Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(72)

It’s cute that he’s apologizing for making me a cheese and sweet pepper egg-white omelet. He needn’t be, as this is what he eats back in Vegas. And I like this kind of healthy food too. It’s delicious.

“S’okay,” I murmur around a delectable bite. “This is awesome. Everything tastes really fresh.”

“You have my mom to thank for that,” he says, chuckling. “She somehow found time to sneak into my house and stock the fridge.”

“She sounds like a sweet mom,” I say softly.

“She’s amazing,” Brent agrees.

As I devour breakfast, I take note that Brent is already showered and ready to go. He looks great in his distressed jeans and a long-sleeved gray tee. It’s clear, and understandably so, that he wants to head over to the hospital as soon as possible.

I eat faster so we can hit the road.

A few minutes later, as I’m finishing with breakfast, I say, “Let me jump in the shower real fast. I can be ready to go in less than half an hour. Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he replies.

We have so much to talk about, especially after last night, but the drive to the hospital doesn’t seem the place.

Outside his dad’s room, I meet his mom. She’s a beautiful lady—petite with whiskey-colored eyes—just like Brent—and long chestnut-brown hair.

“Mom, this is Aubrey,” Brent says with a big, beaming smile.

Placing her hand on my arm, she smiles warmly. “Ah, Aubrey… Brent’s told us so much about you. It’s good to finally meet you.” She sighs. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.”

“Me too,” I reply. “But it’s still wonderful to meet you, as well.”

“Come, now.” She locks her arm with mine, and I like her already. She seems an easy person to be around. “You must meet Brent’s father.”

In his hospital room, I meet the famous Billy Oliver. He’s like an older version of Brent in many ways. They share the same strong facial features, though Mr. Oliver’s hair is much lighter, and he has a fair amount of gray at his temples. All in all, though, Brent is a perfect blend of his mother’s coloring and his dad’s face and build.

After formal introductions are made, Brent’s dad says, “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the famous life coach.”

“Probably more like infamous,” I murmur.

If his dad knows anything about my termination, or that video leaked by Brent, he probably questions my abilities.

But instead of nodding in agreement at my own slight against myself, he smiles up at me, kindness in his eyes. “Infamous, my ass,” he scoffs. “I’ve only heard great things about you, young lady.”

“Thank you,” I reply, blushing.

Mr. Oliver goes on, “In fact, too bad my son didn’t have you come up here sooner. You probably could’ve straightened out this old-coot-with-a-bad-ticker’s way of thinking. Up until this wake-up call, I thought I was invincible.”

“Too stubborn for his own good,” Mrs. Oliver chimes in.

I nudge Brent. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

Mr. Oliver lets out a chuckle. “Ah, your woman knows you well, son.”

Turning about six shades of red, Brent murmurs, “Dad, please.” And then, leaning down to me, he whispers in my ear, “Sorry about that.”

His parents don’t know we’ve not yet talked things out, but they are clearly Team Braubrey.

Mr. Oliver, pushing around the pillows behind him and getting more comfortable in his hospital bed, asks Brent to fill him in on all the latest hockey games and scores, which Brent does. Since I’ve been diligently following league action I’m able to throw in a few updates of my own.

“This one’s a keeper, for sure,” he says to Brent after I give him a pretty thorough recap of a Minnesota Wild game from the other night.

“Billy,” Mrs. Oliver chastises.

I suppose she’s beginning to sense her son’s—and my own—uneasiness at all these relationship references.

Clearing her throat, she brings up what everyone seems to resort to when at a loss for words—the weather.

“Has anyone noticed lately how unseasonably warm it’s been up here? I sure hope it cools down soon. I was hoping for a white Christmas, but I don’t think it’s in the cards for us this year. Maybe we’ll have some snow by New Year’s.”

“Mom loves snow,” Brent then informs me.

Mr. Oliver interjects. “That’s only ’cause she doesn’t have to shovel it.”

Brent’s mom reaches over and caresses her husband’s face lovingly. “There’ll be no shoveling for you, mister, for a good, long time.”

“Guess that means we’ll have to think of other things to occupy our time when we’re all snowed in,” Mr. Oliver says to his wife with a suggestive wink.

“Annnnd that’s our cue to go,” Brent says.

“Oh, stay, honey,” his mother replies. “Your father’s just being silly. Must be all the drugs they have him on.”

Mr. Oliver harrumphs, and Mrs. Oliver shushes him.

Brent, chuckling at his parents’ cute banter, and clearly loving that they care so much about each other, says, “I’m kind of hungry, anyway, Mom. Aubrey and I can come back up after we grab a quick bite down in the cafeteria.”