40. Exorcism
EXORCISM
brETT
It’s been a hell of a series. Because we snuck into the postseason by the width of a skate blade, our first-round matchup is the top-ranked team in our division. Which just happens to be the Portland Storm. Yeah, that Portland Storm.
Cursed.
We fought our way back from a 3-1 deficit to push them to a game seven, and tonight’s the night we put it all on the line. Win, or the season’s over.
Maybe my time in Montana, too.
The thought leads straight to Chelsea. Everything does.
Hell, I’m even staying at the hotel with the rest of the team because my house is full to the brim with memories of her.
Soft kisses, and shower sex, and the best blow job I’ve ever—
I force myself to shut that shit down.
Tomorrow, I can drive myself crazy trying to figure out where we stand.
Today, I need my head in the game.
It’s do or die.
Which is probably why, when I run into Gray in the hallway, the kid looks a little green.
“Big game tonight.” He kicks the toe of his Chuck against the blue carpeting.
I raise my eyebrows at the overture. We’re doing a lot better on ice, really starting to click. But this is the first time he’s initiated anything resembling an actual conversation with me.
I school the surprise off my face. It’s like a wild honey badger just wandered up, and I need to hold really still so I don’t scare it away.
“You, uh, maybe wanna grab a coffee or something? Strategize a little?”
I actually feel a little bad that I can’t.
“I would, but I’m meeting up with my sister and brother-in-law.”
“Oh. Sure. Whatever.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, shrugs like it’s no biggie. “That’s cool. Have fun.”
Damn it. I hate it when Mason Gray reminds me of me.
“Did you want to come?”
His head snaps up. “Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Do I have time to grab a sweatshirt?”
“I’ll go find us a ride. Meet me in the lobby.”
The cab’s arrived by the time Mason walks out of the elevator in his hoodie and backward cap, so we head outside.
“Your brother-in-law is Cooper Mead, right?”
He’s trying to play it so cool, but he’s got fanboy written all over him.
“You’ve heard of him?” We both crawl into the back of the car. I already briefed the cabbie on our destination.
“Are you kidding me? Norris winner, Hart winner, a thirty goal season? He’s one of the best defensemen to ever play the game.”
“Relax. I'm fucking with you. But you know he’s taken, right?”
He rolls his eyes at me, and mumbles, “Prick,” under his breath.
I grin as the cab pulls away from the curb and heads for Black and Brew.
The second I step inside, the scent of ground coffee and fresh pastries loosens my shoulders. I missed the energy of it, the way it hums with quiet conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine.
The routine of the place soothes something in me.
It feels like game day.
Mason glances around the unfussy surroundings, sizing it up. “This place is great. You come here a lot?”
I nod. “With Coop, before every home game that we played together.”
I stayed away from it for our first three games here in Portland, but the pull is too strong today. Round one. Game seven. I need the ritual.
“Brett! Long time no see. How you been, man?”
Chet, the guy who owns the place, gives me a big grin from behind the counter.
“I was sorry to hear I had to start cheering against you.”
I grin. “As long as you don't spit in my coffee, I will accept the hockey-based excommunication.”
“Deal,” he tells me as we shake hands over the counter. “The usual?”
“You know it.” I glance over my shoulder at Gray. “What do you want?”
“Whatever you're having is good. Thanks.”
I hold up two fingers to Chet and pay for the Americanos.
We grab our drinks before heading over to the booth in the back corner that Cooper and I always sit at. Mason takes a seat across from me.
My defensive partner and I even manage a little strategy about dealing with Maguire’s line, since odds are good we’ll be paired against it for the majority of the game.
When the door chimes, I glance over my shoulder, expecting Coop.
That’s when she walks in.
Janelle.
All the blood drains from my face, and everything inside me goes eerily still.
Expensive coat, full glam, phone in hand, strutting through the place like she’s walking a runway. Attention-seeking at its finest. She always did love to make an entrance.
She makes a beeline for our table without a glance at the menu. Because she’s not here for coffee.
My Americano sloshes close to the rim of the cup, and I set it on the table, flexing my fingers. Forcing air into my lungs, I let it out slowly. Keep my voice steady and even, because I refuse to give her anything else. “Janelle.”
There’s nothing genuine about the smile she gives me. It’s performative. “Don’t get up,” she chides, since I make no move to. “This won’t take long.”
She tosses her designer bag onto the table like she owns it and wrinkles her nose. “Still drinking that sludge, I see. I thought when the Wolfpack saved your career, you might have upgraded to Starbucks.”
Now that the initial shock of her appearance has settled, my pulse evens out. The old cocktail of frustration and dread never arrives. In fact, beneath the surprise, I feel… nothing.
“Why are you here?”
She always hated this place. Not social media worthy enough for her.
“I just thought you’d want to know they picked someone else for the show because they never heard back from you about the guest appearances.” She pushes her sunglasses up on the top of her head. “I thought you might want to gloat a little, you know, since you ruined my life.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “I guess that makes us even.”
She laughs like the cameras are rolling. “I saw your little poor me tour about consent and revenge porn and male vulnerability.”
She juts her bottom lip out in a becoming little pout.
“Very touching. I almost cried.”
Mason shifts subtly on his side of the table, his presence unmistakable.
“I think that would require having a heart,” I offer.
“Oh please. I told you that video would make you a star, and I was right. People won’t stop talking about you. Don’t act like you’re some kind of victim.”
“Maybe don’t act like you’re some kind of hero.” Mason’s voice is cold. And I appreciate the support way more than he knows.
Janelle turns to him, but her cutting remark dies when recognition dawns and she tosses her blonde curls becomingly.
She’s a puck bunny to her core. Makes it her business to know every hockey player in the league.
