Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Vesper
It didn’t take long to get to Portland. I won’t lie—the short flight was almost pleasant, which feels rude considering the state of my life.
From the helicopter, everything looked impossibly calm.
Mount Hood loomed in the distance, all ice and ancient arrogance, its ridgelines cutting clean against the sky.
Below us, the forest spread out like a deep green quilt—evergreens packed tight, rivers threading through them like silver veins.
Honestly, I wanted to pull out my camera and record, but I wasn’t feeling well enough to do that.
By the time Portland came into view, the city felt small and orderly, like a place where problems lined up and waited their turn. I watched all of it and pretended I could breathe like a normal person.
After that, there was a car waiting, and it took us straight to Monty’s temporary place.
The building is all steel and glass—so modern it feels like it doesn’t want you breathing on it.
The elevator walls are glass, too, the city dropping away beneath us.
I imagine the view at night would be criminal. Right now, it just makes me dizzy.
The apartment itself is huge. Bright. Calm.
Designed by someone who has never doom-scrolled symptoms online at two in the morning.
There’s a river view that looks almost fake.
As if it came preinstalled. Two bedrooms that smell like fresh paint and expensive detergent, which is deeply unfair, because I currently smell like regret, coffee, and choices I made while running on adrenaline.
“Conrad found a physician,” Monty says, eyes on his phone. “He’ll be here in a couple of hours.” He grabs my bag like it’s settled business. “I’ll put your things in the guest room. Unless you want the main room.”
“She’s not staying in the main room with you,” Cally snaps, protective in a way that feels like a claim.
“I’m giving her my room, asshole,” Monty fires back without missing a beat.
“Boys,” I say, already tired. “Let’s not do this. I’ll just go to my parents’ place. I’m not refereeing a testosterone match.”
Cally’s jaw works like he’s biting down on ten arguments at once. “As soon as I get a house, you should—”
I clap once, loud enough to make them pause, like I’m calling a meeting I absolutely did not sign up to host. “New rule. We are not fighting about my whereabouts. Also, nobody says ‘you look pale,’ ‘how are you feeling,’ or ‘I’m here for you.’ I am one unsolicited heartfelt phrase away from legally changing my name and joining witness protection. ”
Cally opens his mouth. “I’m here for—”
I point at him, dead serious. “Finish that sentence and I will use this very swanky apartment as an alibi. I might even blame him. There’s a known rivalry. I’ll be a very convincing innocent bystander.”
Monty’s eyes lift to mine, amusement wrestling with concern like he hates that he finds me funny right now.
“You threw up twice,” he says. “Of course we’re concerned. We get a vote.”
“Hate to agree with him,” Cally adds, holding up two fingers, “but you’ve looked like shit since the airport. And then you puked your guts out. Twice.”
“Allegedly,” I say. “For the record, I’m pretty sure the driver did that to me. I’m a victim.”
“The driver didn’t make you nauseous for two days,” Cally says.
I freeze.
Because fuck. I did say that.
It’s been more than two days. Closer to a week, if I’m being honest. A week of feeling off. Of headaches I blamed on jet lag. Of pretending my stomach wasn’t staging a slow revolt until today forced the issue.
I swallow and it doesn’t go down easy.
My brain does what it always does when it gets scared—it sprints straight to the worst possible ending and tries to unpack there. Weird virus and I’m probably patient zero. I’ll be a headline. My dad reading them and feeling like he failed me again.
No. Stop. I’m fine.
I have to be.
For him. For my dad. For the two men in this room who would derail entire careers if it meant keeping me upright.
Which is exactly why I can’t be the reason they do that.
This would be a fantastic moment to take a very long assignment. Somewhere far. Five or six years. Plenty of distance for them to focus on hockey and forget that I exist.
It’s not something new though. I’ve been doing that since college. I chose the farthest from the two. NYU. Then I decided to become . . . me. A seasoned traveler who likes to film everything that’s happening around the world.
I don’t understand why they can’t just fall in love with someone else. Why they can’t move on the way I keep pretending I have. I’ve tried—dates, distractions, the occasional night meant to prove I’m capable of feeling something normal with someone new.
Nothing sticks. It’s like I’m cursed to love these two, which makes my love life impossible.
Since I can’t choose, I have to keep myself guarded.
Remind myself that even when I’m yearning for a hug, a kiss, I have to set up boundaries because the last thing I want to do is give them hope—or give myself hope.
