Page 5 of Home Ice

Like, hey, I know you just lost your mom, but I need you to do a test to make sure you’re not scamming me before I’ll even think about being your dad.

Judging by what Amelia says, this kid doesn’t want or need a dad, and I don’t want or need a son, so the meeting should technically be an easy one. If I really believed that though, surely I wouldn’t feel so fucking sick.

“I think I’m going to pass out,” I grumble as I wheel my suitcase toward the house.

“No time for that,” Gigi answers helpfully. “Mom and Dad need to pounce on you, then you need to shower, and then your potential real-life son and his g-ma will be here. So you’ll need to put a pin in your freak-out for later⁠—”

I set a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Please shut up.”

She tilts her head as she looks at me. “Oh … You’re freaking out freaking out.”

“Is there more than one type of freaking out?”

“Yes. There’s the people who dramatically freak out for attention. The ones who stress freak out to be more productive. And then …” She waves a hand down my body. “This.”

“Right.”

“Does it help if I point out that this is really not that big of a deal?”

I narrow my eyes her way. “When was the last time someone claimed you had a secret love child?”

“Now you sound like one of Mom’s soaps. Just deal with it as it comes.”

“Giana—”

“No, no. Like, I get a kid is a big deal. But Mom said that Amelia didn’t want anything from you. She’s happy to keep looking after him since she’s been there his whole life. You just have to sign over custody or something.”

Even hearing that doesn’t make things better. It should. I’ve never had responsibilities in my life beyond put puck in net, and yet it makes that pain in my gut twist harder.

“I need a shower,” I say to get out of this conversation.

“You sure do.” Gigi slaps me on the back, and I leave her to wrestle my suitcase up the short steps and go inside to where Mom and Dad are bickering over whether to keep the blinds open or closed.

“I prefer open,” I say.

Mom jumps at my voice, then lets out an excited little squeal before grabbing me in a hug. I squeeze her tight, her perfume and hold as familiar as breathing, and it’s the first time in twenty-four hours that I haven’t felt like I’m completely unraveling.

“You might want to shower before they get here,” she mumbles into my chest.

With a sigh, I pull away and turn to where Gigi’s hauled my luggage through the dark blue front door. “She’s said. I’ll go do that now.”

I give Dad a quick one-armed hug and then head upstairs. There’s a small bathroom next to the spare room, and other than the main bedroom, that’s all that’s up here. I feel too big for this place on my own, let alone living here with two other people.

My shower doesn’t help, so I coat myself in body spray and change my shirt twice. I’m trying to look nice for this kid, which is a mindfuck. When I was younger, I couldn’t have given less of a shit what clothes adults wore, and that was if I’d ever paid attention to them.

I turn defeated eyes on my reflection. The circles under my eyes are deep, and even half wet, my brown hair is a fluffy, wavy mess. “This is fucking hopeless.”

I don’t think I’ve ever spoken truer words.

And almost as soon as they’re out, they’re eaten by the sound of a car pulling up out front. My nerves go from unmanageable to life-threatening, and I splash more water on my face, then drag myself out of the bathroom before I drown myself.

Like Gigi said. This is not a big deal.

I’ll meet them. I’ll be polite. I’ll point out that a paternity test is in all of our best interests, and I’ll ask about the kid like I would if they were the child of one of my friends.

This is going to be fine.

My parents are on the front porch, and I only hesitate a second before joining them. Turns out gaslighting myself works.