20. Welcome Home
WELCOME HOME
brETT
“Later, man.”
Hoff gets out of the elevator on his floor, and I shift the strap of the bag on my shoulder, resettle the garment bag of suits over my arm and hit the door close button.
We finished up an intense fourteen-day road trip by eking out a couple of wins, and while going 6-0 would have been ideal, 3-3 is better than it could have been. Now we have a few days to regroup before the next game, and I’m looking forward to chilling out and settling in.
The elevator takes me up two more floors. My new place is at the end of the hallway, and I shove the key I picked up from the doorman into the lock with a deep breath.
Home sweet home.
It’s nice. Not exactly the same layout as Nik’s, but it has an open floor plan, a big wall of windows, and a decent view of the city.
I head down the hallway to my left, opening doors as I go—storage closet, bathroom, laundry room.
I stop there for a minute, hanging the garment bag on the hook on the back of the door and heaving my duffle on top of the dryer. Might as well throw in a load now, since the place is fully stocked. As I’m shoving laundry into the washer, I uncover the scarlet lace in the bottom of the bag.
I’ve gotten used to thoughts of Chelsea randomly sucker-punching me since our fight two weeks ago, so I barely flinch at the sight of it. I found it in the pocket of my leather jacket when the team went out for dinner during the gap night between St. Louis and Dallas.
Right before we started winning games.
I shoved it into my luggage when I got back to the hotel. Why not the garbage? I’m trying not to dissect it.
I add a laundry pod to the washer, bump the door closed with my hip, and hit the start button. With my leather toiletry case in one hand and the bra in the other, I continue the hunt for my bedroom.
The relocation company Coop recommended did a good job—king size mattress, gray and black color scheme, and I don’t have to chuck eighteen decorative pillows off my bed every night, which I appreciate.
I go straight to the bedside table and yank open the drawer.
It’s empty but for a box of condoms and some lube.
Huh. Suddenly the massive charge on my credit card makes sense. This company isn’t kidding about taking care of everything. I drop Chelsea’s bra inside and push it closed before heading into the bathroom.
The ensuite is massive, boasting heated floors and a double sink. I set my toiletry case on the counter and snoop through the medicine cabinet. It’s like a Walgreens in there.
I pass the big shower and some fluffy black towels tucked on the built-in shelf right across from it. Instead of ending, the bathroom opens into an enormous walk-in closet. Interesting layout.
Lainey did me a solid and coordinated with the company to have a bunch of my clothes and stuff shipped out from Portland.
Some low-paid overachiever had categorized my clothes by dressiness—suits on the right, jeans and T-shirts on the left—all organized from dark to light.
It looks like a magazine, I decide, shedding my suit and yanking on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
I snap a pic and post a photo with the caption, Fancy, for posterity, since it probably won’t stay looking this nice for long, before tucking my phone into the waistband of my sweats.
My ball caps are lined up on several shelves on the back wall, also arranged by hue, and I grab one, just to disturb the perfection, tugging it on backward before checking out the rest of the place.
The kitchen’s state of the art, gleaming dark wood and stainless-steel appliances, but most importantly, the fridge is full. I snag an apple, polishing it off while I open all the cabinets to see what’s where.
My phone buzzes against my hip, and I ignore the bump in my heart rate and the way my thoughts go straight to Chelsea.
It’s not her.
I wipe my fingers on my sweatpants and answer the video call.
“How’s it going, Rookie?”
I glare at him for the jab and head into the living room to test out the gray tweed couch.
When Cooper Mead was traded from New York to the Portland Storm—the first season we played together—my whole team used to call me that, even though I was in my second year in the league.
It was their way of keeping my ego in check, letting me know I wasn’t the hot shit I thought I was.
I used to hate it. Still kind of do. Because seven years later, I know I’m not invincible. And Coop isn’t wrong to call me out.
“Ha. Ha. How long have you been waiting to use that one?”
Cooper grins. “If you don’t start playing real hockey soon, I’ll be able to use it again when they ship you back to the minors.”
“Hey, we finished that road trip strong. And at least I’m still in the game, old man.”
He scoffs at the counter-punch. “If you consider bench-warming integral to a team’s success, then sure you are. At least I retired with grace at the top of my game.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” I flop down on the couch, bouncing my weight on it a little. Not bad, I decide, grabbing one of the decorative pillows and wedging it between my head and the armrest.
“Is that Brett?”
My sister’s pregnant belly appears in the frame to Coop’s left for a moment, before she bends forward so her chin rests on her husband’s shoulder. Her black hair is pulled into a messy knot on top of her head, and her pretty face is glowing with impending motherhood.
“You’ve only been on this team for a few weeks. How have you already fucked it up? I told you before you left, don’t be yourself.”