Right now, it’d be a good time to just snuggle with them and let them care for me.
I can’t. It’s a losing game that breaks my heart .
. . probably my soul. Leaves me lonely even when I could say I’m lucky to have two men loving me.
It’s so ridiculously selfish. I should maybe just ghost them.
Not that I can. I tried that once. They found me and made me promise I would never do it again.
According to them, it’s hard to chase me when they’re in the middle of a season.
Feeling somehow defeated, I aim for the couch because it’s close and my legs are doing that fun thing where they lie to me until I stop moving.
The couch is absurdly soft. Criminally comfortable. I sink into it and decide this might be my forever now.
Monty disappears into the bedrooms. When he comes back, he walks toward the kitchen. I hear the cabinets opening. Soon enough, a glass appears in front of me filled with water.
“I have fruit,” he says. “Or I can make a salad.”
“She needs protein,” Cally counters immediately.
“We should stick to safe foods,” Monty replies, already aligned, not fighting. “Ulcers don’t play nice.”
Cally scoffs. “That’s rich, Alberto. Next you’ll suggest a nutritionist. Or a chef.”
“That’s a great idea,” Monty glares at him. “I’ll have Conrad look into it.”
“Harvey could do it, if that’s what we need,” Cally says, and I’m not liking that they’re agreeing on something.
They’re not circling each other. They’re syncing. Which should make me feel safer. Instead, it makes my pulse pick up.
Because this is what happens when they stop competing. And I don’t know what it costs when they finally do.
Run, Ves, before things fall apart and this time you can’t recover from the heartbreak.
“It’s just stress,” I say before either of them can. “My body is being dramatic.”
“Stress doesn’t make you miss meals for weeks, fly across the planet, sleep in airports, and then act surprised when your stomach revolts,” Cally says.
I blink at him. “Wow. That was weirdly accurate and rude. Are you branching out into psychological bullying?”
Monty leans one hip against the counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like he’s already decided my excuses won’t pass inspection. “Did you eat during the flight?”
“I ate,” I protest, because lying is easier than admitting I’ve been living on caffeine and spite.
Cally’s brows lift. “What did you eat?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because okay, fine—I had a few bites of the cheese plate until the smell made my stomach revolt.
I gnawed on crackers like I hadn’t eaten in years.
There was a banana that tasted like the inside of a suitcase, or feet, I can’t decide just yet.
And a granola bar I found in my backpack that may have been from a previous life.
“Okay,” I say, pivoting so fast I should get drafted. “We are not doing a nutrition audit. A doctor is coming. We will let the professional judge me.”
Monty’s eyes narrow a fraction, like he’s not done. Like he wants the truth clean and complete.
“You’re going to tell them everything?” he asks.
“I’m going to tell them I’m a delicate forest creature who can’t handle modern life,” I say. “Then they’ll prescribe me a nap, a hug, and a restraining order against my overbearing men.”
Cally snorts, amusement breaking through his worry like he can’t help it.
Monty doesn’t laugh. He never does when he’s scared.
And then—right on cue—my stomach rolls low and sour. I press two fingers to my upper lip and force a smile that feels stapled on. “Okay, cool. Love that. Love that my stomach has opinions.”
Monty’s entire posture changes. Alert. He’s ready to bolt with me. “Bathroom?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I lie, because I’m committed to my brand.
He doesn’t argue. He just watches me like he’s waiting for my body to decide for me.
My body is thrilled to prove him right. The nausea rises so fast I don’t even get the dignity of a joke.
I push up from the couch and sway, grabbing the edge of the coffee table.
Cally’s on his feet instantly. “Ves—”
“Stop,” I snap, not because he’s wrong, but because if he sounds gentle right now, I will crack straight down the middle.
Monty steps closer, palm hovering near my waist. Not touching—just there.
I hate how safe it feels.
I hate it because safety with these two always comes at a cost. With history. With the possibility of losing them all over again. I couldn’t handle it.
“I’m going,” I mutter through my teeth, and then I walk like my pride is leading my body by the hand.
I make it to the bathroom—barely.
Of course, the bathroom is obscene. Marble. Floating sink. A mirror that makes me look like I’m haunted by dry shampoo and poor decisions. The lighting is flattering in a way that feels personally insulting when you’re trying not to throw up.