28. Family Time
FAMILY TIME
CHELSEA
The non-stop flight to Portland goes smoothly.
Brett’s a good sport, signing autographs for the crew, taking selfies with any fans who ask. I admire his ease. He treats fans with a lot of respect, even though he keeps his ball cap pulled low and tries to stay under the radar as best he can.
It’s not quite what I expect of him, or at least, not what I expect from his reputation as tabloid fodder.
And if I thought he was recognized a lot at the Missoula airport, Portland is twice as bad. Luckily, he’s an expert at maneuvering through airports and crowds of hockey fans. We tuck into the back of a waiting town car with relative ease.
About forty minutes later, our driver pulls up in front of a beautiful, sprawling stone house, and I’m blown away by how gorgeous it is.
Brett tips the driver, handing the small overnight bag we’re sharing to me, before wrestling the rest of the bags stuffed with gifts for Chloe from the trunk.
I’ll say one thing about Brett—when properly motivated, the man can shop.
“This house is absolutely stunning.”
He glances at me as we walk up to the door. “You like it?”
“Are you kidding? What’s not to like?”
He grins as he juggles the bags into one hand so he can unlock the deadbolt, stepping inside to punch a sequence of numbers into the security system.
It disarms with a beep, but my attention’s on him, not the impressive interior. “Wait. This is your house?”
Brett closes and locks the door behind us. “It is.”
“I assumed we’d be going straight to your sister’s place.” I set the overnight bag on the floor. The truth is, I haven’t given much thought to the fact that he has a life here. A home here.
“I considered it, but my car misses me when I’m away too long.”
I laugh as I follow him into the attached garage.
“A Lamborghini?”
He pops the hood and manages to jam two bags of toys and presents into the minuscule front trunk before he walks around to the passenger side, pulls open the scissor door and balances the final bag on the console between the seats.
He looks a little bit embarrassed by the cherry-red luxury vehicle as I crawl inside. “Yeah. I... it was... I have no excuse.”
He closes my door and I wait for him to slide into the driver’s seat. “Do you need an excuse to rock a Lambo?”
Now he laughs as he hits the start button. The car purrs to life, even as the garage door lifts out of the way.
“Well, young Brett agrees with you whole-heartedly. Which is why eighteen-year-old me bought this.” He revs the engine a few times before pulling smoothly onto the driveway.
“I probably should have gotten rid of it a while ago, but I don’t get to drive much during the season anyway, and at this point, it’s kind of a reminder to be careful what you wish for.
Sometimes the stuff you think is gonna be great, isn’t. ”
“Oh?” How come every time I write him off as a superficial bad boy, he ends up surprising me?
Once the garage door closes, we’re off, zipping along roads that Brett obviously knows like the back of his hand.
“Yeah, I wanted a Lamborghini since I was twelve. I got it when I was still on my entrance salary, before I could afford it, because I thought it would make me look cool. It was the first thing I bought that made me feel like I’d made it.
And the first thing that taught me it doesn’t mean shit if you don’t know how to take care of what you’ve got. ”
He huffs a laugh. “It ended up getting repossessed once because I missed some payments, and I spent the next two years doing everything in my power to get it back and keep it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s cool as hell. But it’s also a good reminder that even cool shit can be a pain in the ass.”
We maneuver through traffic, and Brett flips on the signal light so we can turn into a little strip mall with a Chinese place at the far end of the lot.
“This car’s not worth taking out unless the conditions are perfect, which is rare, the upkeep is crazy, and even if it gets you the girl, it’s not gonna make her stay.”
I don’t even get a chance to fully absorb this fascinating, philosophical side of Brett before he pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine.
“Okay, let’s grab some takeout and go meet my niece.”
It turns out good taste in real estate runs in Brett’s family.
I’m still taking in the beautiful ranch-style house when a big, handsome, raven-haired man with a couple of inches on Brett’s six feet answers the door. His grin is a slash of blinding white against his black stubble as he pulls Brett in for a hug, despite the bags in his arms.