I frown at her. There are some things that not even growing a person inside you can change.
“At least I didn’t score on my own net,” I fire back, poking the old-wound from her days on the American women’s Olympic team.
It was a bad bounce, could have happened to anyone, but she’s testy about it.
Used to be the kind of thing that would get my balls ripped off, but since Cooper and Lainey got together, she’s mellowed in all the best ways.
Lainey gives me the finger, but it’s good-natured, and the familiar interaction loosens something in my chest. I didn’t have much in the way of family growing up, but these people—my half-sister, my hockey mentor, my niece-or-nephew-to-be—these are the people who matter most in my world.
Even when they’re being total dicks.
“Did you guys just call to bust my balls? Because if so, I’m pretty sure the media already took care of that for you.”
“Hey,” Cooper says firmly, “what did I tell you about Googling yourself?”
I sigh. “Don’t.”
“Exactly. You’re doing good. You just looked a little... distracted.”
My fingers flex against my thigh, the phantom sensation of red lace brushing my fingertips.
“But hell, that happens,” Coop plows on. “Trades are hard, and this is your first one. It’ll be better now that you’re starting a four-game homestand. That will ground you. And no one blames you for needing a little time to settle in.”
“Speaking of which, did all your stuff get there okay?” My sister shoves her head into the frame again.
“Yeah. Thanks for coordinating. Everything is eerily perfect. It’s like a robot lives here.”
“You owe me big time. I’m going to take it out in free babysitting once this little monster is released into the world,” she warns me, pointing at her belly. Like I’m not dying to meet the kid. But she doesn’t need to know that.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Hey, someone's here. I gotta go. Keep me posted on the whole baby thing, yeah?”
Lainey rolls her eyes at me, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral, despite the twitch of my lips.
“No please, Brett. Be more dismissive about the miracle of life. Keep you posted on the whole baby thing? The thing where my ankles are swollen, and I have to pee a million times a day, and I can’t sleep because my insides are functioning as a hotel for an adorable parasite who spends the night kicking me in the ribs? That thing?”
“But on the upside, you get some time off work, right?”
“I hate you. Goodbye.”
“Hate you back.”
I’m still chuckling to myself—Lainey might have mellowed out, but I can still push her buttons—when the knock sounds again.
“Coming!”
I jog the rest of the way. Maybe Nik wants to grab some dinner or something. I could go for some—
Chelsea.
My smile fades. My heart kicks up.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
I’m not sure how I feel about seeing her again. Well, that’s not quite true. I’m sure I feel really damn good about seeing her again, which is kind of the problem.
I chalk that reaction up to the shadow of envy that sometimes lingers in my chest after seeing my sister and Coop together.
Damn, I want that.
Tried hard to force it with Janelle, and look how that turned out.
But I won’t make that mistake again, I vow, looking at Chelsea.
Man, she’s pretty.
“I have my ways,” she says coyly, before ruining the effect with a shrug. “And access to the team contact roster, in case I need to send the car service or whatever.”
“The doorman let you up?”
The question earns me a shake of her head. “I got Nik to buzz me through.”
“Oh.”
If you ignore the flare of jealousy, it goes away, right? It doesn’t linger in your gut, gnawing at you until it hits a growth spurt and busts through your ribcage in an explosion of blood and gore and destruction?
I scratch my chest.
“I would have called you, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d let me in. And I needed to talk to you.”
My shoulders loosen at her revelation. Damn it. I do my best to shore up my fortifications, crossing my arms as a second line of defense. “So talk.”
Whatever. I don’t care. Much.
“I had no idea who you were before the benefit. I swear it.”
She stands there, looking up at me, seeming sincere. And I believe her, even though I’m trying hard not to.
Everything would be a hell of a lot easier for both of us if I didn’t.
“If I’d known you were a hockey player in the bar that night, I would have stayed far, far away. But I didn’t stay away.” Her blue eyes turn imploring and she takes a step forward. “And maybe I should have, but it’s too late to change what happened, and now I don’t want to stay away.”
Some part of me doesn’t want to cave, doesn’t want to make this easy for her—my pride, probably—but I’ve always been shitty at not taking what I want. Delayed gratification isn’t really my thing.
As though she can sense her imminent victory, she presses her advantage, stepping past me, farther into my new place.
“I’m tired of letting other people’s opinions matter more than my own. I’ve decided I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
“Of me?”
“Of you. Of me. Of us.”
My arms fall to my sides.
Damn it to hell.
I like this girl. A lot. More than I mean to.
More than I should.
Enough to push the door to my apartment shut.
She smiles at me, at the confirmation that I’m not going to kick her out.
I pretty much knew I wouldn’t the second I opened the door to find her standing there, but apparently, she’s just catching on now.