He groans. “Sectionals prep?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Coach made me swap the footwork sequence again.”
He pulls back a little, his thumb brushing over my hipbone. “Is your mom coming tomorrow?” he asks.
I freeze.
There’s a heartbeat of silence. I could lie. I could saymaybeorI think soorshe’s trying, but I don’t. Something about the way he’s watching me makes the truth crawl right out.
“No,” I say. “She’s not.”
Austin’s expression shifts, brows pulling together like he’s trying to figure out how to fix it.
“I invite her every year,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the edge of the blanket between us. I run my finger along the hem, over and over, needing something to hold onto. “Every single year. And she always has a reason not to come. She says she’s busy, or the timing’s bad, or she can’t get away from work.”
Austin shifts beside me. I feel the movement, but I don’t look. I’m not ready for whatever’s in his eyes.
“She hasn’t been to any of them,” I say quietly. “Not since I was a kid.”
His mouth pulls into a soft frown, his thumb brushing my wrist where he’s still holding my hand. “Maisie…”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I’m used to it.”
But I’m not. Not really.
Because I still try. Every year. I still send the invites. I still text the details. I still check flights and hotel prices, just in case she changes her mind. I still make sure the venue isn’t too far. I still stress about whether she’ll hate the dress code, or think the music’s too loud or the rink’s too cold.
I try to make it easy for her to come. I still hope she’ll show up.
But she never does.
I blink hard and my throat burns. I hate that it still gets to me.
Austin reaches for me, tugging me into his chest like he’s done it a hundred times before. His arms wrap around me, one hand curling protectively at the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs against my hair. “That fucking sucks.”
I nod. A tear slips out anyway, and I’m glad he’s holding me so tight I don’t have to look at him.
“It’s not a big deal,” I mumble.
“It is a big deal,” he says firmly.
He leans back just enough to tilt my chin up with his fingers, his eyes fierce and full of something that makes my chest ache.
“You’re a fucking star on that ice, Maisie. And she’s missing it.”
That breaks something in me. My laugh cracks halfway through. “Stop saying nice things or I’m gonna cry.”
He doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls me closer, wraps both arms around me again, and presses his face to my shoulder.
“I’ll be there,” he says, pressing his lips to my skin. “Front row. Screaming your name. Probably embarrassing the shit out of you.”
I bury my face in his neck, smiling against the warmth of his skin. “You’re gonna get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” he says, and I can feel his grin against my temple. “I’ll be the loudest guy in the rink,” he adds. “Recording everything. Blowing up the group chat. Hyping the hell out of you.”
I pull back enough to give him a look. “Austin.”
