Mom's late, per usual. Dad's retreated to the living room, tuning our Smart TV to watch a live feed of the ECHL hockey game. Apparently, the Cyclones have another match today, this one at home. Seriously, how many do they play in a week? I swear Bas just texted me a selfie of him and his teammate Spencer on a bus heading to Fort Wayne.

I resist the urge to join Dad. Instead, I distract myself with Instagram to avoid checking the TV to see if number forty-nine is on the ice or riding the bench.

Hopefully, bench, what with all those bruises.

It doesn't work, though. Especially not since Kaila followed the CincyCyclones Instagram account on my behalf. Scrolling through the feed shows me an image of Bas fist-pumping the air with red and black text underneath reading Cyclones goal! #49—Killfeather.

I'm not supposed to be thinking about Bas, wondering how sore he probably is today, lowkey panicking over the deal we made. Telling him my truths won't be easy, and the reaction I'm sure to get will likely crack my heart open all over again. The things he'll think of me...

You deserved it.

It's your fault.

You can't act like a slut and expect anything more than what you got.

I've heard them all before. It's okay, I'm fine.

Really, I'm fine.

"I'm back!"

I start, phone hitting the counter with a thud. Dad rouses on the couch, smiles at the woman in the doorway. Mom shrugs off her white trench coat and hangs it neatly on the rack. Her blonde hair is styled back into a tight bun, brown eyes rimmed in black as she glances once at me, then Dad.

"Natalia, how've you been?" Dad embraces her, dropping a chaste kiss on her cheek and smiling merrily. I internally scowl, resent the façade he puts up for her, makes me put up for her.

"Wonderful," Mom giggles into Dad's chest, pats him on the back with a manicured hand, and delicately detangles herself from him. She takes Dad's hand and leads him to the table, setting her phone down beside her plate.

"Reece," Mom finally looks at me, her eyes guarded and smile too tight as she takes in the torn, blue hoodie, skinny jeans, and fuzzy slippers.

I return her scathing look as I catalog the diamonds dripping from her ears and neck. "Mom."

"You look...comfortable." She allows.

"Thanks." I wiggle my slippered toes. "You look...clean."

Swirling her hand in my direction, she simpers. "I'm so glad to see you've taken that awful thing out of your nose."

Only because Dad asked nicely.

I suppress the remark, reflexively twitch my nose, and duck away from her gaze. "Yeah," I mumble, thinking of the stud in my pocket reserved for the moment she leaves.

Dad commandeers the conversation from there, welcoming Mom home with open adoration. He dishes out the home-cooked meal he'd prepared just for tonight. Spaghetti and meatballs; because that's about as creative as either one of us gets in the kitchen.

Mom shares all the details of her destinations; the people she met, the places she stayed, the things she did, the culture she experienced, and so forth. Dad fills her in on the goings-on here, the habitual stability of our lives. Everything she was so desperate to escape from.

"Reece," I'm pushing a meatball around on my plate when Mom's snotty tone makes me look up, tense. "How's school going? Have you picked a major yet?" Her head tips toward me, eyebrows raised.

I bite my lips, glance between her, Dad, and my plate.

"It's great," I begin, clear my throat, and continue, "I'm studying graphic design."

Mom's grimace is so profound I'm surprised her face doesn't get stuck that way. Dad doesn't bat an eye, just nods supportively and touches Mom's hand as if to soothe her. But she's not having any of it.

"Graphic design?" Mom repeats, tone icy. "And what exactly do you plan to do with that?" She sets her fork on her plate and dots at her lips with a napkin, careful not to smudge the crimson red lipstick.

I swallow and twine some noodles around on my fork. "There's a lot I can do with it."

"Really?" Mom props her chin on her fist, stupid false lashes batting in mock fascination. "Like what?"

My mouth opens, but no words come out. I'm suddenly unable to come up with a single example to support my case.

Mom expels a mocking laugh. "Like sit behind a computer screen all day and fiddle with keys?"

