Page 224 of Risking the Pucking Defense

“This place is a tapas bar, so food will arrive separately when it’s ready, perfect for Hailee,” Mom says softly from the back seat.

I smile, loving that she’s being so thoughtful.

Once we’ve found a place to park, we head inside the Spanish-style restaurant. It’s clearly been renovated recently, but it’s been designed to look authentically Spanish with its exposed brickwork, white walls, and colorful tiles. Or at least, I assume it is, because I’ve never been to Spain.

“This place is cool,” I mutter as we’re shown to our table.

“It’s all over Instagram,” Mom explains, making me chuckle.

I remember as a kid that she was adamant she wasn’t buying into the social media “fad.” But it seems those days are long gone now.

We’re handed menus, and the second I look down, my eyes widen at the choices.

“Uh…where do you even start?”

“Well,” Mom begins as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small notebook. “I wrote down some recommendations.”

She flips it open, showing off a list almost as long as the menu itself.

“Feeling hungry?” I tease while Dad chuckles beside her.

“I know how much it takes to feed you after a game. We’ll probably need seconds.”

I want to argue, but really, she isn’t wrong.

When our server returns with sangrias for us, Mom orders everything on her list, but explains that we’re not in a rush because we’re waiting for someone.

I love spending time with my parents. They’re fantastic, but that empty fourth chair haunts me.

Not only are we missing Rylee, but Hailee, too.

She messages me every thirty minutes apologizing and saying she won’t be long. But as of yet, she’s not here. Sadness nags at me. I don’t mean for it to get to me. I understand why she’s not here. It’s where she needs to be while dealing with all of this. But selfishly, I want her by my side.

We devour the first few dishes that arrive. With each one Mom tastes, she declares that it’s her favorite. I understand her issues; they’re all delicious.

“Any news?” Dad asks once the server clears away more empty plates, promising that more will arrive soon.

“No,” I say, trying and failing to hide my disappointment.

“Aw, sweetie,” Mom says softly, but I don’t get a chance to respond because more food arrives.

Damn, I could get used to this style of eating.

The conversation turns to Dad’s work, and I try to lose myself in tales of his colleagues that I’ve known for as long as I can remember.

Once the next round of plates has been cleared, I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I hate the look in my eyes when I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m having the best time with my parents, but it’s not enough.

The high of tonight’s win, the low of watching as Killer went down and then was rolled in agony onto a stretcher…I need her.

Pulling my cell from my pocket, I reread her last message. It was sent almost an hour ago now, and there’s been no word from her since.

She’s busy dealing with a crisis. Leave her alone. But no matter how many times I tell myself that, I can’t stop myself from hitting call and lifting my cell to my ear.

It rings and rings, and when it eventually goes to voicemail, I cut it off, hating myself for being weak when she’s busy.

Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders back and prepare to walk back toward my parents.