31. Rosalie
THIRTY-ONE
Rosalie
“ H ey, Liora, um…how do you make that soup, you know, the one TV moms make when someone’s sick?”
She looks up from where she’s arranging the cushions on the couch, her smile soft but distracted. She’s caught up in helping Priya get everything set for TV night, or maybe just listening to her vent about whatever’s going on with Derek. Something happened between them the other night. They’re not talking to each other anymore, and Derek’s been skirting around her, literally. Every time they cross paths, he takes the longest, widest route, as if she’s a pothole he’s trying to avoid.
The boys are out at the lake fishing, all except for my sick baby boy, of course.
I don’t anticipate them returning with any fish. Going fishing with Shiny is more about having endless conversations than actually catching anything. The kid just talks nonstop.
“Like the TV moms?” Liora asks.
“Yeah, you know, I just see them making food for their sick children, but I have no idea how. Can you show me?”
Liora’s eyebrows draw up to her forehead. “You mean chicken soup?”
“Do we even have chicken in the house?” Priya asks.
“Yeah, for the barbecue tonight, because let’s be honest, I don’t think the boys will bring home that much fish.”
We all laugh a little and then Liora pats me on the back. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll start it, but you’ll have to finish it.”
My stomach clenches a little, nerves creeping in. Cooking has never been my thing. Actually, it’s never even been an option. But I want to do this. For him.
I nod, straightening my shoulders.
I’m listening as Liora rattles off instructions while giving me all kinds of vegetables and chicken. She’s chopping up ingredients and I try to follow along, nodding at all the right places, but the second she leaves, I’m left staring at the simmering broth like it’s a math equation I don’t understand.
Okay. Okay, this can’t be that hard.
I grab a wooden spoon and stir like my life depends on it.
I glance at the counter, where Liora laid out the prepped vegetables, and start tossing them in. The scent of garlic and onions fills the air, making me feel like I know what I’m doing. This is good. I’ve got this.
I stir and then turn up the heat. It doesn’t seem to be cooking well.
Then I remember Liora telling me to put garlic in, and I try to put it in the garlic press, but I manage to make it slip through my fingers and then I have to wash it. God. I’m so bad at this. I shouldn’t be that bad at cooking. But that’s what you get when you never get the chance to actually cook, and to be honest, it isn’t something I’ve wanted to learn, since I live in a hotel, and well, it’s just always done. It’s not something I’m proud of, but—oh fuck.
Smoke suddenly curls from the bottom of the pot, and I choke on a cough, waving a hand wildly in front of my face. “Shit, shit, shit!” I frantically grab a spoon, scraping at whatever is burning on the bottom. The acrid scent stings my nose. My heart races. Can soup even burn? Apparently, yes. And now, it’s doing it in full force.
I turn the heat down, hoping for the best, but it’s clear that I’ve ruined something. Great. Just great. This is why I never cook.
And then, as if God is just waiting for a moment to kick me while I’m down, Jay’s head pokes around the corner. “Rosie, what are you doing to that soup?”
I huff in frustration, glancing back to see him blinking at me, his eyes glazed with that feverish look. He’s wrapped up in a thick blanket, his hair all curly, and his cheeks flushed with the remnants of whatever cold he’s fighting. How is he still managing to look this good when he’s sick?
“I’m trying, okay?” I say, my voice a little more frantic than I intend. “You know I’m bad at cooking. You should be sleeping, though, not checking on me.”
He raises an eyebrow, stepping into the kitchen with a slight wince, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “And you shouldn’t be burning down your brother’s kitchen,” he quips, his voice scratchy and weak.
I glance back at the pot. The soup’s salvageable…I hope. I stir it more gently this time, desperate to fix the mess I made.
Even though he’s clearly not feeling well, Jay’s smile softens. The kind of smile that always makes me feel like the world is a little bit better. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth spreading through my chest. “I’m trying to take care of you. Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” he says, pushing himself up to sit on the bar stool opposite the stove. He struggles a bit, clearly not feeling his best, but he makes it. He leans back with a small groan, not seeming to mind the fact that he’s not quite sitting up straight.
“You need rest,” I say, trying to stay focused on the soup, but I can’t help but glance at him while I put some more water in the pot, trying to stir and save it. At least it’s not catching fire.
He stares at me for a moment, his blue eyes steady but unreadable. It’s like he’s thinking, searching for the right words. And then, the quiet intensity in his gaze makes my heart flutter, like it’s suddenly pounding harder than before.
