Chapter Three Happy Birthday
JULIAN
The house feels small. It always kind of has, especially since I’ve always been big, but now that I live in an apartment that could swallow this place, it feels especially tiny.
Still, it feels like home. Or, rather, she feels like home.
The little old lady shuffling across her cracked laminate kitchen floor to pull a chocolate birthday cake from her ancient fridge is the only person who’s ever really felt like family to me.
The top of her head barely reaches my chest, especially now that she has a slight stoop in her shoulders.
Her gray hair is pinned back into a neat bun on the back of her head.
Her dark green eyes still sparkle through her fatigue.
I need to fix that crack in the laminate before I leave, and anything else I can to make things easier for her.
“Grams, I can get that for you,” I insist, pushing out of my chair at the kitchen table, ready to cross the room to take the cake from her delicate hands.
“Oh, you sit yourself back down,” Mrs. Clay orders with a wave of her hand, setting the cake on the counter by the fridge. She’s also got something delicious-smelling simmering on the stove. My mouth waters.
Nothing about her place has changed. She’s got the same worn couch, the same mismatched chairs, the same faint, musty smell that I’m pretty sure is standard for every house on this block.
Maybe every house on the South Side of Chicago.
Faded floral wallpaper, outdated appliances, and creaky floors.
It’s not much to look at, and Mrs. Clay refuses to change anything about it, but I don’t think there’s anywhere else I feel more at ease. Not even my own place back in Denver.
She clicks her tongue. “I still can’t believe you came all the way out here for this. You got a life in Denver now. Friends who can celebrate with you.”
I shrug, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
I adjust the rest of the glasses behind it into a neat row, and I carefully wipe dust off the shelf with a nearby rag.
“It’s not that far. Besides, I always celebrate my birthday with you, and once we’re out of preseason in a few weeks, I won’t have as much free time to come visit. ”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Plane tickets aren’t cheap, Julian.”
“Good thing I can afford one,” I shoot back with a wink.
She turns then, narrows her eyes at me, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth. “Don’t you get smart with me.”
I grin, leaning against the counter.
“I wanted to come,” I shrug.
That softens her. Her grin widens, and she pats my arm.
“Well,” she mutters, turning back to the stove, “you still didn’t have to. But since you’re here…” She gestures vaguely. “You can set the table and wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I grab plates, silverware, and napkins as Mrs. Clay continues to fuss over me while she stirs her sauce. I place each of them perfectly squared on the table, folded evenly.
“Did you lose weight?” she asks. “You look thinner.”
“I didn’t.” I move to the table and start setting out the plates and silverware.
“You sure? Turn around.”
I laugh under my breath. “I’m not turning around.”
“Boy, I raised you better than that.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I chuckle, glancing back at her as I wipe clean an old smudge on the table. She really did. She at least gave a shit about me when my own parents didn’t. Loved me when Dad made it painfully clear he hated me.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t start with me today.”
I hold up my hands in surrender and chuckle.
She finishes up her sauce and puts it on the table with another bowl full of pasta, some slightly wilted salad from a bag, and the cake.
I added grocery shopping to my mental list of things to do before I leave.
I can get her fresh vegetables that don’t come sealed in plastic.
We sit, and I scoop food onto her plate before piling it onto mine.
She watches me while I eat.
“You like it?” she asks.
“It’s good,” I tease. It’s more than good. Mrs. Clay is one of the best cooks I know. I’ve eaten at plenty of fine-dining places over the years. None of them hold a candle to her bolognese.
“Just good?” she presses.
I shake my head, smiling. “It’s great, Grams.”
“Better be,” she mutters, satisfied.
She turns her attention to her food, and I spare another glance at her when she’s not looking.
I noticed it right away, but something’s wrong. Her movements are slower than usual, and she was taking more pauses as she shuffled around, as if she needed to catch her breath. I also noticed that she was relying more on the counter for her balance and support, leaning heavily against it.
“You okay?” I ask, deciding not to dance around the issue.
She doesn’t look up at me. “I’m fine.”
Not even questioning what I mean.
“You sure?”
“Julian,” she sighs. “I’m not made of glass.”
I study her blatantly now. “You’re moving slower.”
She snorts. “That’s called getting older. You’ll understand one day.”
“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” She’s usually not so dismissive when I have concerns about her.
She waves me off like I’m being dramatic. “I’m fine. Eat your food.”
My jaw tightens, and my stomach twists. If there’s something wrong, I wish she’d just tell me so I can help.
I’m prepared to do just about anything I can for this woman.
If she weren’t so stubborn, I’d have already bought her a new house, but she insisted she wanted to stay here in the house her husband bought.
He died before they had any children, and she never remarried.
Maybe that’s why she was so willing to take care of me when I was a kid. She had all this motherly love and instinct living inside her, and nowhere to focus it until the bruised and battered neighbor boy needed a place to escape to.
If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the life I have right now. I owe her everything.
“Grams,” I say again, quieter this time. She hates when I call her Mrs. Clay, and she is like a grandma to me. Still, I can’t help but refer to her as Mrs. Clay in my head and when I’m not with her…some fucked up boundary I can’t make myself cross.
“I said I’m fine, Julian.” Her voice is firmer, making it clear she’s not giving up anything.
I clench my jaw, but don’t say another word. I sit there, in the only place that’s ever really felt like home, and I realize something I haven’t let myself think about before.
She won’t always be here.
