Maisy: Hey. Can you talk?
I wince when I read Maisy’s text. The time stamp says she sent it last night, when I was already passed out. Groaning, I pull myself from bed and head to The Honeycomb for an early skate.
Tomorrow, I’m meeting her family. When she first asked me, I agreed because I thought I’d be ready. I thought we’d be ready. Now, it feels like Maisy and I aren’t in the position to take this next step. Not when we’re barely speaking and any words we exchange are through a goddamn text. Not when it’s all my fucking fault.
I should have invited her yesterday. I could have avoided this entire mess if I had a shred of foresight. If I didn’t spend all my time overthinking everything and leaned into the moment, into the spontaneous and exciting unknown. If I lived even a bit of my life like Maisy.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling my practice bag from the car and ambling toward the arena.
The locker room is quiet. Between the early time, the fact that it’s a Saturday morning, and the hangovers a few of the guys are nursing, I’m relieved no one talks to me.
I’m the first on the ice, taking the extra time to clear my head. The cool air washes over my skin, tempering some of the frustration heating my blood. I’m pissed at myself, worried about Maisy, and confused as hell. What the hell am I doing?
Why can’t I get this right?
I fly down the rink, maneuvering a puck with ease, my head all over the place.
Coach Merrick blows a whistle and calls the team in. Coach Scotch runs through a few key points of this morning’s practice and then, we break into smaller groups, working on specific skills.
“You okay?” the Rookie asks.
Fuck, he’s a good kid. The kind of man I hope Lola brings home one day. “Yeah, I’m good,” I lie. I’m far from good.
Today, it feels like every failure I’ve ever had, every mistake I’ve ever made, is stacked up in a nice, neat, long row of shortcomings.
Why didn’t I heed Lola’s advice? Or Anna and Asher’s input? Why didn’t I talk to Maisy before things got this out of control and now, she’s barely speaking to me? I told her to never be scared to come to me and talk. I knew that communication was going to be the hardest, but most important element, of our relationship.
I fucking hurt her.
“Yo!” River flips his chin at me. “You here or not?”
I clear my throat, zeroing in on the puck that just shot past me. “I’m here.”
“Wake the fuck up,” River mutters.
Wrong day to start with me, kid. I growl, pushing off in his direction. My one hand grips my stick and the other curls into a fist inside my glove. I’m ready for a brawl. I fucking itch for something I can release all my pent-up anger, shortcomings, and failures on.
“Whoa.” Devon grips my arm. “Take it easy, man.”
Turner gets in front of River and moves him away from me.
“What’s going on?” Devon asks.
“Nothing,” I spit out.
Devon sighs. “Get your head where it belongs. On practice. Then, call Maisy. Sooner rather than later.”
He repeats the same warning from the other day but now, it sounds too late. To me, it confirms that I’m too fucking late.
After a day spent on the UT campus with my family, I’m in a better headspace. I woke up early, took a hot shower, ate a massive breakfast, and had a fucking pep talk from Asher of all people.
Today, I’m ready to meet Maisy’s family. I’m ready to show up for her, to have the hard conversation I’ve been avoiding, to go all in. I want her to know that I’m hesitant because this is new to me. Because I don’t want to scare her off. Because talking about the future is a lot for me to process.
But that it’s on me. None of it has to do with her. She’s perfect and mesmerizing and fucking incredible. She deserves to know that my silence, my overanalyzing, my inability to make her feel like she’s important to me, are my own shortcomings.
I need to own that and be upfront and say the words I’ve been holding back.
Dressed in a white button-down shirt and black jeans, I stand on her parents’ front porch. I ring the bell and shift awkwardly, my nerves sky-high. I glance at the bouquet of flowers I purchased for her mom and grip the bottle of wine I brought along tighter. I hope this is appropriate; I hope I picked a good bottle. I hope—
The door swings open and a man in his fifties, with greying hair and a warm smile, says, “You must be Axel.”
I return the smile, my cheeks tight. “And you must be Mr. Stratford. It’s good to meet you.”
“Same. Please, call me Judd.” He holds the door open wider. “Come on in. The girls are in the kitchen. It’s been a whirlwind of excitement this weekend.” He gives me a look and a hearty chuckle.
My smile is frozen in place as I try to understand the meaning behind his words. Is the whirlwind because Maisy is bringing me home? Or did something else happen? Is this what Maisy was hinting at? When I thought she was avoiding me, was she really bogged down in family stuff?
“Missy and Brennan’s engagement,” Judd explains, correctly reading my confusion. “My wife is over the moon about it. Wedding planning…” He mock grimaces. “And as maid of honor, Maisy’s been dragged into all the festivities. In my day, you were allowed to spend some time enjoying the engagement before everything else unfolded, but today,” he sighs, placing a hand on my shoulder and walking us through the foyer and into the living room, “today, everything happens at warp speed.”
“I know what you mean,” I mutter, understanding father-to-father, exactly what he’s talking about. “My daughter is twenty-one. It seems like she just started university and already, we’re discussing internship opportunities and her resume, mortgage rates, and a 401K.”
