Chapter 4 Nathan
NATHAN
Mom’s already in the kitchen when I get home, one hand stirring something on the stove, the other holding her phone, while music plays low from the speaker by the window.
“Wash your hands,” she says without turning around.
I huff a laugh and do as I’m told. “Hi to you too,” I mumble, rolling up my sleeves and running the tap.
Her expression softens when I finally make my way over to her.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, reaching out to squeeze my wrist before flipping the spoon in the pot.
“Sorry—I’m running a little behind on dinner tonight.
Can you grab a cutting board and start on the peppers and onions?
” She turns back to the stove but glances at me again, raising a finger. “Thin strips. Not chunks.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, drying my hands on the dish towel before grabbing the board from the counter.
It’s muscle memory at this point. I’ve been helping her in the kitchen since I was a kid. She’d let me stir the sauce or tell me to get the ingredients for her, and somewhere along the way I learned to love cooking.
I inhale the air, heavy with garlic and rosemary, and it feels like being ten years old again—coming home after practice and having a warm homecooked meal.
When I finish slicing, I set the knife down and pull the digital scale closer to me.
Mom doesn’t say anything—she never really does anymore—but I catch the tiny sigh she lets out when I tare the scale and start transferring the peppers one handful at a time into the stainless steel bowl. One hundred grams of peppers. One twenty of onions. I make a mental note to log it later.
“Still tracking every gram?” she asks, arching a brow my way.
I glance over and shrug. “It’s habit.”
“It’s Sunday,” she says with a shake of her head. “You’re allowed to eat like a human being today.”
“I am,” I tell her. “Just a human who likes knowing exactly what goes into his body before a game.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push it.
Dad walks in right on cue, grocery bags in hand, and heads straight for Mom, pressing a kiss to her temple, before leaning over the stove to inhale. “Smells good in here.”
She swats at his chest, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
He props himself against the counter, his gaze sliding to me. “She’s worrying again?”
“Obviously,” I say, a small laugh escaping.
Mom huffs. “Because it’s Sunday night and he’s weighing peppers for crying out loud.”
Dad chuckles. “Relax, honey. Discipline’s what makes him good.
” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Better than eating stale chips from a vending machine for dinner like I did in college. Kid knows what he needs. He’s focused.
Doesn’t let himself get distracted by what he wants instead of what makes him better.
That’s the difference between being decent and being the best.”
Mom narrows her eyes like she’s two seconds away from chucking a spatula at his head. “That’s the difference between you sleeping on the couch instead of in our bed tonight.”
I shake my head, smiling. It’s always like this. Him provoking, her pretending to be mad, both of them still stupidly in love after twenty-plus years.
Dad just lifts a brow and turns to me, his expression completely serious now. “Nathan, drop the scale or you’re benched.”
I whip my head toward him, my jaw dropping. “The fuck?”
“Language,” Mom warns, pointing a wooden spoon at me. Then she turns back to Dad, a smile tugging at her mouth as she pats his cheek. “You’re out of the doghouse.”
And just like that, he’s beaming again. The man is hopeless. Has been for as long as I can remember. He’ll bend himself in half if it means getting her to smile.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, dragging the scale toward the back of the counter, out of sight.
I stir the peppers into the sauce, pretending not to notice the way Dad’s hand settles at the small of her back, or how she leans into it.
God, they’re so disgustingly in love. It’s gross.
And, fine… maybe kind of nice.
The back door creaks open just as I’m drying my hands on a dish towel. I hear the shuffle of boots, the muffled thud of someone dropping a bag, and then—of course—Ryan’s voice.
“We brought dessert.” Ryan strolls into the kitchen with a bakery box in hand.
“We stopped at Dolce,” Isabella says, trailing behind him, brushing snow off her coat. “We grabbed the last apple tart.”
Mom beams. “You’re my favorite child.”
“Excuse me?” I raise a brow. “I chopped peppers. She shows up with one measly tart and suddenly she’s the favorite?”
“You didn’t even chop them right,” Izzy says, slipping past me to peek into the pot. “These are chunks, not strips.”
I scoff and nudge her with my elbow. “Go sit down.”
“I’m just joking, sweetheart,” Mom says with a chuckle. “I don’t have favorites.”
