Chapter 4 #2
Chase leans back against his stall, towel slung around his neck, grin sharpening. “Know who’s interested in being her priority? Viktor. He was halfway to wooing her at your wedding before someone”—his eyes cut to me—“made sure he didn’t get there.”
Eli’s head snaps up at the sound of our third-line defenseman’s name. “Viktor’s a creep. And my sister’s not up for discussion.”
Reid whistles low. “Here we go.”
“She’s nearly twenty-four, man,” Jake adds, shoving gear into his duffel. “A fully-fledged teacher. She can handle herself without you running interference.”
Before I can stop myself, the words are out. “He’s right.”
Not about Viktor. Never about Viktor. But about Eli treating her like she’s still twelve.
Eli snorts, but there’s no humor in it. He tosses his towel onto the bench and leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You idiots don’t get it. Dad was pulling shifts at the station, Mom worked nights at the hospital, and Lulu was always with me.
If I had practice, she was in the stands doing homework.
If I had a game, she was at the rink till late.
She’s been my shadow since we were kids, and I’m not just gonna switch that off because she’s grown. ”
The room quiets for a beat, a rare seriousness cutting through the chirping.
Ryan, still peeling tape from his shin pads, lifts a brow. “And you did a good job. But she’s not a kid anymore. You gonna patrol her classroom too?”
The tension cracks, and Chase grins wider. “Maybe Pookie’s volunteering. He was very quick to step in with Viktor at the wedding.”
Reid doesn’t even look up from re-lacing his skates. “Tragic. Imagine being so down bad you fight Viktor off at a wedding buffet.”
I shake my head and glare directly into Hutchy’s soul. “I was not down bad,” I snap, louder than I mean to. “I was helping Eli out—Viktor’s a fucking player.”
Jake snorts, ignoring me. “Wasn’t even Viktor’s plate he was after. It was Lulu’s bread roll.”
The room detonates. Laughter, jeers, towels flying. Eli’s bristling, Chase looks smug as hell, and Reid just shrugs like facts are facts.
“Shut the fuck up, all of you,” Eli snaps finally, voice cracking across the room.“She’s been burned enough already. Half the idiots she’s dated only wanted a ticket into this damn locker room. They didn’t give a damn about her.”
I don’t say a word, but it twists in my gut all the same, because he’s right.
I’ve seen those guys. I’ve seen her smile while some fucker checks his reflection in the plexiglass, faking a smile and looking straight past her sparkle for an introduction with her brother.
The thought of her parading through more dates, chasing something real, and getting nothing but assholes makes my fists curl tight in my towel.
Across the room, Chase’s eyes flick to me, catching the storm on my face and my white-knuckle grip strangling my towel. He grins, slow and satisfied, but doesn’t say a word.
Merciful bastard.
I shower fast, keeping my head down, but the thoughts don’t clear with the steam. By the time I’m dressed, the room’s thinning out. When I emerge, Eli’s lingering by his stall, arms folded, watching me.
“Look, I know you think I’m over the top.” His jaw works. “But it’d do me a solid if you could just… keep an eye out for when she gets home tonight from her taco truck date. Just be subtle and she won’t even notice.”
I grunt, because what else can I do? Say no?
“Fine.”
It’s nothing. Just a favor for my teammate, my friend. My brother in every way that counts.
Eli slaps me on the shoulder and heads for the door. “I owe you, brother.”
I shove the rest of my gear into my duffel and sigh.
“A taco truck,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking kill me.”
***
The sky’s fading when I pull into the driveway, the kind of dusky purple that makes the street look quieter than it is.
Dusty’s paws scrabble against the front door before I’ve even unlocked it, nails clicking frantically on the wood.
By the time I step inside, he’s circling me in wide loops, tail whipping in greeting.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, dropping my duffel by the stairs and rubbing behind his ears. “I missed you, too, D-man.”
The familiar comfort of his warm fur and unfiltered joy should settle me, but Eli’s words trail after me like exhaust.
Keep an eye on her. Be subtle.
Movement flashes across the street, and before I’ve even shrugged out of my hoodie, the front steps creak. Dusty bolts ahead, tail wagging so hard his whole back end wiggles, just as Lulu crosses the porch with a small package in her hands.
She’s all breathless sparkle. Hair loose, in gold sandals and a coral wrap dress swishing around her thighs, bright earrings catching the porch light.
Distracting as hell, because she’s a total knockout, and looking far too good for a fucking taco truck.
I drag my eyes up quickly, and when they meet hers, the glittery static energy that seems to buzz around her jumps up a notch.
“Hi! Sorry—don’t panic. I just thought me moving in across the street deserves a neighborly gift.” She thrusts it into my hands. “Ta-da.”
I glance down and see a picture of a flamingo. Neon pink, wings stretched wide on glossy cardboard. A goddamn inflatable pool float, smirking up at me from the cover of the package.
I look at the box. Then at her. Then back at the box.
“The fuck is this?”
“A thank-for-helping-yesterday gift,” she says, chin high, though her mouth twitches with mischief. “I heard you, uhh, have a pool. And I don’t. So this seemed practical.”
“Practical,” I echo flatly. “So really, you just bought yourself a toy to use in my pool.”
Her grin sharpens. “Semantics.”
An unbridled image flashes through my head. Lulu in a bikini. In my pool. On this damn inflatable.
Fuck.
My grip tightens, and Dusty noses the box, tail beating hard enough to whap against my thigh.
“If you wanna use my pool, Parnell, you could’ve just said so.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she fires back.
I open my mouth to reply just as a horn bleats from the curb. She turns, lifting a hand in a wave at the waiting taxi before glancing over her shoulder.
“Don’t let Dusty eat that, okay? He’ll poop pink.”
She’s gone before I can even form words, her sandals tapping down the steps, dress swaying as she heads for the car. The door slams, taillights flare red, and I’m left standing on my porch. A six-foot-four NHL defenseman, holding an inflatable neon flamingo.
Dusty whines at the door as I close it, ears perked and waiting for her to come back.
“You’ve got it bad, Dust,” I mutter, shoving the box under my arm as I walk toward the kitchen.
He whines again, stubborn and hopeful. Probably still hearing her laugh in the air. Or remembering the sweep of her hair. Or that damn dress.
I let out a low breath and scrub a hand over my face.
“Don’t get used to it,” I tell him, dropping the box onto the counter harder than I need to.
But his tail keeps thumping, and my eyes keep straying to the window long after her cab’s gone.