“Rosie,” he says, his voice softer now, with an almost unrecognizable vulnerability. I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth. I can feel my stomach tighten. There’s something serious in his tone.
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of the weight in the air. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I’m frozen, my hand still on the spoon, my heart suddenly in my throat. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it before. I know how I feel about him, but hearing him say it, here, in this moment—when I’m standing in the middle of a disaster of a kitchen, probably seconds away from burning the soup again—makes my heart feel like it might burst.
Slowly, I step closer, reaching for his hand. His fingers are warm despite his fever, and I squeeze them, grounding myself.
“I love you, too, Jay,” I whisper.
Something in his expression eases, like he’d been waiting to hear those words, like he needed them. And then his lips curve into the most beautiful, sleepy smile.
“And I’m so proud of you,” I continue, blinking away the sudden sting in my eyes. “You’re taking care of yourself; you’re fighting for yourself—”
“I’m proud of you too,” he murmurs. “And I’m proud of us .”
I exhale a shaky breath, feeling overwhelmed in the best possible way. God, I love him.
I press a quick kiss to his forehead, lingering for just a second before pulling away.
Then I turn back to the soup. “But…don’t be too proud of this,” I say, grimacing. “Because I think I might be ruining it.”
Jay chuckles, the sound raspy but full of warmth. “I’ll eat it anyway.”
I side-eye him. “You really don’t have to.”
He grins. “I will. Because you made it for me.”
I bite my lip, watching as he closes his eyes again, sinking deeper into the blanket. My heart is so full I don’t even care that I might be about to poison him with my terrible cooking.
The soup, predictably, turned out awful.
It’s too salty, somehow both burnt and undercooked, and has the consistency of something that should not be consumed.
But when I bring a bowl over to him, Jay takes one look at my hopeful expression, sighs, and digs in without a single complaint.
And when he winces at the taste, I pretend not to notice.
Instead, I climb onto the stool beside him, letting him rest his head against my shoulder. He hums contentedly, his body warm and solid against mine.
“Rosie?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
He looks up at me, eyes still a little hazy from the fever but full of something deeper, something real .
“This is the best worst soup I’ve ever had.”
I laugh, pressing my lips to his shoulder. “I’ll take it.”
And for the first time in my life, I realize—caring for someone feels even better than being cared for. Because it’s him . Because I love him.
And I think I always will.
Later that evening, we gather around the TV, the flickering glow casting odd shadows across the cabin. Laughter bubbles up in the air as we watch old movies, the kind that are so bad they’re good. The dialogue is over the top, the acting stiff, and we all take turns mocking it like it’s the best comedy we’ve seen in years.
I’m keeping to myself, as usual, sinking into a big wing chair in the corner of the room. I’m curled up against Riley, my head resting on his shoulder. Liora sits on the other side of Riley, her head resting against his chest as he holds her. There’s a calm here, one that feels like we could be anywhere in the world—until Shiny opens his mouth.
The boys have a hard time making him shut up. He thinks movie night is the perfect time to start his own commentary track, speaking over every line with his endless stream of chatter as if he’s a Twitch streamer. The rest of us groan, throwing pillows, begging him to be quiet. Finally, Malcolm, tired of hearing about the “plot twist” we’ve all seen coming from one hundred miles, shoves a sock in Shiny’s mouth. For once, he falls silent, his eyes wide in surprise, like he’d forgotten people were capable of something like that.
But it doesn’t last. The moment the sock comes out, Shiny gasps loudly, breaking the quiet.
At the same time, the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside reaches us. A car pulling up. Someone parking in front of the cabin.
“Anyone invited more strays?” Riley asks, not looking up from his spot, still half watching the movie. He’s too relaxed, too unaware.
“Team’s all here,” Shiny mutters, but his voice sounds small now, like he still feels that sock in his mouth.
“Colton? Maybe?” Jay asks.
He’s not shivering anymore, and I hope my shitty soup helped him a little.
Riley’s already up, his face pressed against the window, peering out like a hawk. He squints, scanning the vehicle outside. “Black SUV. Ontario plates.” His voice drops, a shift in tone. “Not team issue.”
The mood shifts immediately. It’s like the air has thickened, the sound of the movie and the room’s energy fading into the background. Everything happens in jagged pieces after that.
The unmistakable slam of a car door. The dry snap of twigs underfoot in the woods flanking the house. The quiet creeping dread that coils tighter and tighter.
“Okay, I’m checking who the fuck that is,” Riley says, his voice steady, but there’s a hint of wariness in the way he moves now.