"No—"

"Be a desk jockey?"

I swear I grind my molars into dust from gritting my teeth. "That's not all—"

"You'll ruin your eyes and your neck by staying in the same position all day. Not to mention your figure." She sweeps a derisive glance over my bedraggled appearance, adds softly, "Not that you have one, to begin with."

I'm suddenly not even interested in pretending to eat. Dropping my fork, I clench my fists around the sleeves of my hoodie, so I don't scream. "It's more than—"

"No, no, just be quiet." Mom's temper is shorting out as she starts knotting her hands together and shaking her head.

She stabs a furious crimson talon at Dad. "How could you let this happen? Have you not been guiding her?"

He lifts a questioning brow and shrugs one shoulder. "Reece is a big girl; she can choose what she wants to do with her life." Dad smiles, adds, "And I don't see anything wrong with graphic design. It's in demand, and she's brilliant."

Mom shrieks, the noise loud and jolting. I push back from the table at the same moment that she does. Dad is quick on our heels.

"Look at her!" Mom cries, speaking to Dad but advancing on me. "She can't dress properly, continually covers herself in marker and ink. Oh! And the piercings! My God, Lukas, she's completely incompetent. Graphic design will never allow her to acclimate to the real world, experience real work. Even your little café is too sheltered."

I'm used to her being this way. I've learned to tune it out, nod, and wait for the insults to end. But right now, I'm tired of hearing her complain about everything I've done wrong when she's barely bothered to be around.

"You know," I snap, planting defiantly before her, "I might care more about what you think if you were around more often. You spend maybe two months total in this house, with Dad and me."

"You watch your tone!" Mom hiss-shrieks. "I have provided more for you than you can possibly imagine."

But I'm on a roll. My voice rises. "You're off jetting around the fucking world with who knows how many different men!"

The fury on Mom's face gets stronger, turning her cheeks a brighter pink. "You insolent little brat!"

"Reece—" Dad attempts, rounding the table toward us.

"Do you even remember us, Mom? Or do you spend too much time working on your knees to give a damn?"

"Reece!" Dad's bellow makes me jump but doesn't faze Mom a bit.

She clenches her fists, stalks toward me so that we're nose-to-nose, shoving Dad out of her way in the process. When she reaches up, grabs my chin in her palm, squeezing so tight that my cheeks bite into my teeth, I suppress the urge to cower.

"You—" She starts, inhales deeply, "you ungrateful bitch."

"Pot meet kettle." I spit back.

"I never wanted kids!" Mom jerks my chin and forces my head in Dad's direction. "He wanted you; he raised you."

I sneer. "You're damn right he did."

Mom wrenches my chin. "You should be his problem, not mine."

Dad pales, eyes full of horror when he meets Mom's gaze. "Natalia, what—" He swallows thickly, tries again, "How can you even—" A choked cough.

Mom scowls, releases me and stalks off in the direction of their bedroom. I reel back, breathing too fast for my lungs to keep up. There's red around my vision, my ears are ringing, and a comforting numbness settles in my chest. Dad stares after her, then at me, his face a contortion of emotion that I can't even begin to untangle right now.

A sob of anger and humiliation escapes me. Ducking my head, I push past him, shove my boots on, and flee down the front steps. Dad's voice follows me, but I pay him no mind. There's too much noise in my head, a thrum in my fingertips, blood pulsing behind my eyes.

I don't know how long I wander through the downtown area. All I know is when I finally start to notice the cold and berate myself for walking out in just my light sweatshirt. The sun is just beginning to set, and I'm miles from my apartment or Dad's house up the hill.

"Well, shit," I mutter to myself, pull out my phone to text Kaila that I'll be in a little late.

My screen shows several missed calls from Dad, none from Mom. A few texts prompt me to click on them, but I swipe at the notifications instead, clear them from my sight.

