Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Callaway
Moving day should feel like a victory lap.
It’s been a three-week ordeal. They said it would be fast, easy . . . they lied. The repairs the place needed were more than we accounted for and moving wasn’t as easy as “let’s get our things into the place.”
Nope.
I sold most of my furniture. Monty did exactly the same, and Vesper’s stuff fit in one room—which is why we’re currently calling it her office.
Sure, we have new keys, a new zip code, and even a couple of pools.
We’re in Lake Oswego instead of downtown Portland—and yes, the fucking couch made the trip, because Vesper declared it “emotionally supportive” and who am I to argue with a pregnant woman who can weaponize sarcasm and pregnancy hormones like they’re tactical gear?
We promised to pay for it when they find out who’ll be billing us.
This should be the part where I breathe and tell myself we pulled it off. We built a safe place. We outplayed the cameras, the gossip, the Winthrop family brand of manipulation, the faceless men who think you can steer a person’s life with a press release and a threat.
Instead, moving day feels like stepping onto thin ice and pretending I don’t hear it complain beneath my skates.
According to Vesper, the house is obscene.
Not “cute little starter home with a porch swing” obscene.
Obscene in the way money becomes uncomfortable when you stop thinking of it as numbers and start thinking of it as options most people never get.
It’s glass and wood and soft light, tucked back from the road like it has secrets.
Gated drive. Trees. Cameras. Motion sensors.
The entire property seems to murmur, Nothing bad can reach you here.
Which is a sweet lie.
Bad things don’t need permission.
I’ve been here since sunrise with movers who call me “sir” like I’m somebody’s father instead of a professional hockey player with too much money and an unfinished plan that keeps changing every time Vesper’s eyes go too bright.
The funny part is that she’s not asking for anything. Monty and I just want to give her the entire world.
I’m trying to decide where to put kitchenware I don’t even know how to use because Teddy Bradley—the concierge—has “taste,” and now we own serving platters that look like they belong behind glass with a tiny plaque that says Do Not Touch, Peasant.
Worst of all, Vesper approved it all because Teddy is her new best friend, and they’ve already started swapping pregnancy symptoms like they’re trading family recipes.
Harvey handled most of the paperwork—and all the things that would’ve made my skin crawl if I’d had to do them alone.
I wish he were here for moving day, but he’s out at the camp walking the county inspectors through the first of three site visits they require before they approve operations.
He has people working around the clock to make that happen.
The goal is to be able to have it ready before that third inspection.
That place will be working soon, or my name isn’t Calloway Livingston Harrington Winthrop.
We—Monty and I—are gathering players who are interested in investing one or two weeks of their lives to teach young players what they know. Philippe is recovering and learning how to delegate. According to Vesper, who’s on the phone with him daily, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
And somehow, his stubbornness keeps landing in Vesper’s lap.
That part makes my jaw ache.
Not because Vesper can’t handle it. She can handle anything. That’s the problem. People see her competence and start piling their burdens on her like it’s a compliment.
Her family should be protecting her. Not treating her like the fixer they can outsource their guilt to.
I’m yet to get in contact with her brothers so they can take responsibility.
Though, I won’t because this isn’t my circus—at least not officially.
When it is, then I’ll give them a piece of my mind.
I’m in the middle of telling a mover that yes, the couch goes there and no, we are not rotating it “for better flow” because the couch is not a piece of art, it’s a security blanket with legs—when I notice him.
Monty stands in the entryway.
Black hoodie. Cap pulled low. Hands jammed into his pockets like he’s holding himself back. Shoulders tight. He looks like a man who could vanish if he wanted to . . . except he’s six-foot-five and built like a warning sign.
Monty doesn’t do subtle.
He does contained.
His eyes move over the room with that goalie focus—tracking sightlines, cameras, windows. Cataloging exits. Mapping danger. It’s muscle memory. Survival language.
“Nice place,” he says finally, voice flat. “Vesper sent me. She thought you might need help.”
“From Seattle?” I lift a brow. “I thought she had back-to-back interviews with Transcend Productions.”
He pulls out his phone like evidence. “She can still worry via text.” His mouth twists. “It’s her superpower.”
The fact that she’s trying to build a future while she’s also growing a human makes me want to break something and also kneel.
“Is she okay?” I ask, and I hate how fast the question comes out.
He nods once. “Excited. Terrified. Vesper.”
