect people during competition. It’s a surprisingly understudied area.”
“Why is that?” she asks.
“Based on my experience, people like to dismiss trash talk as unethical. They think that if you ignore its existence, it will go away. But that’s not the case, and the consequence of that thinking is that when someone is having trouble dealing with it in the game,” I give Ash a quick glance, “there’s no strategy for dealing with it. ”
“Do you think using trash talk is unethical?” Inga asks me, and it feels like a challenge. She’s not the first person to ask me this question, though.
I take a careful sip of my wine before I answer. “I think there are lines competitors shouldn’t cross, but trash talk is far more complex than people give it credit for. For instance, teammates will often trash talk to hype each other up.”
I look at Ash to see if he’ll confirm or deny this, and he gives a conceding head tilt.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he says. “Nilsen and Fig have this really weird dynamic where they shit talk each other non-stop, but it does seem to make them both play harder.”
“Trash talk has also been around for a long time,” I say. “People like to make David in the Bible out to be this innocent young man up against an evil giant, but if you actually read that story, David trash talks Goliath before their fight.”
Surprise crosses Inga’s face, and I dare to think I’ve silenced her for the moment.
“It sounds fascinating,” Petra says.
Gunnar returns from taking our bags and sits down next to his wife.
“So what made a smart woman like you decide to date a lunk like my brother?” Inga asks. She’s smiling and her tone is teasing, but I feel like she’s throwing shade at Ash.
I’m tempted to point out the irony to her. She was ready to challenge me on the ethics of trash talk, but her own interactions with Ash are playfully aggressive in the same way trash talk often is.
Then her question hits me, and I come up blank.
What am I supposed to tell her about why I’m dating Ash?
Because he accidentally sent me a pic of his dick the day I met him?
Because we got cornered into fake dating when he tried to help me out with an ex?
Because he’s hot as hell and part of me is entirely too proud of being able to say I’m dating a man who looks like a Greek god?
Then the answer hits me, and I look at Ash.
“He’s sweet,” I say. “I always thought of hockey players as aggressive idiots who just liked to fight, but Ash isn’t like that, and neither are most of his teammates. He’s also really smart, which I’ll admit I also wasn’t expecting based on my own unfair biases.”
Ash’s face splits into a genuine smile, and I’m rewarded with the appearance of his dimples. Damn those things.
“Aww,” Sigga coos. “Aren’t they an adorable couple?”
“So you’ll be coming to the wedding with Ash then?” Inga asks.
Ash’s face goes serious, and I feel myself flush at her words.
“Wedding?” I ask, my panic rising again.
“I didn’t have a chance to ask her about that yet,” Ash says to Inga, his tone clipped.
I meet Ash’s eyes again, and he explains, “Inga is getting married, and she needs to know if I’m bringing a plus one. I figured I’d ask you if you wanted to go with me after we saw how dinner went, but I should’ve known my sister would jump the gun.”
“Sorry,” Inga says, although she doesn’t sound it.
“Where is Justin tonight anyway?” Ash asks.
“Still traveling,” Inga says. “He comes home tomorrow night. He was sorry not to be here to meet Gray.”
Her fiancé I assume.
“I know it’s early to say this,” Petra says, “but I really hope you decide to come to the wedding, Gray. We won’t have nearly enough time to get to know you in one dinner.”
Petra is refreshingly friendly compared to Inga, who clearly has harder edges, and I feel like I’m being hit with a good cop-bad cop routine from them. Petra’s kindness is disarming, and I resist the urge to tell her I’ll check my calendar to see if I’m available.
I flinch when Ash’s arm slips forward on the back of the loveseat to rest on my shoulders. His thumb grazes back and forth over my upper arm, and I stop breathing for a few seconds.
Only Inga seems to notice my reaction, and she cocks her head at me. I give her a quick smile and force myself to relax. If we’re going to make Ash’s family believe we’re dating, I can’t freak out every time he touches me. Touching each other needs to seem natural. Comfortable.
I lean forward to take a sip of my wine, and when I sit back, I purposely settle closer into Ash’s body. He gives a long exhale before his arm tightens around me, drawing me in even closer. He turns his head to plant a light kiss on my temple, and my heart does a backflip.
I take deep, calming breaths to steady myself as the family moves on to other topics of conversation. It didn’t occur to me just how much acting we’d need to do this trip to fool Ash’s family into thinking we’re dating, and I’m suddenly terrified.
That kiss on my temple felt all too real, and I have to remind myself Ash and I are pretending.
Just as I put on a facade when I step into the classroom and turn myself from an introvert into a performer, I need to turn myself here from a single woman who recently struggled her way through online dating into the girlfriend of an NHL hockey star.
How hard can it possibly be?