Chapter 8 #2
The realization is a little unsettling. I'd had him in my head as the arrogant, insufferable golden boy of the NHL, with the endless endorsements and a predictably shallow rotation of admirers.
The image of him grinding through a brutal year of recovery without self-pity doesn't really fit that picture. And watching him now, I'm not sure the picture was ever that accurate to begin with.
He comes tearing down the ice with the puck, a teammate skating wide open beside him, and instead of passing he tries to muscle through two defenders on his own. He loses it in the scramble, the chance gone, and skates off with his head down and his shoulders hunched, frustration rolling off him.
"He's trying to do too much," Brittany murmurs, watching him. "Reckless lately..."
His coach barks something in his ear as Cillian goes past, and Cillian gives a single nod, his entire posture suggesting a fresh, dangerous fire has been stoked.
By the time the third period arrives, the very concept of sitting back in my seat feels impossible, and my second glass of wine is entirely abandoned as I watch Cillian navigate the final minute.
He's everywhere at once. He digs the puck off the wall through what looks like sheer refusal to be beaten, throws his body into a scramble along the boards, and comes out with it.
And then, with under a minute left, the puck finds him right in front of the net. This time he doesn't charge in the way he did before. He goes still for a second, waits the goalie out, and slides it past him so cleanly it barely looks like effort.
His stick hits the ice and his arms fly up as his teammates crash into him, and twenty thousand people come to their feet at once, a wall of noise that I feel in my teeth.
The horn blares seconds later, and that's the game.
They've won. Brittany grabs me and we jump up and down together like we've won something ourselves.
And Cillian is grinning now, wide and unguarded, pumping a fist up at the stands as they chant his name back at him, and the transformation is something to see.
I'm on my feet without deciding to be, Brittany's arms locked around me as we scream with everyone else. I watch him stand in the middle of a stadium losing its collective mind over him, that easy grin lighting up his whole face.
Brittany hooks her arm through mine, breaking my focus, but my gaze still tracks him as he disappears into the tunnel.
"Okay, first-game survivor," she says. "Verdict?"
"Maybe hockey isn't so bad after all," I admit.
She laughs, delighted. "We've got you now. There's no going back."
The drive home from the arena takes over an hour, all the way from San Francisco back to Solstice Ridge, the little town on the Napa River that looks like it wandered straight off a postcard.
I moved here almost six years ago when I landed the job at Solstice Estates, and I've been in love with it ever since.
It's nearly midnight by the time I cross the bridge over the river and roll through downtown, string lights still glowing over the closed-up shops, the bakery with my favorite lemon scones, the bookshop where Mrs. Landon and her ancient cat keep me endlessly stocked in paperbacks, Dot’s nursery where I keep buying plants I absolutely do not need. It's home.
The familiar turn into my neighborhood comes up on the right, a cluster of houses that all lean into the cottage aesthetic.
Mine is the tiny yellow one at the end of the lane.
Real estate agents would call it "charming," which is a polite way of saying it's small, but it's got a porch swing out back, a garden, and it's mine.
Buying it after my first year here took a mortgage I could barely afford but made work, but after the divorce, having a place that was entirely my own felt like a small victory.
The kitchen light is warm and glowing when I pull into the drive. Sabrina's up, which shouldn't surprise me. I'm an early bird who likes coffee on the porch at sunrise, while Sabrina's a committed night owl who considers 2:00 AM the peak of her creative day.
I let myself in and breathe in the smell of… cheese. She's got something going on the stove. I drop my keys in the little flower dish by the door, kick off my shoes, sigh in relief, and head for the kitchen.
Sabrina is industriously shredding cheese with a mountain of supplies spread across the counter, currently sporting neon pink pajamas and a look of intense concentration.
My kitchen is a cozy English-countryside-cottage sort of thing, and her vibrant presence clashes with the decor in a charming way, like a bird of paradise that accidentally wandered into a Beatrix Potter illustration.
She spins around as I walk in. "Oh my gosh! How did it go? I have been dying for the play-by-play, but first, you have to save me. I tried to assemble these grilled cheeses exactly like you do, but I’m hopeless at cooking."
"You know, sometimes I wonder if this whole 'I can't cook' routine is a long-con to get me to do it for you," I say, nudging her away from the cutting board.