“Hey, man. Glad you could make it.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this. Coop, this is Chelsea. Chelsea, this is my brother-in-law, hockey legend Cooper Mead.”
“Nice to meet you.” Cooper extends a big hand and I shake it.
“You, too. I hope I’m not intruding. I understand congratulations are in order.”
“You’re not intruding at all,” Brett assures me. “Now where’s my niece? I brought presents. And Chinese food.”
Brett shoves all the bags he’s hauling into Cooper’s arms.
“She’s in the living room,” he says, but Brett’s already halfway down the hall, disappearing to the right.
I like the loving exasperation all over Cooper’s expression as he shakes his head. “Still has the attention span of a gnat, I see. Good to know Montana hasn’t changed him too much. Come on in.”
“Here. Let me take some of those,” I offer. He relinquishes the take-out bags, and by the time Cooper and I make it down the hall, Brett’s already going full uncle in the living room.
“Watch her head.”
“I know that. Everybody knows that,” he tells the woman in the rocking chair as he steals her firstborn away.
With her head carefully cradled in Brett’s hand, the baby fits on his forearm.
It’s absolutely heart-melting, if you’re into watching a gorgeous, hard-bodied man make a fool of himself over a tiny, adorable baby.
“Hey Chloe. I’m your Uncle Brett,” he coos. “Yes, I am. And when you’re old enough, I’m going to teach you how to play hockey, because I’m the best hockey player in the whole family, no matter what your mommy and daddy tell you.”
“I think he’s smitten,” I say, drawing the woman’s attention from her brother and her baby.
Brett’s sister stares at me for long enough that the back of my neck starts to itch.
“I think so, too.”
The words hang uncomfortably between us as the woman pushes herself up out of the rocking chair. She’s absolutely beautiful, raven-haired like her husband, but I can see echoes of Brett in her, too. “I’m Lainey Mead.”
“Chelsea London.”
One perfect eyebrow wings up at my name. Recognition? Suspicion? I can’t tell.
A beat of silence passes as I wait for a clue, but when she speaks, she gives me nothing.
“That wouldn’t happen to be a bag of take-out from Frank’s Noodle House, would it?”
I hold it up in confirmation. “Brett said it’s your favorite.”
“Huh. Guess the kid’s not as useless as I thought,” she says, but with enough gruffness that I know she’s touched. “Do you mind setting it on the table?” she asks.
I’m happy to comply, following Lainey toward the dining area sandwiched between the gorgeous kitchen and the spacious living room. The open concept of the place makes it perfect for gatherings, and I like the flow of it.
“I’ll get us some plates.” Lainey’s progress toward the kitchen is halted, however, when she catches sight of her husband, his arms laden with packages. “You’re kidding me, Slick. Did you just get reverse mugged in the foyer or something?”
Coop shrugs. “I’m just the toy mule. Ask Santa Claus over there.”
“Seriously, Brett? What the hell is all this?”
“Uh, only the most awesome presents in the world for my best girl here,” Brett replies, but he never looks away from Chloe.
Cooper takes a seat in the armchair in the corner of the room and starts going through the bags. “Geez. How many toy stores did you have to knock over for all this?”
He pulls out a plush Zamboni about three times bigger than his daughter, the entire Playmobil NHL toy line, and a gaming system with several hockey-themed video games.
Lainey frowns as she returns from the kitchen with four plates and some cutlery. “She’s not even a day old.” She sets the dishes on the table. “The joys of opposable thumbs are a bit beyond her grasp right now.”
Cooper holds up one of the games. “And this one is rated 14+.”
Brett makes a dismissive face. “Cool uncles don’t care about rules.”
Cooper tosses the game on the growing pile of stuff accumulating on the ottoman and starts unpacking the rest of the bag’s contents—a month’s worth of outfits emblazoned with the Wolfpack logo.
“Hey, none of this stuff says Mead.” He holds up a little onesie that we’d gotten screen-printed with Sillinger and 59 on the back.
