Chapter 4
Grant
Most of a week has gone by, and I’ve hardly thought about Heather or April, or the fact that they’re moving in with me in just a few days. That’s the lie I’ve been telling myself while I count down the hours and minutes, anyway.
The other lie I’ve been telling myself is that this won’t be a huge disruption to my quiet, carefully regimented life.
And maybe it won’t. Heather and April don’t seem disruptive or loud, from what I’ve seen. I know Heather works hard and April seems like a genuinely bright, good kid.
But it would be better if I knew what to plan for. My whole life revolves around hockey. On the ice, I know where I’m supposed to be and how to react to any given play at any given moment.
But this situation has too many variables, and I’m not calling any of the shots.
Instead, I have a million questions that I can’t answer on my own. Will they like the place? Will it be comfortable for them? Will there be so much space that it feels impersonal, like a mostly-empty museum?
I’ve been running every possible scenario through my head, from best case to complete disaster. I need to get this right, for their sake as well as my own, so making sure this works out has become as important to me as eating, sleeping, or training.
“Earth to Goalie-Bot,” Reese calls out from across the ice where the team is lining up. “Are we gonna make this last drill count, or have you powered down for the day?”
Noah snorts. “You’d better watch out, Sutton. Parker doesn’t have an auto-pilot setting. If you piss him off, he’ll go full cyborg on your ass. You won’t know what hit you until you wake up in recovery. Or the E.R.”
“At least I can say I had a challenge.”
I shake my head and tap my stick against the goal post three times. It’s the only warning Reese—or any of the others—is going to get. My head is in the game now, and I have just enough fire in my belly after their trash talk that I know I’m going to make this last shooting drill count.
I settle in and let my muscle memory take over, confident in my ability to predict where the shots will land even as my teammates try to feint one direction or the other.
Theo.
Reese.
Sawyer.
Noah.
And on, and on down the line.
One by one, they take their best shots. One by one, I shut them down until practice is over.
“I almost got your ass on that last one, Parker.” Theo nudges me with his shoulder as we head for the locker room.
“Whatever makes you sleep better at night.” I don’t even have to look over at his face to know he’s shooting a half-joking glare my way.
But only half-joking.
We might all be on the same team, but we’re still competitive as fuck.
My mom and dad sacrificed their time together, their time off work, and ultimately their lives to get me a shot at the big leagues, and I’ve promised them every day since then that I’ll never, ever take their sacrifices for granted.
That’s why the hours of practice don’t bother me.
That’s why I can still be content waking up, going to bed, and thinking about nothing but hockey in between.
That’s why I’m great at what I do, when a lot of people coast along at good enough.
“One of these days,” Theo grumbles, “I’m going to get past those fast-ass hands of yours. You can’t predict which direction we’re going to shoot every damn time. Not unless you actually are a robot.”
“Not a robot. Just good at my job.”
Noah laughs. “You know you’re going to make his head explode if you keep this up, right?”
I shrug. “What did I do? Tell the truth?”
Maybe I am trying to goad Theo a little. But only a little. There’s a time and place for all the back-slapping and ball-busting, but I try to leave it to the guys who seem to get a kick out of that stuff.
I’ll still be here at the end of the day, reviewing my tapes and executing my drills, just like I’ve always done.
After I shower and change clothes, I head to physical therapy. The PT rooms are just on the other side of the building, and while I walk, my mind keeps drifting back to all the things I still want to check on at the house before Heather and April move in.
I’ll need to get two extra sets of keys made.
And check that every guest room has clean bedding, just in case they want to try out a few different mattresses before they commit to a room.
And I should probably look up what kind of snack foods kids are into these days—oh, and I should also probably check with Heather to make sure April is allowed to have junk food.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I’m almost running late by the time I make it to the team’s physical therapy room. Melanie, my therapist, is waiting for me.
“Look who finally showed up,” she says, glancing at her watch with an exaggerated expression of shock. “Right on time. That’s not like you at all.”
I double-check my watch. “I’m not usually on time?”
“You’re always five minutes early. Always. I was starting to wonder if you’d been abducted.” She nods toward the resistance bands with a grin. “Come on, let’s get set up. How’s that shoulder?”
She’s been my physical therapist for long enough to know my routine at least as well as I do. And while she’s professional and takes her job seriously, she’s also easy to work with—which is one of the things I like best about her.