“No, but she does have a sweet tooth,” Dad adds. “Your mom sees sugar and forgets about everything around her.”
Isabella laughs, and I catch the way she leans a little closer to Ryan and he wraps an arm around her waist.
I wasn’t thrilled when I first found out they were sneaking around. Not exactly easy to process your best friend kissing your little sister behind your back. But they… fit. Stupid as it sounds, they just do. She’s happy. And that’s all a big brother can hope for.
Dad raises a brow. “Alright, maybe tone down the PDA before I lose my appetite.”
Ryan chuckles, stepping away from Isabella. He heads for the fridge, grabs two cans of soda, and tosses one my way. I catch it, crack it open, and take a sip while Mom ladles sauce into a dish.
“Izz.” Mom glances at my sister over her shoulder. “Bring the salad.”
Isabella heads toward the counter, grabbing the salad dish, and follows mom out of the kitchen.
“Nice apron,” Ryan says, nodding toward me and shaking his head as a scoff comes out. “You’re such a momma’s boy.”
I glance down, then shoot him a look. “And you’re still a pain in my ass.”
Dad chuckles, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. “Since you’re here, set the table, would you?”
Ryan salutes him with two fingers. “On it.”
He grabs a handful of cutlery and heads toward the dining room.
I follow with the plates, setting them down on the placemats. The table’s already half full with Mom’s famous roast chicken sitting in the center, the potatoes glistening in butter, a dish of cheesy green beans and peppers, still steaming. The smell alone makes my shoulders drop a little.
Dad comes in last, carrying two wine glasses in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. He sets them down, pours wine for himself and Mom, water for the rest of us.
We start filling our plates, passing bowls across the table, and I dive in, biting into a crispy potato.
I love Sunday dinners with my family. It’s one of the only days I don’t have to worry about drills or practice and I have the rare chance to forget about hockey for one goddamn meal.
Except—
“You watch the second period back yet?” Dad asks, arching a brow at me.
Of course.
“Yeah,” I say, stabbing another potato. “Defense collapsed on the left. We got lucky.”
“Sloppy positioning,” he agrees. “They were scrambling.”
“We adjusted,” Ryan pipes up after swallowing down a mouthful.
“Barely,” I mutter.
He gives me a look. “You always have to be right?”
“When I am right… yeah,” I reply, stuffing a piece of chicken in my mouth.
Dad points his fork at Ryan and smirks. “He’s not wrong.”
I let out a scoff, which earns me a look from him. I know damn well he wants to flip me off right now, but he’s too much of a suck-up when we’re with my parents, wanting to be the good guy and all.
“Pass the salad,” Isabella says, nodding toward the plate of lettuce on my side.
“Say please,” I tease her.
“God, you’re so annoying,” she says, flicking a green bean at me.
It bounces off my shoulder and lands on the floor, making me chuckle.
Ryan snickers. “This is exactly why I sit between you two.”
“No one asked you to,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes. “You’d cry if I stopped coming.”
I snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Ryan started showing up for Sunday dinners a few weeks after he and my sister got together—once Dad stopped being so pissed at him and I’d mostly gotten over it. Now it’s just what we do. I won’t admit it out loud, but I actually like having him here.
“You’ve had scouts asking about you,” Dad says suddenly, catching me mid-bite. I swallow, keeping my eyes on him. “A couple from the ECHL. One from Alberta. Said they liked your glove work last week.”
There’s so much pride in his voice. It makes my stomach twist into knots.
I force a nod and try to keep my voice even. “Cool.”
Mom glances up at him, her brows knitting together. “He’s not even halfway through the season. Don’t rush him.”
“I’m not,” Dad says quickly, holding his hands up. “I’m just saying… It’s good to know people are watching.”
He shoots me a wink and I glance down, stabbing another piece of chicken on my fork, though my appetite’s shot.
People are always watching.
Especially when your dad’s the coach.
“What I’m saying is, you’ll have options,” Dad adds with a proud smile on his face, which crushes me. “You’ve earned it.”
I nod again because it’s easier than saying anything else. Because they’re all looking at me like this is what I’ve always wanted.
And how the hell do you tell your dad that the thing he’s proudest of you for… might not be the thing you want at all?