“Your daughter?” Judd looks surprised and I bite my tongue.
Shit. Maisy didn’t tell her parents I’m a dad? Does it matter? Should it matter?
A slick mixture of pride and shame coat my stomach. Judd isn’t looking at me with judgement, just surprise, and a hint of worry. Not that I can blame him. Maisy is a grown woman but she’s still his daughter.
I know, from firsthand experience, that being understanding to another man’s situation extends only as far as it affects my kid. Then, all bets are off.
“Yes, sir.” My tone is gruff.
Judd sighs, his hand on my shoulder tightening. “You must have been young.”
“Sixteen,” I confirm.
“Must have been hard.” His gaze lands on the framed photos of his daughters on the mantle. “I can tell you I had a hard time of it, and I was well into my twenties. Anyway, can I get you a drink? I’ll tell Maisy you’re here. Marge will want to touch up her lipstick before she meets you.” He winks.
“A Coke would be great, if you have it,” I say gratefully. “These are for your wife.” I hold out the flowers. “And you.” I hand him the wine.
“Too thoughtful.” He smiles and I’m relieved when it reaches his eyes.
As Mr. Stratford steps into the kitchen, I move closer to the mantle. The photos are all of Maisy and her sister, Missy. They have a resemblance, the same golden hair and bright blue eyes. But Maisy’s smile exudes warmth and an infectious energy, even through a photograph.
“Axel,” her voice sounds behind me.
I turn and all the knots in my stomach, the tightness in my limbs, the worry and nerves and anxiousness I’ve been carrying around, unravels. She’s standing in the doorway, a glass of Coke and ice in her hand, looking at me like she’s both surprised and relieved to see me in her parents’ living room.
I close the space between us. “Maisy, I—”
“It’s so great to meet you, Axel!” Her sister cuts in, wrapping an arm around Maisy’s waist.
My eyes plead with Maisy’s. With the words I’m desperate for her to hear. I miss you. I’m sorry. I want this to work. I want to talk.
But politeness dictates that I turn my attention to Missy and hold out a hand. “Good to meet you, Missy. I hear congratulations are in order.”
Missy squeals and holds up her left hand, flashing her engagement ring and doing a little dance.
In my peripheral vision, I note the way Maisy’s mouth pinches, the slight slump in her shoulders as they round forward.
“It’s beautiful,” I force out the words.
“Brennan just proposed on Friday night!” Missy squeals, explaining how Brennan dropped to one knee in a field of wildflowers where they had their first date, a picnic, two summers ago.
Maisy won’t look at me, and with each passing minute, I’m more aware of the heaviness in the air. I feel Maisy’s discomfort as if it was my own and keep trying to catch her eye. I want, no need, that connection between us, but every time she meets my eyes, she glances away quickly. Too quickly for me to get a read on her, on this situation I’ve stepped into.
“Sounds like a dream proposal,” I manage to say.
“It was,” Missy agrees, squeezing her sister closer. “I’m so glad Maisy and you are here today. Brennan’s parents are also coming for dinner and”—she leans closer, lowering her voice—“it’s different now that we’re engaged, you know?”
I nod, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Mom is all about the wedding planning and it’s helpful to have some other people, buffers, in case the conversation gets too intense,” Missy clues me in.
I nod again. But fuck. What minefield did I just enter?
I look at Maisy, seeking guidance on how to navigate this, but her expression is flat. Her eyes placid. Like she doesn’t know, or care, either way, how today unfolds.
I work another swallow. “Maisy, can we—”
The doorbell rings, cutting me off.
“Ah! They’re here.” Missy claps her hands.
A flutter of activity occurs that is so frenzied, yet well-orchestrated, that I step back and watch in awe. Mrs. Stratford flits into the room, swiping lipstick across her lower lip before capping the tube and slipping it into the pocket of her apron. She’s untying the strings as her eyes scan the space, narrowing slightly on a throw pillow that, upon closer inspection, is tilted on the couch.
“Maisy, fix the pillow,” she says, her gaze narrowing on her eldest daughter. “You didn’t change? Oh, you know yellow washes you out.”
Maisy fixes the pillow, her shoulders slumping further.
I frown, stepping closer to Mrs. Stratford.
“Oh! You must be Axel.” She flashes me a charming smile. She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you could join us today. Thank you, thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. I’m sorry it’s such a rush today. With all the news!” She beams at Missy.
In the background, I hear Judd’s voice as he greets the newcomers.
“Please, excuse me,” Mrs. Stratford says, moving toward the foyer. Missy is already one step ahead of her.
I look at Maisy. “Is today a bad time?”
She looks at me, her eyes flashing with an emotion I can’t read. Then, she laughs.
The sound is disjointed and emotional, an edge of hysteria I’ve never heard her emit.
“Maisy?” I frown, moving to her side.
She shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ears and straightening her posture. She gives me a sympathetic glance, her eyes shadowed in apology. “Let’s get through dinner,” she mutters as her laughter dies.
Get through dinner?
My stomach sours and deep down, I know.
I’m too fucking late.