"Wow. Accusing your own sister." She says dramatically. "I would never."
I take over the assembly, layering a mix of gruyère, sharp cheddar, and a bit of fontina onto thick slices of local sourdough. It is, objectively, the best comfort food in existence.
"How did the screening go today?" I ask, buttering the pan.
Sabrina still has a few years of film school ahead of her, and right now she's deep in a short documentary for one of her production classes.
People always underestimate her because of the rhinestones and the bright clothes and the fact that she's so bubbly, but she's one of the smartest people I know, and she's been acing every class.
"Really well, I think. My professor said he loved the interview footage.
We won't get the official feedback until next week though.
" She hops up onto the counter, swinging her bare feet.
"But fill me in on the game. I've been dying to hear about your sporting adventure. Don't spare a single detail."
So I give her all of it. Brittany and her sweet golden-retriever energy and crush on Betts.
The game itself and, admittedly, Cillian, and how good he was out there.
The only thing I leave out is the Cillian sex life part, which I'll be taking to my grave.
By the time I'm done, the grilled cheeses are nearly ready.
"Wow. I've never heard you provide a play-by-play on sports before," she says with a giggle, swinging her bare feet against the cabinet door.
I press the sandwich down with the spatula, checking the underside. "I'm just saying it was weirdly exciting. Like, I kind of get the camaraderie of it now. Though I still think the violence is barbaric."
She grins. "Uh huh. Well, I imagine the violence is a bit easier to swallow when the guy committing it is that hot. And the accent, my god. I'm such a sucker for an accent."
"Millions of men in Ireland possess one."
"And how many of them possess it while looking like that? The man is a god."
"He's as mortal as the rest of us," I say, rolling my eyes. "He has a mother. He almost certainly forgets to do laundry. That's the problem with treating men like gods. The minute you put one on a pedestal, you stop expecting him to behave like a normal person. Nobody expects a god to text back."
"Don't go into mom mode, alright?" She snickers and kicks at my hip with one bare foot, toes splayed out the way she knows I hate. "You're only older by a few years."
"Remove your feet from my workspace!" I laugh as I swat at her ankle with the spatula. "Or I'm confiscating your sandwich as a penalty."
"You wouldn't dare!" She giggles, yanking her legs out of reach. "Besides, a little reckless fun would be good for your soul."
I shoot her a skeptical look. "I’m not sure I should be taking lifestyle pointers from you, considering you have entirely too much fun."
"You're referencing the ill-fated matching tattoo debate, I'm aware," she says, looking unperturbed. "But hey. At least I'm living."
I laugh and slide our grilled cheeses onto plates, passing hers over. "Eh, I hate work complications anyway. It’s not worth it."
She shrugs, already biting in. "Life is short and he’s hot. Now that you can quote me on."
We eat hunched over the kitchen counter, the savory scent of melted cheese filling the small space, and I find the tension of the long week finally starting to dissipate.
After a moment, Sabrina looks over at me, head tilted. "How are you, though? Like actually."
I glance up mid-bite. "What?"
"I'm just checking in. You've been wound up tight lately."
"I'm fine, Sab. Just busy. The launch, the gala, the ridiculous auction nonsense."
"Mhm." She watches me closely. "And your anxiety?"
"Managed. Mostly. The Lexapro is doing its job, and I haven't had a real spiral in ages. It's just, you know, the usual low hum."
Which is thankfully true. I've been lucky that it's been manageable for a long while now, but generalized anxiety has been a constant companion for most of my life, and regular therapy combined with a low dose of Lexapro have kept it largely in check.
Though in my worst moments, it can still tip into the spiral version, the one where I can't sleep for three nights running and convince myself I'm about to be fired, dumped, and diagnosed with something rare all in the same week.
"When was the last time you saw Dr. Bowen?" Sabrina asks, her eyebrows raised in an expectant look.
"A while ago. Maybe nine months?" I shrug. "I'd kind of plateaued. She said I could check in whenever I felt the need, and I just haven't felt the need."
"But you'd tell me if you did?" She peers at me over her crusts, her expression serious.
I smile. "I'd tell you."
"Okay." She watches me for a second longer, the skepticism fading. "And Mom and Dad? I know your relationship with them is complicated, and Mom mentioned you were helping with a lot. I told her to give you a break, but I feel like she didn't listen."