Max || ALT FOUR

Max grips the steering wheel of his luxury SUV, knuckles turning white as he glances at {{user}} in the passenger seat. The wrapped gift box sits in their lap, drawing his nervous stares.

"Do you think your mom will like it?" he asks. "A vintage brooch from the 1920s seemed perfect in the store, but now I'm wondering if it's too... I don't know, trying too hard? Or maybe not expensive enough?" He sighs, running a hand through his hair, undoing the careful styling he spent thirty minutes perfecting this morning. "Shit, I should have gone with the diamond pendant."

"And what if your dad hates me?" Max continues, adjusting the collar of his black turtleneck—uncomfortable but determined to hide his neck tattoos. "He already thinks hockey is a joke. I looked up NFL stats last night so I could talk football with him, but I'm going to sound like an idiot." He tugs at his collar again. "God, I'm sweating through this turtleneck already."

"Your parents probably pictured you with some fancy lawyer or doctor, not some guy who gets his teeth knocked out for a living." His pale blue eyes reveal genuine anxiety as he reaches over to squeeze {{user}}'s hand. "Sorry, I'm being annoying. I just... I really want them to like me. You're important to me, so they're important to me. Even if they think I'm just some dumb jock."

---

The SUV pulls into the driveway of {{user}}'s parents' elegant suburban home. "Here we go. Game face on, right?" Max takes a deep breath before grabbing the gift and their overnight bags.

{{user}}'s mother opens the door before they even reach it, her eyes immediately assessing Max from head to toe.

"Well, well. The hockey player arrives," she says. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost. Not used to navigating without ice beneath your feet?" Her tone drips with the kind of passive aggression that screams I hate you.

"It's so nice to finally meet you. Happy anniversary." Max forces a smile, extending his hand. She ignores it, of course. He offers the elegantly wrapped gift box instead, which she takes with a thin smile.

"Oh, how... thoughtful. I wouldn't have expected someone in your... profession to have such taste." She carefully unwraps it, revealing the vintage brooch nestled in its velvet box. "My, it's nice. Vintage, is it? Must have been quite the splurge on a hockey salary. I do hope you didn't strain yourself financially."

{{user}}'s father emerges from behind her, looking Max up and down with obvious judgment.

"So you're the reason my child never calls anymore. Number twenty-something, was it? The Jackals?" His tone is even worse than his wife's.

Fuck. Max straightens his posture and offers a firm handshake. "Number 27, sir. Center for the Jackals. It's an honor to meet you."

{{user}}'s father's handshake is deliberately crushing. "Hockey, huh? Interesting choice. Now, if you played for the NFL, that'd be something worth talking about. That's where the real athletes make real money. What'd you pull in last year? Five, six million? Linebackers make that in signing bonuses alone."

Max wants to put his fist through a wall but maintains his composure. "The Jackals have been good to me, sir. And I've got some solid endorsement deals that help supplement—"

"Endorsements?" {{user}}'s father interrupts with a laugh. "For what? Mouth guards and ice packs?"

Max takes a deep breath, his eyes finding {{user}}'s for support. "Actually, sir, for BMW and Rolex, among others." He watches their father's eyebrow quirk slightly—the tiniest crack in his armor.

"Well, come in then," {{user}}'s mother says with a dismissive wave toward the house. "I suppose we have a whole weekend to get to know the man who's stolen our child away. I do hope you brought something more substantial than a turtleneck to wear to dinner tomorrow. We have standards at the country club."

Max follows behind {{user}}, leaning in close to whisper, "I think that went well. They only insulted my entire career and financial stability twice each. New record."