Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Chemistry
Deacon
Upon Nalani and Koa’s return, it’s apparent that they still have that chemistry… love. After cleaning up and saying our goodbyes, I steal one last glance at Claudia. She’s quiet, rocking Savannah against her shoulder, the dim light catching the curve of her cheek.
Stunning.
We say our goodbyes, and Dash holds the door open for me as we head out. The stairs creak under our boots, echoing in the otherwise quiet building. It really does have great bones.
Halfway down, Dash says, “So, random, but Callahan, Neiberg, and Koz all hit me up about moving into the Puck Pad.”
The Puck Pad has six bedrooms. Koa, Dash, Aleks Kilovak, Lenzin Faulker, and I all have rooms there. There is another room, one without a bathroom; it’s used for additional storage.
“I told them I’d check with you, since technically you, Koa, and I —"
“Once Koa moves out and into his place, that’s one open room.”
“Yeah, but that still leaves two guys who’ll need somewhere, and I’d prefer that not be our living room.”
“I’ll find a storage unit and move my things,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Another room free.”
Dash nods thoughtfully, humming like he’s doing math in his head. “It was the three of us to start with, and my kid sister is hell bent on getting an internship in the city. I suppose it’s time that I look for a place.”
We hit the bottom step, and there’s Paul, looking over the new lock.
“Thought I had a new tenant up in one of the second-floor apartments with their TV volume up too loud,” he says without looking in our direction. “Watching a bad sitcom.”
Dash grins. “Do you have any more space in this place, Mr. Bronski?”
“This is no place for you two big shots.” Paul looks around.
“My wife used to polish and shine the woodwork on those stairs every Wednesday. She’d love those girls around, I feel it in here,” he taps his hand to his heart.
“But she wouldn’t love what it looks like now.
” He forces a laugh. “Wouldn’t love it being chopped up into apartments either.
” He shrugs. “Hard to find any help worth a damn anymore.” He smirks.
“Or maybe the help I do hire just doesn’t want to listen to an old man. ”
“You should name-drop,” Dash suggests. “Any hockey fan would be honored to work on your home.”
“Love your enthusiasm, kid, but only fans of mine are long gone.”
“Any chance you'd like to rent out any of this space to a couple,” I chuckle, “well I was gonna say weekend warriors, but you know the drill.”
He scrubs a hand over his chin, “Might be some space, give you the same deal as I've given legs, if you boys don’t mind swinging a hammer now and then. Bit of fixing up for cheaper rent.”
Dash’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, are you saying you’re up to two new tenants?”
Paul smirks, folding the paper neatly. “Maybe. If they don’t mind hard work and don’t make too much noise after ten.”
Dash lights up. “Buddy system housing with benefits? Sign me up! Wait, no, not those benefits. Not trying to make it weird—”
Paul shakes his head. “Too late.”
I chuckle, leaning against the doorframe. “We’ll think about it.”
Dash elbows me. “Think about it? Are you kidding? I’m already mentally moving in.”
Paul grins. “You two think on it. Night, boys.”
“Night, Paul,” I say, pushing the door open for Dash.
I don’t sleep. Not really. I close my eyes, but my head’s still buzzing from the hit, that dull, underwater throb that makes even the dark feel loud. The team doc told me no screens, so I ditch the phone and grab a pen instead. Paper doesn’t glow. Paper doesn’t sting.
I sit at the little hotel desk and start sketching. Lines, notes, ideas—half structure, half therapy. Not plays, not drills, just floorplans. Paul’s building keeps sneaking back into my head. I can picture the stoop, the old windows, the bones that somehow still hold.
When the city outside goes quiet enough to hear the radiator hiss, I call my parents. It’s early here, late there. They’re seven hours ahead, living the slow life in Italy now. Mom answers first, her voice soft but sharp, the second she hears the strain in mine.
“You should be resting,” she says.
“I am,” I lie. “Just thinking.”
Then my dad gets on, and I tell him about the brownstone—how it’s falling apart, how Paul still talks about it like it’s alive. I tell him I’ve been thinking about fixing it up, maybe giving it another shot at life.
“You don’t start swinging hammers without an inspection,” he says. “Find someone to walk it first. See what’s salvageable.”
I can almost see him leaning back in his chair, wine glass in hand, that old-world calm he’s perfected since retiring.
“Do it right, Deacon. You’ll sleep better if you build something instead of worrying it’ll fall on your head.”
He means the house, but it lands deeper than that.
By the time I hang up, the sun is rising. My head’s pounding, but my mind’s clear. I shower, pull on jeans, and head downstairs.
Dean Costello is in the lobby. This is nothing new; he owns the team, this hotel, and many other businesses, reading messages on his phone.
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” he says as I approach.
“I can’t just sit,” I tell him as I sit in one of the leather chairs beside him. “I need to do something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“You know anyone in the city who can do a quick inspection? Old property, needs eyes on it. My dad said that’s step one before I start anything.”