Even with me in her sights, she can’t bring herself to go full beast mode in front of a possible prospect.
“This really isn’t your business, Handsome.”
“It is when you try to ruin my boy’s life and then act like you deserve a damn latte for it.”
She smirks. She likes that she got a rise out of him.
Like I said. She loves drama.
I don’t. And I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“You came here for something. So go ahead. Say it.”
Janelle hesitates. For the first time, she realizes she’s not fully in control of the situation. I’m not going there with her today. She’s not getting that piece of me anymore.
My ex-wife laughs, and it sounds a little unhinged, like she can’t quite get her bearings if I’m not willing to escalate with her. “What’s your problem?”
“No problem here. I’m just done letting your voice live rent-free in my head.”
She scoffs. “So what, you just want me to know you’re all better now? A brand new man?”
“I want you to know this is goodbye. For good this time.”
She grabs her purse, knuckles white as she fists the straps. “Fuck you, Brett. You ruined my shot at a television show. You’re not worth my time.”
She storms out of the coffee shop. Thankfully, I’m enough of a staple at this place that none of the regulars scattered around feel the need to record and upload the death knell of a marriage that was doomed from the start.
Bet I wouldn’t have been able to say that if Gray and I went to Starbucks.
My chest is lighter with my next exhale, and even lighter with the one after that.
I glance across the table, and there's a moment of awkward silence where Gray and I realize we're actually going to have to talk to each other after all that.
But the kid makes an effort and I can appreciate that. “Not the homecoming you were expecting, huh?”
I shrug. “You know how it is when you go home but it doesn't quite feel like home anymore?”
Mason shakes his head. Stares out the window. He looks a lot older than his twenty-two years when he confesses, “I don't go home.”
There's a lot lurking beneath those four words, but even if we were good enough friends for me to pry, the morning of an elimination playoff game isn't the time to be unlocking your deepest darkest.
Since it just happened to me, I feel pretty confident in saying that.
The door chimes again and Mason goes stiff. Sits up straighter. Pulls off his cap to rake a hand through his hair before putting it back on.
I would be worried Janelle had returned, but the primping lets me know that’s not the case.
“Oh, shit. He's here. I'm going to meet Cooper Mead.” He straightens his hoodie. “You're going to introduce me, right?”
“Nah. I figured we'd talk over your head and ignore you the whole time.”
I grin at his fuck you glare as I slip out of the booth and give Coop a quick hug.
“Hey. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Of course.”
He turns to Mason, who’s practically vibrating in his seat.
“Who do we have here?”
I know Coop knows exactly who's sitting in the booth, but I appreciate the show of loyalty.
“Mason, Cooper,” I say, pointing at each of them in turn.
“It's an honor, man. Seriously. You have no idea. You were my favorite player growing up. I still have your rookie card. Man, I wish I brought it to get your autograph. You're the reason I wanted to be a defenseman.”
I can tell Cooper's amused by the praise, but also a little touched.
His smile warms fractionally as they shake hands. “It’s good to meet you. You’ve put together a solid season. You and Brett play well together.”
Gray’s mouth falls open. “You watch?” He looks at me, back at Coop. “Yeah, of course you watch. I just... thanks. Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Where's Lainey?” I ask, trying to save Mason from himself.
“She’s feeding Chloe. Told me to come in and order while she finishes up,” he says, before drifting toward the counter.
Mason looks up at me, starstruck. “I’m having coffee with Cooper Mead. Cooper. Fucking. Mead.”
I slide back into the bench. “And you're being super cool about it.”
He snorts a laugh and reaches for his coffee. “Shut up.”
When Lainey arrives, I give her a hug, make quick introductions, and steal Chloe.
My niece is adorable as ever. I can’t believe how much she's grown since Chelsea and I—
The memory steals my smile.
Doesn’t matter how hard I try not to think about her. She’s always there.
After the sex tape and that day at the shelter when Chelsea saved my ass, I knew I couldn't afford any more screwups so I put my head down and started to grind. And that’s all I’ve been doing for the last three weeks.
There was a moment, though, after my speech, when I thought maybe, just maybe, that there was still an us. That we could still be something.
I considered texting her about a million times, but she knows how I feel. I laid it all out for her the night the sex tape came out. And she made it clear that she needed time to come to grips with all the shit I inadvertently dragged her into.
I’ve been trying like hell to give it to her. She hasn't contacted me, either. And I don’t know what to do about that, because losing her... I don’t want to think about it.
And since playoffs started, I haven't had a minute to breathe, let alone figure out my next move. Hell, if we lose tonight, I might not even be in Missoula tomorrow.
And where does that leave us?
Lainey nudges my shoulder, pulling me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I cuddle Chloe closer, readjusting her soother. “Yeah, fine.”
She gives me that older sister look that says she doesn't believe it but she doesn't push.
The fact that she doesn’t is the only reason I add, “Janelle was here.”
Indignation straightens Lainey’s shoulders and tightens her fists.
“It was okay,” I reassure her. “Kind of. I think I needed the closure, maybe?”
She stands down at that.
“And Gray had my back.” Credit where credit’s due.
Kid came through for me. “Speaking of which,” I add, tipping my chin toward the other side of the booth where Mason's nattering animatedly at an indulgent Cooper, who just sips his own Americano and lets him.
“You better watch out. He's trying to steal your man.”
“If you couldn’t do it, your less impressive defensive partner doesn’t stand a chance,” she says, the dismissal dripping with derision.
But I lap up the implied compliment. “Did you just admit that I’m amazing?”
“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” she counters with an unbothered sip of her latte.
I’m grinning as I tuck my finger inside my niece’s tiny fist. “Did you hear that, Chloe? Your mommy just said I’m the best hockey player she’s ever seen.”