Chapter 2 1: Mom's getting married

~Samantha Lee~

My phone vibrated against the wooden table sounding like a mosquito in my ear. I groaned, burying my face deeper into my arms. It was barely 9 AM on a Thursday, and my brain was actively protesting any form of conscious thought.

"Sam, just pick it up," Lily chirped, her voice far too bright for this unholy hour. She slid onto the bench next to me, her long blonde ponytail swaying.

"No can do, ladies," I mumbled, my words muffled. "It's her."

"Her?" Rachel asked, though the slight tilt of her head indicated she knew exactly who I meant. "Your mom? Maybe it's important, Sam."

I snorted, finally lifting my head, my black hair a chaotic mess around my face. "Important? The only thing 'important' my mother ever calls for is to dictate my life choices, critique my outfit from three weeks ago, or inform me of another one of her society galas. Hard pass." I waved a dismissive hand, as if I could physically swat away the impending doom of a parental lecture. Honestly, the woman could suck the joy out of a puppy convention.

Just then, a saccharine sweet, utterly grating cheer echoed from the stage at the front of the university amphitheater. "Cheer chicks! We're the best! Put us to the test!"

My eye twitched. "Ugh, seriously?" I muttered, my voice dripping with disdain.

Lily grimaced. "Hannah and her flock of plastic pigeons."

"'Plastic pigeons' nice one, Lil," I said, a small smile spreading across my face. "I swear, if they don't stop with that ear-splitting nonsense, I'm going to lose it."

Rachel took a dramatic sip of her espresso. "I hate them and Hannah most of all. She literally glares at us like we personally stole her tiara."

"Because we're going to," I declared, leaning forward. "The Glitter Girls are going to whoop their perfect, surgically enhanced asses this season. We just need more practice, a tighter formation on the triple basket toss, and maybe a new chant that doesn't sound like it was written by a six-year-old on a sugar high."

"Preach!" Lily exclaimed, high-fiving me across the table. Rachel joined in, a small, genuine smile finally gracing her lips. This was our sacred bond, a shared hatred for the Cheer Chicks and an unshakeable belief that the Glitter Girls were the superior cheer squad.

The cheers finally, blessedly, died down. A new energy rippled through the amphitheater, a low hum that quickly escalated into a roar. The lights dimmed, then flared, spotlighting the entrance to the stage.

And then the university's hockey team came.

Adrenaline surged through the crowd, as they strode out, all I could see were their broad shoulders and lean muscles, looking like they'd just stepped off a GQ cover shoot, stick in hand. My gaze immediately locked onto Logan, my boyfriend. He winked at me from the stage, a charming, confident grin splitting his face. My stomach did a little flip, definitely the usual Logan effect. He was handsome, popular, and ridiculously good at hockey. What more could a girl want?

But then, the second wave of players emerged, and my mood, which had been steadily climbing, plummeted faster than a lead balloon in an elevator shaft.

Tyler Pierce.

His dark hair was perpetually messy in that artfully disheveled way, and his eyes, a startling shade of green, seemed to hold a mischievous glint even from a distance. He was the university's golden boy, the hockey team's prodigal son, and my personal brand of migraine.

As he stepped onto the stage, the decibel level in the amphitheater skyrocketed. "TYLER! TYLER! TYLER!" The chants were deafening which seemed to vibrate directly inside my skull. Girls shrieked his name, holding up signs that read "Marry Me, Tyler!" and "Pierce My Hero!"

My jaw tightened at the stupid, ridiculous ways the girls had cheered him on, because apparently, he was energetic on the ice. Or maybe it was just an excuse for everyone to chant his name like he was some kind of sports god. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. And it absolutely, unequivocally, ruined my mood every single time. Logan was great, amazing even, but Tyler... Tyler was a different kind of monster, the kind that got under your skin and stayed there.

"Ugh, I can't," I muttered, pushing back from the table with such force that it wobbled precariously. "I need to get out of here before I start throwing glitter bombs at adoring fans."

"Sam, where are you going?" Lily called out, her voice barely audible over the roaring crowd.

"Changing room!" I yelled back, not bothering to look at them. "I'm out. This is too much."

I weaved through the throngs of students, my shoulders hunched, trying to make myself as small and invisible as possible. The 'Tyler' chants followed me, echoing in my head annoyingly. Just as I reached the double doors leading to the sports complex changing rooms, a figure stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

"Hey, Sam!"

It was Mike, one of Logan's teammates, a burly defenseman with a perpetually good-natured grin. He held out a brightly coloured invitation card. "There's a party tomorrow night. At the old frat house, you know? The one by the lake. We're inviting everyone in sports, hockey, cheer, basketball, swim team, you name it. It's gonna be epic."

I took the card, barely glancing at the flashy gold font. My mind was still reeling from the 'Tyler' overdose. "Uh, yeah, thanks, Mike. Got it."

"Cool! See ya there!" He grinned, then headed back into the fray.

I muttered a vague 'yeah' and pushed through the doors into the quiet, slightly damp-smelling changing room. Finally, peace. I walked towards my locker, fumbling for my key, when my phone, which I'd shoved into my pocket, started vibrating again.

Mom.

Again!

I groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of pure agony, I knew this was going to be a relentless pursuit. She knew I'd seen her calls. She wouldn't stop until I picked up.

"Hello Mom, this is not the right time to call you know," I snapped into the phone, not bothering with a polite greeting.

"Samantha Lee! Is that any way to speak to your mother?" Her voice still found a way to grate on my nerves. "I've been calling you for an hour, darling. Why aren't you picking up?"

"Because I'm busy, Mom. And it's Thursday. You know I don't answer calls before noon on Thursdays unless it's an actual emergency."

"This is an emergency, darling. A very important one. You need to come home."

My brow furrowed. "Home? For what? What's happened?" Please don't let it be Aunt Carol's fifth divorce party or another one of her ridiculous charity auctions.

"We need to discuss something. Arrangements, actually. We have a lot to talk about, face to face." Her tone was unusually serious, which, coming from my mother, was almost terrifying.

"Look, Mom, just tell me now. Is everything okay? Are you alright?" My heart gave an anxious thump.

A brief pause, then a sigh. "Yes, yes, everyone I am perfectly fine. The arrangements are for... I am getting married."

My jaw dropped. The locker key slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the tiled floor. The air left my lungs in a dramatic whoosh. My phone felt like a lead weight against my ear.

"You're... what now?" My voice was a choked whisper.

"Yes, I am getting married, darling on Saturday. We've finalized everything. You just need to come home to meet your stepfather and try on the dress."

"You must be seriously joking Mom," I muttered unable to hide how shocked I was.

My mom getting remarried is the most absurd thing I have ever heard for years.

What happened to staying away from men till eternity?