I'm too busy staring at the screen and shuffling through my contacts to notice when I pass the Heritage Bank Center. "Oomph," my forehead collides with something—someone—and the impact drives my phone from my hands, thumping to the pavement face down. "I'm sorry, I—"

My eyes meet hazel, a lopsided grin, and damply mussed brown hair. "Hey, Reecie," Bas greets, stepping back to collect my phone. "Been a minute."

It has been a while. Four days, in fact. Four days since he came out of that alley with bloody knuckles and kind words. Frank hasn't been back.

I watch his movements, take note of the stiffness and barely audible groan. He smells good, like a crisp alpine forest. The tips of his hair drip water onto his shoulders as if he forgot to towel it dry after his shower.

Then he's holding my phone out to me, a quizzical expression on his face. I blink, grab for the device, "Thanks."

He nods and takes a moment to inspect my rumpled appearance.

"Where are you going?" Bas inquires, heading off down the street and prompting me to follow.

I rush forward, try to keep pace with his long stride. "Just home, short night. Your game over?"

Bas peers at me from the corner of his eye, "It is. Did you watch?"

"No," I pause, "I mean, yes," another pause, "well, kind of. My dad had it on."

I can feel my cheeks burning, and it only gets worse when Bas reacts with something between a smirk and a smile. Then he unzips his outer jacket, emblazoned with the red, black, and white of the Cyclones and #49—Killfeather. Yanking it off his shoulders, he starts to put it around mine.

I jerk. "I'm not your puck bunny."

"No, you're fucking frozen." This time he shoves it around my shoulders like a cape. "I'm used to the cold, remember?"

Damn him.

I warm up. A lot. It smells like him, all masculine and spicy. Plus, the fabric is thick and guards me against the wind whistling along the city streets.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"Mhm," he nods, running a hand through his wet hair. "You have a good night?" I scowl, Bas snorts. "Guess not."

"I'm not discussing tonight's disaster." I declare, then rush. "Are you headed home or headed out?"

Bas gives a half-hearted shrug. "Home; didn't feel like partying."

"Did you lose?"

He looks incredulous. "Fuck, no."

"Are you sick or something?"

Bas pauses and turns to glare at me, only partially teasing. I have to stop short or risk colliding with his chest. The half-cocked smirk is back, and his eyes twinkle under his hair.

"Because I don't want to go to a club and get shitfaced?" He clarifies for me slowly. "Parties and hockey aren't all I am." He turns and starts walking again. "Keep up, tiny."

A tinge of shame travels through me where I fall back into step beside him. "Sorry."

Bas shrugs. "All good, so you need a ride home?"

I glance up, realize we're headed for a parking garage. "I was thinking about taking the long way."

Bas frowns, "It's getting darker and colder out," he argues. I shove my hands in the pockets of his jacket, inadvertently shiver. "It's just a ride."

I relent, follow him into the parking garage without complaint. Bas leads the way through the rows of cars, finally coming to a stop beside a sleek, dark gray sport coupe. It gives a short chirp when he nears the driver's side.

I approach the passenger door wearily, unsure of myself as I slide into the seat. The interior is black leather with red stitching, clean, and smells like his jacket, woodland forest on a summer night. Nice car.

"Everything alright?" Bas breaks the silence as he backs up, starts to maneuver the vehicle toward the streets.

I pull the seatbelt across my hips and shrug. "Yeah, just...not ready to go home, I guess." Bas comes to a stop sign and glances at me, his expression a mix of caution and sincerity.

I huddle further into his jacket, not wanting to answer the questions I know he has.

Why are you all alone in the city at night? Because my mom's a bitch, and my dad is too damn kind.

Why don't you want to go home? Because I don't want to see the pity on Kaila's face.

"Well, you could come over to my place if you'd prefer." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as we approach a red light like he's not entirely sure of the suggestion himself. "Watch a movie, talk, whatever. Did you eat? I can cook. Not well, but it's edible."

I hesitate for a moment, torn between the openness on his face and the voice in my head warning me not to go to a stranger's home.

But he's not really a stranger...right?

"Sure," I agree.