“Be careful,” Liora says.
“Always.” Riley shoots her a wink, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s already heading toward the door.
I’m up, too, my eyes tracking Riley’s movements, feeling the tension in my chest growing. The door creaks open, and then I hear it. A voice, rough and strained, almost inhuman, shouting my name like it’s been dragged through gravel.
“I need to speak to Rosalie Huntington. It’s important. About the lawsuit against Kix Lyle.” The voice is deep, and I can hear it crackle in my bones.
The projector flickers and then goes dark. Derek hits the button, the room plunging into an eerie silence. I want to follow Riley, but as I move toward the front door, Jay catches my wrist.
“Stay.” It’s his captain voice—the one that’s used to cutting through chaos, the one that can stop a fight mid-swing.
I shake my head, the instinct to protect my brother overriding everything. “I should go,” I say, my voice sharp, stubborn. My eyes lock with Jay’s, dead set on getting out there, no matter what.
Jay’s gaze hardens, his jaw clenched. The door handle rattles, and I hear screaming now—screaming from outside, from Riley, from someone.
In an instant, Jay’s hands are on my shoulders, pushing me back into the room. “Stay the fuck there,” he orders.
I struggle, but the pressure of his hands holds me in place.
“What the hell is going on?” Derek says, stepping forward with a raised eyebrow, his suspicion growing. “Who is it?”
In an instant all the boys are up and running to the door.
“Riley?” Liora screams, running after them.
I hear more screaming, and I think I can make out Peter’s voice among the chaos. Peter? What the hell? How does he know where I’m here?
“You don’t want to fight a whole hockey team, Peter,” I hear Jay say. “Get the fuck away.”
I can barely breathe, but my heart is thundering in my chest. I don’t trust this. Not for a second. I need to see what’s going on.
Without thinking, I slip out the back door.
My heart is pounding as I step onto the porch, my breath catching in the cold night air. It’s dark, the trees around the cabin thick with shadows, but I can see Peter, shivering in the yard, looking like he’s seen a ghost. But then—everything happens too fast.
As soon as I step out, his eyes snap to mine, and in an instant, his hand is out of his pocket, a gun gleaming in the dim light. I suck in a breath. He’s aiming it at me, and everything seems to slow down. I try to step back, but I’m too late. He pulls the trigger, the sharp crack of the shot splitting the air.
The world tilts as I feel the searing pain rip through my side. A scream tears through my throat, but I can’t make a sound. I collapse, everything going black at the edges of my vision, my body crumpling in pain.
“Rosie!” I hear Jay’s voice screaming from behind me, but it’s already too late. The cold ground is swallowing me whole, and all I can think is that nothing will ever be the same again.
I look at my ribs and I just see blood.
I freeze; it’s like I can’t see anything else but blood.
“He ruined me.” I hear Peter’s giggling now, but I don’t look at him. I look at the blood. So much blood. “Your dad promised me money. He didn’t give me shit! I have so many bills! I needed that money, and he took it all from me! All!”
I don’t look, but—I notice the Falcons running down to Peter, another gunshot. Then screams. Punching. Screams.
Riley’s roar shakes the pines as he tackles Peter, both men crashing into the lake. Jay’s shouting my name, but the water is rising up to meet me—only we’re not near the pool. Oh. I’m on the ground. That’s new.
Jay’s knees hit the pavers beside me, his hands fluttering over my ribs like panicked birds. “Eyes open, princess. Come on.”
“S’just…flesh wound…” I manage, which might be optimistic, given the warm syrup soaking my sweater.
Jay takes off his pullover, pressing it to my side. “You ever listen? Even once?”
“Ruins…my aesthetic…”
His laugh sounds broken. Paramedic sirens wail in the distance or maybe my ears. Can’t tell. His curls brush my forehead as he leans down, mouth grazing the shell of my ear. “Restarting your heart is getting real old, Huntington.”
Darkness laps at the edges. “Promised…dance at…your next loss…”
“Fucking menace.” His lips find mine, salt and fear and forever. “Stay awake.”
But the stars overhead are blurring. Funny—never noticed that summer smells like cedar and desperation. It’s like I’m sleeping but still conscious.
There are more hands on me.
People shouting, talking to me, trying to move my head.
Someone carrying me.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” that voice says.
“You can’t carry her, your leg.”
“I can.”
At some point there are lights, and I crack an eye open only to see Jay jumping into the ambulance with me.
“Who are you?” a female voice asks as I shut my eyes again.
“Her boyfriend.”