I roll my shoulder back and forth, then nod. “Not bad. I iced it after I got slammed into that wall, but it hasn’t bothered me since.”
“Good. And the knee?”
“All the swelling is gone.”
I start my sets like normal, but it only takes a few seconds for her to pause and tilt her head.
“Hey, slow down a little.” Her tone is still light, but no-nonsense. “You’re rushing through these.”
“Am I?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You seriously can’t tell? What’s going on? Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “Yeah, actually. I need to get home. There’s a lot I still need to do before—”
I cut myself off before I can say too much, but one peek at Melanie’s expression tells me that the damage has already been done.
“Before what?” Because now she looks genuinely curious. “What’s happening at home?”
“I’ve got people moving in.”
Now both of Melanie’s eyebrows shoot up. “People? Moving in? With you?”
I don’t think I’ve seen her look this surprised in… ever.
“It’s not like that. They’re not moving in permanently.” I adjust my grip on the resistance band and focus on the stretch in my shoulder rather than her pointed stare. “It’s Noah’s sister-in-law and her daughter. They just need a place to stay for a while.”
“Grant Parker. Mr. I-Live-Alone-Because-I-Don’t-Have-Time-For-Anyone.” She crosses her arms, and I know I’m not getting out of this conversation easily. “You’re having houseguests? That seems a little out of character, don’t you think?”
I shrug, trying to play it off. “I’m just trying to be helpful.
Noah’s got a lot on his plate with the baby coming.
Having two extra people at home would be too much for him to handle right now.
It’s easier for me—I’ve got the space, and I’m not dealing with a pregnant wife and preparing for a newborn. ”
She nods slowly, still looking like she’s trying to piece everything together. “That’s super nice of you. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”
“It’s no big deal. Just trying to help out the team.”
“Right. The team.” There’s something in her tone—not skeptical exactly, but not entirely convinced either. She hands me the next resistance band and adjusts my form. “Well, however it came about, I think it’ll be good for you. That house is way too big and empty for just one person.”
The rest of our session is relatively quiet and uneventful, which is a nice change of pace after the tension of the past several minutes.
But just because I’m not talking about the growing knot of nerves in the pit of my stomach doesn’t mean they’ve gone away. If anything, those nerves have gotten worse since leaving the practice facility and heading home.
Now I’m sitting in the driveway and trying to picture the imposing, sprawling house from the point of view of someone who is seeing it for the very first time.
It’s big.
Too big, probably. Maybe even intimidating.
When I moved here, I was mourning my parents and busy with hockey. I told my real estate agent I only had two concerns—space and privacy—and this house has an abundance of both.
It sits behind a few heavily wooded, walled-off acres at the back of a gated community. Nobody makes it this far unless they’ve been invited.
And the list of people who have received an invitation in the time I’ve lived here is pretty damn short.
I walk through the front door and stare up at the cavernous two-story foyer. It’s pretty enough, I guess. There’s a big chandelier, a sweeping staircase, and not much else.
The formal living and dining rooms are barely furnished with a few expensive pieces I’ve never even sat on.
There’s a chef’s kitchen that only gets used by my chef twice a week when he comes to prepare my strictly portioned, perfectly balanced meals for the next few days.
All of my actual living is done in the basement gym, the “family” room that’s dominated by a sectional couch and an enormous TV where I watch highlights and replays of games, and my bedroom with its custom king bed to accommodate my big frame.
That’s it.
Most of the house sits unused and closed off from the world, just as it was on the day I moved in.
If it wasn’t for my housekeeper, ninety percent of the place would probably be covered in dust and cobwebs by now.
And my day-to-day routine is so strict, so ingrained in my head, that I’m not sure I’d even notice.
But I’m going to do better. I’m going to be welcoming. A good host, or as close to it as I can get.
The next hour is a blur of making sure there are clean towels and toiletries in every bathroom, double- and triple-checking each guest room for clean sheets and fresh flowers, then second-guessing myself about the choices.
What if they’re allergic to the flowers?
What if the sheets aren’t the right thread count?
Fucking hell, how does anyone cope with having guests over?
I grimace when the doorbell rings because I know I’m not ready. I’d need another week, at least, to feel good about how this place looks—and to fill it with enough furniture to look like someone actually lives here.
But ready or not, it’s game time.