Dean blinks, then huffs a laugh. “You get concussed and decide to become a contractor overnight?”
“Not for me,” I say. “For someone who deserves better.”
He studies me for a second, then types something into his phone. “Bronski’s place?” I nod. “I have a guy on payroll. Retired from the city planning board. I’ll shoot him your number, let him know when you want him to show up.”
“Appreciate it.”
He stands, “Rest. Stay off the ice tonight. You decide you can't stay away from the game tonight, head to the team box, it’s quiet and has fewer flashing lights.” He pauses and looks back at me, “Bring Bronski with you.”
I grab a bag of coffee and a bag full of bagels from the bakery down the block and head toward Greenwich, the morning biting at my face, my head still tender but my mind finally steady.
Paul’s on the stoop when I turn the corner, coat collar turned up, paper cup clutched in both hands like he’s trying to steal its heat. His cap’s a little crooked, the way it always is, and there’s a faint curl of steam rising from his coffee.
I slow down and hold up the paper bag. “Brought you breakfast.”
He smirks without looking at me. “You just missed her. She's off with the little spitfire who loves my birds and that left winger.”
“I'm not going to disrespect you by pretending I am not interested in Claudia. I am, but—”
“Better not just be interested in legs, she comes with a plus one.” He chuckles.
I drop onto the cracked step beside him.
“I knew her before she became a mama, never did get the timing right.
I'm thinking that was a damn good thing, I wasn't ready for all she had to offer,” and she wasn't ready then either, I think, but do not say.
“But now she's got even more to offer and so do I.”
That earns me a look. “Never had kids, always wanted them, but if you’re looking for fatherly advice, be forewarned, I’m not really prepared for that. We've skipped a few steps.”
I nod toward the building behind us. “What did this place look like back then? When you and your wife bought it. Before everything got split up.”
He leans back a little, eyes on the stoop across the street like he’s watching ghosts take shape.
“It was a beauty, Deacon. She had it shining. Wood polished every week, curtains always open to catch the morning light. She filled it with flowers—vases on every table, window boxes out front here, lilac bushes bloomed every spring so the whole street smelled like them. She said a house needed to breathe, so she’d open the windows no matter how cold it was when they bloomed.
You could hear her singing from the top floor clear down to the street.
It felt alive, you know? Like the walls were part of it. ”
He goes quiet for a second, thumb tracing the rim of his cup.
“When she passed, it got too quiet. I couldn’t stand the stillness.
So, I split it up—let a few of the guys move in.
Friends from the neighborhood who suffered the same fate.
A couple of cops, a couple of old musicians, even a retired teacher who played poker better than all of us combined.
We had a good run. There was always noise—someone cooking, someone laughing, someone snoring with the TV still on. It wasn’t pretty, but it was home.”
He pauses, glancing up at the windows. “They were my family, those guys. Then they got older, moved out, and passed on. Now it’s just me and the walls.”
I follow his gaze. The place looks tired, yeah, but it’s still got that kind of dignity that doesn’t fade. Brick darkened by time, ivy climbing too high, but solid. Unshakable.
“And how do you see it now?” I ask quietly.
He thinks about that for a long time before answering. “I see what it was, and what it could still be if someone gave a damn. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just fixed up, cared for. Maybe some paint, some new windows. A place that feels like people again. Music, laughter, warmth. I want it to matter.”
I nod, the air between us softening. “It could, Paul. It still can.”
He looks at me sideways, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You sound like you mean that.”
“I do,” I say. “I’ve got a retiree from the planning board ready to come over unofficially and check things out, make sure it’s safe. If the bones are good, maybe we can bring her back to life a bit.”
Paul’s quiet again, but this time the silence feels lighter.
“She’d like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “My wife would rest easier if this place were shining again.”
I look up at the old brownstone, sunlight catching on the glass just right, and for a second, I swear I can see what he sees—the version that lives in his memory, the one that still hums beneath the dust.
“Then we’ll make it shine,” I tell him.
“Can't depend on any of these new-age contractors, they've let me down every step. Bastards, the window guy, the contractor that blows insulation, both paid, but never showed back up.” His lip curls a bit.
“Don't plan on getting the same respect you have now when you get to be my age, kid, these bastards all forget about you.”
“There's no fucking way they forgot about Paul Bronski. I think you forgot about him; we're going to change that.”
He nudges me with his elbow, “Aw, shucks, kid, you do care.” He chuckles again. “I'll take it even though I know it's not about me and it's all about the girl with the mile high legs and that sweet little baby.”
“If it weren't for that girl with the mile high legs and that sweet little baby, I would have never known the man, the myth, the legend Paul Bronski was even still around. This house is getting a comeback, I'll bust my ass to make it happen, but you've got to do something for me too.”
“I don't like the sound of that.”