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“Your parents will be happy,” he comments. “They miss you a lot.” He pauses. “I followed you this season. You guys did great. Too bad it ended the way it did. You were so close to the Frozen Four.”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair, trying to hide my displeasure with a small grin. I’ve heard some semblance of the same sentiment a lot through the past week. It’s hard enough to lose without being reminded of it at every turn.
“Yeah, not the way we wanted the season to end,” I reply flatly.
“You’ll get ’em next year.”
I nod and wave, ending the conversation as I turn toward the house. I smell cookies baking as soon as I open the front door. This is typical of my mom. She’s always making something when I’m around. And I’ll gladly devour whatever it is. The woman can cook.
“Sam, is that you?” Mom calls out.
I drop my bag in the foyer and round the corner. “Hey, Mom.”
Her face lights up when she sees me.
We have the same gray eyes tinted with blue and dirty-blond hair. Other than those two features, I’m a carbon copy of my father with his square jaw and stocky build.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she says.
I hug her back when her arms collapse around me. My six-foot-two frame towers over her five-foot-four one.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She holds on for another minute, causing me to chuckle. “I haven’t been gone that long.”
She ignores my comment, leaning back to look at me. Her hand comes to my cheek as the furrow between her brows deepens.
“What happened to your face?” she asks, the concern evident in her tone.
The swelling on my skin has disappeared from Chase’s punch, but the bruising is still fading. It’s a greenish hue now.
“Hockey.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily.
It’s simpler to blame my war injuries on the sport I love to play. It would be much more complicated to detail how my former girlfriend and my buddy are now hooking up and how it led to my bruised face. Plus, I’ve always been a man of few words, so Mom won’t expect a big explanation.
“I don’t like it when you fight, Sam.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, pulling away. I lean against the counter as she walks over to the oven. “But it’s just part of hockey.”
“Not my favorite part,” she mumbles.
“I’m aware,” I say with a smirk.
I know how much my mom hates the violence of the sport. She always has. She doesn’t see the point of the physical altercations. But when I’m out on the ice, getting checked into the wall every few minutes, the intensity of the game tends to boil over. And after a while, it becomes part of it. Tempers flare, and fists fly. It’s just the way it is. After all these years, she should be used to it by now.
“Leave the kid alone,” my dad says as he walks into view. His arm swings around my neck until he has me in a headlock. “How does the other guy look?”
I duck out of his hold. “Worse.”
I’m younger, stronger, and more agile, but my dad could still give me a run for my money.
Dad grins and gives me a fist bump.
For as much as my mom hates fighting, my dad revels in it. He was a wrestler in high school and college and has the boys will be boys attitude.
My mom scolds my dad with a glance while removing a cookie sheet from the oven. But I see the small smile that erupts when she’s turning away. After twenty-five years of marriage, she’s used to it. Dad heads to the living room.
“Are you hungry?” she asks me as she transfers the cookies from the pan to a cooling rack.
I steal a hot one. I nod, though the question doesn’t need an answer. I’m always ready to eat.
