Pretend you want me

MARTINS CROSS “Oh my god. Please.” The exasperation in my mom’s voice is enough warning. I shut my phone off quickly. Not quick enough for Moira Cross apparently because she makes a noise at the back of her throat. I feel a headache building in my temples and the conversation hasn’t even started. “It was an awful loss, I get it.” She lays a hand on my shoulder, I stiffen under her touch, and the moment of affection quickly passes because Moira might drop dead at the thought of showing her child any form of affection. “We all do, trust me. But re-watching the highlights right before we get to meet with Malcolm is…” she inhales deeply, standing in front of me, forcing me to look her in the eyes as I betray her. It only makes me feel choked. “We can’t be late, honey. Lick your wounds later.” And then the moment is over. I feel bad for the relief that fills my veins right after. “I’m not licking my wounds.” I grumble, but she doesn’t hear me over the loud clicking of her heels. She’s pacing the length of the room, heels clicking too fast, too sharp. Whatever this is– it matters. She circles back to me when my eyes land on my downward facing phone, as if sensing that I want to go back to watching the same video for the thousandth time. In the last hour. Checking her wrist watch, her hands going over her impeccable suit, she looks very battle ready, not like she’s going to meet the man she’d be marrying. “I’m ready,” she announces with a huff of breath. Slowly, my head bobs up and down, telling her how ready I am for this. If ready means not wanting to be anywhere near this family introduction. Her eyes widen when she takes me in, lips turning in disapproval. “You can’t be serious, Martins. I’ve told you how important this is to me. Wear something else.” I resist the urge to plead my case, to stay indoors, I’m fine meeting this addition to the family during the wedding, or after. “This is fine.” I defend weakly. I’m not dressed to the nines like some corporate executive, but this is fine. Jeans and a Kirkly shirt– one of my favorite shirts, from my favorite game. “Go change. Anything else is fine. I saw your team shirt is clean.” Of course. The only time my mother was happy to show me off was if I was announcing the team to the world. Even with the man she’s getting married to, who I’m just finding out is named Malcolm. “I’m taking that along with me, I can’t wear it.” My mother sighs, but she doesn’t have any time to complain because a car pulls into our driveway, and from the way she straightens, eyes sparkling, I know it’s from her husband to be. She greets the driver like they’re old friends, slipping into the passenger seat. I exhale, fingers curling around my phone like it’s a lifeline. It is a lifeline. Not the phone, but the video I was watching. In the back seat, where no one can see, I replay the video I now know by heart. I have it book marked on all my social media, I’d never be caught liking it though. Too much scandal. We’re rivals. In fact, his team just gave us a run for our money. An ‘embarrassing loss’ my mother calls it. Stonegate University Wolves VS Westbridge Academy Hawks. We were tied till the final goal. I’ve seen a lot of memes with wolves and hawks in their strong teeth. That’s enough to make anyone mad. I’m a team captain. But strangely… I’m not mad. All I can think about is what he did in those final few minutes. It was so quick it might have been made up. I can’t trust it. I shouldn’t trust it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. If anyone from the team saw me, they’d think what they usually think about me watching clips of him playing. ‘Studying his weakness.’ In the clip, his wrist move fast, stick slapping the puck and passing, right before the moment he unraveled me. I can see it now. His wrist snapping, stick kissing the puck before I could react. One second he was in front of me– The next, he’s past me. This clip doesn’t show that. No clip does, I’ve searched all over. He skates into frame, a grin on his face. The sight of the grin, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, does the same thing it always does. My stomach flips. Heat curls low in my gut, quick and familiar. I stare into his electric green eyes, they have a certain shine in them every time he wins. I may or may not have a folder dedicated to those eyes– “Martins.” Sharply looking up, my fingers shutting off the video quickly, heart in throat as if she’d caught me with my hands in my pants. My mother sighs, in the usual, ‘How did I end up with a talented weirdo?’ “I was saying that Malcolm has a son as well, and I have a feeling you’d get along with your new step brother.” She’s grinning at me. My stomach tumbles, not in the way it does when I see his eyes, this time I feel like throwing up. I don’t want a step brother. I don’t want anything. I want to be in bed watching his highlights. Of course I don’t say this. Instead, my lips stretch into a smile I don’t feel, and a small nod, this satisfies her. For now. “Maybe he’s older, I think. A year or so.” She muses, not really talking to me anymore. Fine by me. I’ll just go back to the video– the car crawls to a stop and I groan internally. Maybe this step brother would hog the spotlight and there would be a chance for me to sneak off to the bathroom. No one will notice. Moira beams when we’re ushered to the private section. I follow behind her like a lamb heading to slaughter. Mom and I have been alone for a while. You’d think we’d be close. She celebrates my birthday on the ninth of January. It’s the twentieth. At least she gets the month right. Just as we step through the threshold, she turns to me, nervously searching my face. “Talk about hockey, nothing else will interest Malcolm enough.” In other words, don’t be weird, be cool, bring out the Ice’s Cross, not plain old Martins. Stiffly, I nod. Her relief is palpable. A small smile, squeezing my arm, she makes a noise of approval before nodding. The private section ends up being one of the dimmest rooms I’d ever seen. My eyes don’t adjust immediately, so I rely on my feet, shuffling as I go. “Sorry we kept you waiting.” My mom says with a chuckle. “No bother, you’re not the only late person to this party.” The speaker, Malcolm, I assume, doesn’t hide his disdain for the late comer. So glad it isn’t me. Finally, we make our way to the large table. The first thing, or person I notice is Malcolm. He’s a large, imposing man. He also looks familiar. Before I can think about where I might have seen him, his eyes travel past my shoulders. I exhale at the pressure taken off me. “You’re late.” The newcomer snorts. “This isn’t the f*****g wedding is it?” That voice. My breathing stops. My world stops. Heart hammering fiercely in my throat, my head turned to the door with enough force to snap it. And there he is. Red hair. Signature scowl. f*****g gorgeous green eyes. My rival. Seth Bellamy.