That’s the most Vesper and honest answer anyone’s given me all week.
“She’s excited about the prospect of either getting a job or starting a business that helps TPC with editing and writing without having to leave Oregon,” he adds, like he’s reciting her dreams with care.
“Me too,” I say quietly. “She wants independence. She wants to feel like she’s earning it, even when she doesn’t have to. Thank you for getting her this opportunity.”
Monty’s shrug is small. “It was really the security guy.”
“Which is totally weird that you had a conversation.” I scoff. “You both seem very . . . uptight.”
He glares at me but says, “During the walkthrough, he mentioned his wife’s family. Big hockey fans. Then he mentioned his brother-in-law—Keith Cooperson—played when he was younger. Anyway.” Another shrug. “I know Keith, his twin . . . actually the entire family.”
He says it like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s not shocking that Mr. I’d-Rather-Die-Than-Small-Talk has an entire web of connections he never uses. Like he didn’t just quietly open a door for Vesper.
“She’s coming straight from the appointment,” he says. “The bodyguard is flying her from Seattle and will drive her from the airport.”
My stomach tightens. “Is she going to the OB too?”
“No.” Monty’s voice turns clipped, like he hates the reminder. “Next week.”
I watch his face for a second too long. “You seem bothered.”
“We’ll be out of town,” he says. Away game, implied. “I don’t like missing things.”
Honestly, it bothers me too. That’s something I have to talk about with my teammates. How do they handle appointments and morning sickness while on the road?
But that’s a problem for another day.
“Come on, big guy,” I say, needing to move before I start thinking too much. “Walk with me. See if everything’s set the way we wanted.”
We go room to room.
Hardwood floors. Tall ceilings. A living room with windows that frame the lake like it’s staged on purpose. A fireplace big enough to host a rebellion. A kitchen the size of our old apartment.
There’s a gym off the main hallway, exactly as requested. Machines already delivered and assembled, because I said the word “routine” and watched Monty’s shoulders drop half an inch like his body recognized the language of survival.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he lives in there to avoid the family. I hope I’m wrong.
Upstairs, the primary bedroom faces the lake—dark glass and slow ripples, a clean stretch of water framed by fir trees and distant lights that look like they’re floating. It’s quiet up there, tucked away from the rest of the house, like the world can’t reach it unless you invite it in.
Monty stops near the far wall and points. “There shouldn’t be cameras in the room.”
I glance to where he’s indicating—the camera mount near the corner. “It’s angled toward the exterior. It’s looking outside.”
His jaw tics. “I told the security guy that I didn’t want cameras in our room. I want privacy.”
“You’ll have it,” I say. And then—because I’m me, because restraint has never been my brand—I add, “Unless you ask nicely. Then Vesper can turn the camera around and catch me buried in her while you take me apart from behind. Front row seats to you filling her and wrecking my ass at the same time. Real cinema.”
His gaze slices to me. “You don’t record sex.”
Flat. Final. The words are low, fierce, like a boundary written on stone.
But his jaw’s tight. His breath too even.
And his eyes?
Yeah. Those eyes are on my mouth.
Before I can say something, he adds, “You want to trend on social media because someone found a sex tape of you with your girlfriend and the goalie on your team?”
“Is that what you want to be?” I try not to increase the volume of my voice, and fail. “Just the goalie? I thought we were working to—”
“Then why act like I’m a notch in your bedpost?” he shoots back,
“You think I want that?” I snap, and I hate that my voice rises because there are movers downstairs and this house is full of cardboard and new beginnings and we’re about to turn it into another battleground. “Is that what you think I’m doing here? Collecting trophies?”
His eyes hold mine. Hard. Controlled.
And suddenly I’m not talking about cameras anymore.
I’m talking about the fact that I’m trying to build a life that includes him and he keeps guarding himself as if life is a trap.
“Is that what you want to be?” I push, quieter but worse. “Just a trophy? Just the goalie? Because I thought we were working to—”
To be more.
To be us.
To be a family Vesper doesn’t have to beg for.
My hands curl at my sides because I want to pace and I don’t want to look like I’m losing it. I want to touch him and I want to shove him. I want to shake him until he admits what he’s afraid of.
Monty glances toward the hallway, toward the distant noise of movers, and his voice drops.
“We are not alone,” he says. “Once they’re done, we can finish this conversation.”
Finish.
Like he’s promising there will be a later.