13. CHAPTER 13
Locke
Ifollow Livia’s car through Portland’s West Side, telling myself the whole way that this is a session.
That was the agreement, at least.
She removes one session from the total I owe her, and I get a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal.
I’m not going because I want to see where she comes from or who made her or what her life looks like outside the performance center. I’m going because the math works in my favor.
Her parents’ neighborhood is quiet with trees lining both sides of the street and houses set back behind established gardens. She pulls into a driveway, and I park at the curb behind her. I sit in the car for three seconds longer than necessary before I get out.
The house is a Craftsman, well kept, warm light in every window, and the front door opens before we reach it.
A woman I assume to be Livia’s mother steps out onto the porch.
She looks to be in her early sixties, brown hair like Livia, but streaked with silver. She pulls her daughter into an all-encompassing hug and then her eyes find me over Livia’s shoulder with an expression of genuine welcome.
“You must be Locke,” she says cheerily. “We’re always so happy when Livvy brings home friends for dinner.”
I glance at Livia, wondering if her nickname bothers her. On the contrary, she stares at her mom with unbridled fondness.
I extend my hand. “Mrs. Cross. Thank you for having me.”
She takes my hand in both of hers briefly. “Catherine. None of that Mrs. Cross business.” She steps back to let us in. “Richard is in the kitchen pretending he’s not checking on the turkey every five minutes.”
“I heard that,” her dad says from inside.
The interior of the house is well lived in. Bookshelves that have too many books, framed photographs covering most of the hallway wall, a well-worn rug in the entry. It smells like roasting turkey and sage and pumpkin pie, causing my mouth to water.
It’s not a house. It’s a home.
That thought is so foreign to me.
Livia’s father comes out of the kitchen in a flannel shirt with a dish towel over one shoulder. He’s a trim man, straight-backed, with close-cropped silver hair and eyes that are the same dark shade as Livia’s. He shakes my hand like his handshake is a statement.
“Locke.” He holds eye contact for exactly the right amount of time. “Glad you could make it. I’m Richard.”
“Thank you for having me, sir.”
“I just finished laying everything out,” Catherine says, motioning with her hands. “We’re actually ready to eat.” She links her arm through Livia’s and inclines her head. “I hope you didn’t get too stuffed at the team party.”
“I only ate a small amount because I was saving room for all your yumminess.” Livia glances back at me as I follow them to the dining room. “Did you save room, Locke?”
I smirk back at her. “Men have two stomachs. Didn’t you know that?”
Livia’s eyes sparkle and I can tell she’s delighted I joked around with her, and hell…
not even sure why I did that. My intent in coming here was to be as taciturn and withdrawn as I normally am because I’m always myself, but the truth is, I’m a compartmentalized dude.
I keep myself walled off and reserved around my teammates and authority figures.
I don’t have close friends. But give me casual acquaintances and light social settings, I can hang with the best of them.
I lift my shoulder to her, mouthing a silent What? at her amusement.
The dining table is a sight to behold. Catherine points out where she wants everyone to sit, landing me directly across from Livia with her parents on either end.
The table only seats six, but it is loaded with fancy china with a pattern around the rim, cloth napkins folded at each place, and lit candles at the center that throw warm light across everything.
A basket of rolls is already out, butter dish beside it.
The food comes out of the kitchen in stages as we settle into our chairs—a roasted turkey that Richard carves at the table, something I’ve never seen done as we had staff who placed neat slices on our plates for us.
There’s stuffing, green beans, sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, and a gravy boat that Catherine sets down last before finally taking her own seat.
It’s the most food I’ve seen on a table that wasn’t a restaurant in longer than I can remember. Luckily, I really do still have room to do some damage.
“Help yourself,” Catherine says. She means it as an instruction rather than a pleasantry.
We pass dishes around and plates fill up.
Richard picks up his water glass. “So, you’re a defenseman… first line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I played some hockey in college.” He sets the glass down. “Club level, nothing serious. But I always thought the defensive side of the game was underappreciated. Everyone wants to count the goals.”
“The goals don’t happen without the stops,” I say.
He points at me once across the table. “Exactly right.”