The thought hits hard, and I have to look away, focusing on the plate in front of me despite the fact that I’m not hungry anymore.
“Eat,” she insists, softer now, like she knows exactly where my head just went. “You didn’t come all this way to sit there and mope.”
I huff out a quiet breath, picking up my fork again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
There are so many things around the house that need attention; I spend the next day making my way through my mental list.
A few cabinet handles are loose, so I grab a screwdriver from the junk drawer and tighten them.
I fix the dripping faucet in the half-bath on the first floor of the house.
I fill in the crack in the laminate on the kitchen floor.
Then I make my way out onto the porch to tackle the creaking third step.
As I’m finishing up, testing the next board I put in, I hear the front door open.
“Julian.”
I glance up.
Mrs. Clay is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
“It’s your birthday,” she says. “Why are you out here working like I put you on payroll?”
I shrug, tightening the last screw into place. “It’s not work.”
She snorts. “Looks like work.”
I test the step again. Solid now. “Just fixing things.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix anything.”
Chuckling, I straighten and stretch my arms over my head. “I know.”
She narrows her eyes. “Then stop.”
I shake my head, wiping my hands on a rag. “You know how I like knowing things are taken care of around here.”
That’s the simplest way to explain it, but it’s not the whole truth. I need to feel like I’m doing something for her. Making her life better, even if it’s just a little bit. A few minor house repairs aren’t a big deal. I did stuff like this for her all the time when I was in high school.
She watches me for another second, then mutters “Hardheaded,” before disappearing back inside.
Once she’s gone, I gather up my tools, my mind drifting.
Now that I’m twenty-seven, I’m officially able to be a free agent. Since I came into the NHL through the AHL and the Night Hawks' affiliate teams, I haven’t had a choice to play for anyone else.
Until now.
Now, I have the potential to transfer to Chicago.
The team has already come sniffing, prodding to see if I have any interest. No official meetings have happened or anything, just a few emails inquiring about plans and asking if I’d be open to talk.
If I did, I could check in on Mrs. Clay every day.
Fix things before they break instead of after, and make sure she’s not carrying groceries up those steps alone.
I could take care of her, which is all I’ve ever wanted to be able to do.
I lean back against the porch railing, staring out at the street. The only problem with that idea is the fact that Denver isn’t just a team anymore. Those guys are the closest thing I have to a family apart from Mrs. Clay, but at the end of the day, they don’t really need me the way she does.
They’re all building their families. Making real lives for themselves outside of hockey and the Night Hawks. Engagements, weddings, and kids…it feels like they're all moving forward and I’m sort of stuck in place.
Mrs. Clay is the only person I know for sure who needs me.
It’s not only that the other guys are building their own lives, however.
Winning back-to-back Cups has changed things for the whole organization.
The guys have leaned into it in different ways, making sponsorship deals, securing partnerships, building brands, and thinking about what comes next when our days on the ice end.
Grace has been right in the middle of it, juggling offers and setting up meetings for everyone.
She’s tried with me, more than once, but I don’t have the charisma and charm the other guys do.
My mind wanders back to my last meeting with her.
She tried to sell me a sponsorship offer where I’d be the spokesperson for an energy drink.
“Just hear them out,” she’d said, sliding a folder across the table. “You don’t have to commit to anything, but you should at least know what’s out there.”
I didn’t even open it.
“Not my thing,” I told her.
She didn’t push too hard, but I could tell she was disappointed.
She’s just trying to look out for me, but I didn’t grow up with wealth like Jayce and Jensen, or even a stable fucking family like Carson and Zander to teach me how to interact with society.
I’m too gruff and blunt. Not handsome or approachable like the other guys.
I hate being in front of crowds, and I’m shit at public speaking.
I’m not cut out for the public, celebrity life.
I turn and make my way back inside, my mind still spinning. I’m just good at hockey, and when that ends…I don’t know what I’ll have left, except for Mrs. Clay.
In the few messages I’ve gotten from Chicago, the number they’ve hinted at is already bigger than what I have with the Night Hawks, and we haven’t even gotten close to negotiating anything.
More money means I could save more and build up a bigger nest egg for when I retire and don’t have anything else to pivot to.
I’m not an idiot, and I’m not naive…I’d be stupid not to even consider moving back here.
“Julian.”
Startled, I look up and find Mrs. Clay is standing in front of me in the kitchen, dish towel in hand. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even realize I’d been standing in the middle of the room, just staring off into space.
I straighten. “Huh? What’s up?”
She tilts her head, studying me with pursed lips. “You’ve been in your head all day.”
God, she doesn’t miss a thing, does she?
I huff out a breath and shrug. “Just thinking.”
“Mmhmm.”
She doesn’t move or look away, and just gazes up at me through narrowed eyes.
I shift from one foot to another, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, trying to hide something from her. “What?”
She slings her dish towel over her shoulder and puts her hands on her hips.
“Don’t make decisions out of fear,” she states.
I blink, caught off guard. The fuck? Can she read minds now? “I’m not…”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, young man. I know you better than that.”
“I’m just thinking about options,” I mutter, dropping my gaze and slipping my hands into my pockets.
“Options are fine,” she replies. “Fear isn’t.”
I sigh. “It’s not fear.”
She shakes her head. “Well, leave me out of it, you hear? Don’t you go worrying about me and making crazy life-changing decisions.”
She turns and makes her way out of the room, muttering under her breath.
I watch her go and murmur, “How can I not?”