“That’s because there aren’t any Meads in the NHL, right Chloe? And you don’t want a jersey with some washed-up, ex-player’s name on it, do you? No, you don’t. Because you have good taste.”
Cooper shoots him a dark frown. “Give me back my baby, asshole.”
“No chance. You get her until she’s eighteen. Chels, you wanna hold her?”
I join Brett on the couch. “I’m not... I haven’t held one of these—oh!”
Brett plops the little bundle in my arms before I can finish my protest.
“It’s easy,” he assures me, and, like she wants to make her uncle proud, Chloe snuggles right in with a big yawn.
My heart melts, and I smooth back a spike of her inky black hair. “Well aren’t you just precious?”
“Hell yeah, she is.” Brett braces an arm across the back of the couch behind me, and leans in, nudging Chloe’s little hand until she tightens her tiny fist around his finger. And I’m struck with a moment of longing so deep, it scares me.
Turns out Shanna’s right about me. I do want this.
I’ve always wanted this. A baby. A family.
Not yet. I’m not in a hurry. One day...
But sitting here, I realize that it’s always been an abstract assumption, something I’d think about when the time came. And when I understood that time was never coming with Dustin, I tucked it away. A lot deeper than I thought. I’d never solidified the vision of the man who might unearth it again.
When Brett looks up from his niece and grins at me, my stomach drops.
“Good looks run in the family. But we were pretty worried Coop’s ugly mug might mess up the gene pool.”
A giant stuffed Zamboni comes flying across the room, but Brett fends it off with a forearm block, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
“Okay, these noodles aren’t going to consume themselves. Let’s eat before this Zamboni war deteriorates into some kind of bro-showdown,” Lainey suggests, before stage-whispering to me, “There were push-ups last time. It wasn’t pretty.”
“And I won!” Brett announces as he stands, arms aloft in victory as he heads for the table.
Cooper looks exasperated as he joins me by the couch. “I let him win,” Coop tells me, as I relinquish a sleeping Chloe to him. “I was just buttering him up so he’d help me paint the nursery.”
“Lies. Don’t listen to him. He’s jealous of my youth and stamina.”
Brett pulls a chair out for me, and I take a seat at the table beside him.
I can’t remember a better family meal. Dinner memories from my childhood are so sterile. None of the teasing banter and genuine affection flourishing around this table.
I like the way Lainey absently reaches for her husband while she talks, intermittently rubbing an affectionate hand against his arm. Or the secret looks they exchange, as though the supper banter has reminded them of a shared memory or an inside joke.
Cooper holds his baby girl cradled in his right arm, checking on her between every bite of his meal in case she needs something, even though she's sleeping contentedly, snuggled against his big chest. Chloe is a lucky little girl to be growing up around all this love.
And snark.
“—but the real point of this story is that I just want to make it clear that you’re eating dinner with a man who named his betta fish Brett Junior,” Lainey cautions me.
I smile at Brett. “Awwww. That’s kind of cute,” I decide, imagining a young Brett at the pet store, painstakingly selecting the perfect fish.
“He was nineteen,” his sister adds dryly.
The tips of Brett’s ears redden, and my giggle earns me a bump from his leg under the table.
“What? It’s a good name!” he insists, digging into the hand-pulled noodles with pork belly. He doesn’t pull away though, and the heat of his thigh against mine makes me the good kind of woozy.
Brett’s so different here. More laid-back, more himself.
He’s obviously missed his family, and they’ve missed him too.
He makes dumb jokes and his smile comes easier.
He’s comfortable, I remind myself, trying not to read too much into his casual touches—the way he nudges my shoulder and leans in to fill me in on any necessary backstory of the boisterous dinner conversation, the way his arm ends up along the back of my chair and his fingers alternate between tugging on the end of my hair and skating along the hem of my sleeve, raising goosebumps down my arm.
Just because he drops a kiss to my temple when he reaches past me for the soy sauce, that doesn't mean anything’s changing between us.