My eyes cut to Livia who is clearly enjoying the conversation.
“How’s the expansion roster coming together?” Richard continues. “That’s a unique challenge—building chemistry from scratch with men who all came from different systems.”
“It takes time,” I say neutrally. “Everyone has habits from their previous teams. Ways of reading plays, positioning instincts. You have to unlearn some of it and rebuild.”
“How long before it starts to feel like a unit rather than a collection of individuals?”
It’s a good question. A real one.
And I’m wholly unqualified to answer it since I’m not exactly leading the charge on functioning as a unit. I slide a glance at Livia because I’d bet money she’s pleased her father asked me such a question.
She’s looking at her plate with an expression that gives nothing away.
“Depends on the team,” I say, turning back to Richard. “Some groups click fast. Others take a full season.” I cut into the turkey. “We’re getting there.”
“Locke’s one of the best defensemen in the league,” Livia says.
The compliment catches me off guard.
Richard nods. “I saw the zone coverage numbers. Impressive, particularly for an expansion team still finding its legs.”
“You looked up the numbers?” Livia asks her father warmly.
“My daughter works for the team,” he says simply. “You invited a player to Thanksgiving dinner. Of course I looked up the numbers.”
Catherine has been listening quietly, collecting and storing the information. She refills my water glass without asking and nudges the rolls in my direction. “Take another,” she says. “You’re a big man. You need more than that.”
Livia puts her hand over her mouth.
“Thank you,” I say, taking another roll, because Catherine Cross doesn’t seem the type you argue with about food—or anything, really. I’m starting to understand where her daughter gets certain things from.
Livia sits across from me and eats and lets her parents do what I assume parents do with a guest in the home. But I have plenty of time in between answering questions to observe her.
She looks so at ease. Softer. The professional composure completely abandoned. She laughs at a story her father tells us—real and unguarded with her head tilting back slightly—and it makes her look ten times more beautiful.
“So, Locke,” Catherine says, cutting in on the two-way between me and Richard. “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” I say, my fork loaded with sweet potato casserole. “But I haven’t lived there in a long time.”
“Since you came into the league,” she says with a nod, as if that explains it.
“Since before then, actually. I played Major Junior, so I was living with a billet family when I was sixteen. It’s been quite a while since I lived in Boston.”
Sympathy shadows Catherine’s eyes. “Oh, that’s… well, I want to say awful, but you were clearly playing hockey and loving it. Must have been hard to leave home.”
She has no clue how easy it was to walk away from a set of parents who couldn’t spare me any time. I had more family-type memories living in complete strangers’ homes during a season than I do in all my years growing up in the Donovans’ Beacon Hill manse.
Still, this doesn’t seem like the time to spill, so I keep it vague. “Hockey was my world. It’s all I lived for.”
“Mmm,” Catherine hums affectionately, her eyes bright with a mom’s happiness for a child who lived his dream. “I bet they’re so proud of you though. Do they get to watch a lot of your games?”
The table doesn’t change. The candles don’t flicker. Everything stays exactly where it is. I pick up my water glass. “They’re not big hockey followers.”
I say it the way I’ve learned to say it—clean, factual, no invitation for follow-up. Just information delivered and closed.
Catherine’s expression shutters and the table goes quiet. There’s a small shift, the kind of unconscious movement people make when they want to respond but they’re not sure how.
Awkward.
Livia watches me and I can see a million questions in her eyes.
“Well,” Catherine says, clearly doing what she can to keep the table whole, “you’re following your dream of playing professional hockey and that’s all that matters.”
Richard raises his glass. “To the Wildfire’s season.”
I hadn’t realized my chest had gone tight until it releases, and I’m grateful that no one at this table decided to dive down the rabbit hole of my upbringing. I don’t bemoan having absent parents, and it’s certainly the least of my traumas, but I don’t like talking about it.
Everyone else raises their water glasses and we tap them at the center of the table.
“To the Wildfire,” Livia murmurs, and our eyes meet.
She’s not graciously letting the comment go. I can see she wants to know all about my childhood, but she can’t ask me. It’s not part of the bargain.
I take a sip of my water and the conversation moves on.