3. Holly
3
HOLLY
The scent of roasted beef fills the kitchen, a comforting aroma that contrasts sharply with the chaos of my life. I flip the meat, the sizzle satisfying.
“Fantastic!” My mom's voice fills the room from the laptop speaker, where she’s watching over my cooking. Both my parents are renowned chefs, and it’s still a running joke in the family how I didn’t inherit any of their skills.
Maybe because they weren’t ever around to teach me.
At least my mom had answered the call on their busy tour today, and she’d agreed to guide me through every step of making this.
"You're doing great, sweetheart. Don't forget the rosemary."
I nod, adding a sprig of rosemary to the pan. The kitchen, once a sterile, impersonal space, is beginning to feel like home. Or at least, a temporary home.
I glance at the clock. It's almost dinner time. I wonder if he'll even eat it. I mean, do professional athletes even eat home-cooked meals anymore?
I shake my head, trying to focus on the task at hand. I've spent the last hour in a food haze, my mind wandering as I chopped and stirred. The distraction has been welcome, a temporary escape from the chaos of my new life. Cooking is not my forte, but it’s something stimulating enough to keep me busy—and more importantly, I decided earlier that I need to find a way to placate my new housemate. After stumbling upon a kitchen schedule and noticing that roast beef is a regular meal in this house, I figured it might be my ticket to getting on his good side.
"So, how's Chicago treating you?" Mom asks, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
I force a smile. "It's okay. Different."
"Different how?" she presses.
I hesitate. How do I explain the whirlwind of emotions I've been experiencing?
"It's just ... different," I repeat, lamely.
Mom sighs. "You know, you can always go home."
I appreciate the offer, but I can't go back. My parents are not there. Gran is no longer there. I have no friends left in L.A., so there’s no reason for me to go back there. It’s easier to face this head-on.
"I’m fine here, Mom."
She's quiet for a moment. "I'm proud of you, sweetie. For trying something new."
I smile. It's the first time I've felt a sense of purpose since I moved here.
“How’s Europe?” I ask. “Still enjoying San Sebastian?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Mom’s eyes light up. “San Sebastian is truly a food lover’s paradise. Your father and I are having the time of our lives. He’s actually out signing autographs for some fans right now.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter, a hint of sadness creeping into my voice. It’s always been like this—my parents off on some grand adventure while I’m left to figure things out on my own. But I can’t blame them. They love what they do, and as long as they’re happy, that’s all that matters.
The timer dings, and I turn off the stove, my hands shaking slightly as I plate the roast beef. Just as I’m finishing, I hear the front door open. My heart skips a beat.
It's him. Footsteps sound across the hardwood floor and he’s in the kitchen before I know it.
“Is that your roommate?” Mom asks, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Say hi for me!”
I shush her quickly, turning to face him. He looks around, and I can practically see the disgust on his face. Great! Just what did I expect from a person like him?
“Holly, is your roommate a man? He’s so handsome!” Mom’s voice squeals through the laptop. I quickly turn around and slap the laptop shut.
"What are you doing?" he demands, his voice low, but the displeasure loud enough to ring in my ears.
I swallow hard. "I'm making dinner."
He scoffs. "You cook?"
I ignore his sarcasm. "I found your kitchen schedule. You seemed to like roast beef, so I thought I'd try it."
He snatches the schedule from my hand, flipping through the pages. "Stay out of my things."
I snatch it back. "I'm trying to be a good housemate, okay?"
He scoffs again. "Well, you’re only succeeding in being a pain in my ass."
I feel my temper rising. "You have no right to treat me this way. I’m trying to do something nice."
“The only nice thing you could do is leave my house,” he snaps. “I don’t need?—”
He stops talking midway as his phone rings. He glances at the screen, and I catch a glimpse of the name: Uncle Frank.
His family calls him? They must be saints to put up with him if this is the way he acts with everyone. His face clouds at the sight of the name and he declines the call. What? And then he switches off his phone.
Who ignores family like that?
He jaw is set in a hard line as he stares straight at me. “Just clean up your mess. I have a game tomorrow, and I don’t need any more distractions.”
He storms out of the kitchen, leaving me seething. Who does he think he is? I was just trying to make things better, but no, he has to be a complete jerk about it.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I can't let him get to me.
I look out the window, watching the city lights twinkle. It's a beautiful night, but I feel anything but beautiful.
I'm tired, physically and emotionally drained. I take one look at my roast beef, grab a slice off the plate, and put it in my mouth. It doesn’t even taste good anymore. I find a waste disposal bin and start to dump the food.
The bell above the café door jingles as I step inside. A wave of warmth washes over me, a welcome respite from the cold outside. The café is small but cozy, with soft lighting and quaint polished furniture. It's the kind of place where you could spend hours lost in a book.
Lauren is sitting in a corner booth, her face lit up by the glow of her phone. She looks up as I approach, her eyes widening in surprise.
"You look like you've been crying," she says, her voice laced with concern.
I force a laugh. "Blame it on my housemate."
My weariness is probably now deep enough to be seen on my face. I’m emotionally drained and starting to believe living with Ethan Carter is like walking through a minefield. One wrong move and I'm blown to smithereens.
"So, tell me everything," Lauren says, gesturing to the booth.
I slide into the seat across from her, and launch into a tirade about Ethan. I tell her about the kitchen incident, how he blew up earlier again this morning about me picking up an item in the living room. I go on to describe his arrogant demeanor, and the way he makes me feel like a tiny speck in a vast universe.
Lauren listens patiently, her eyes filled with sympathy. "You know, he's going through a lot right now," she says.
"I don't care," I snap. "He can't take his anger out on me."
She nods, understanding. "I know, I know. But I just want you to be a bit patient with him."
I scoff. "Why? He doesn't deserve it."
Just then, a young woman with short, curly hair approaches our table. She's wearing a white apron and has a warm smile.
"Lauren, who's your friend?" she asks.
"This is Holly. I told you she was coming," Lauren replies. "Holly, this is my sister, Mia. She owns this place."
I smile at Mia, trying to hide my exhaustion. "Your café is beautiful," I mutter sincerely.
Mia blushes. "Thank you. We're still working on it."
"You should be proud," I tell her. "It's really cozy."
“That’s high praise, sis,” Lauren grins at Mia. "Oh, just so you know, she’s a decor expert."
I roll my eyes. "Shut up."
Mia laughs, a tinkling sound that fills the room. "I have to get back to work," she says, apologetically. "One of my staff moved her shift to later, so I'm a bit short-handed."
"I understand," I nod. "Good luck."
As she walks away, Lauren turns to me. "She's amazing, isn't she?"
I nod. "Definitely. And she's got a great thing going here."
Lauren smiles. “Let’s get back to you.”
I roll my eyes. I can't help but feel very frustrated with Ethan. He's become this looming presence of constant stress over the past few days.
"I just don't understand why he has to be such a jerk," I say, exasperated.
Lauren shrugs. "He's just going through a tough time."
"Or maybe he's just a jerk," I retort.
Lauren and I switch the topic to her job; we talk for a while longer, and by the time we're finished, I feel a little better. It's good to have someone to talk to, someone who understands.
As we're about to leave, Lauren asks if I want to go to the game with her and Mia later this week. I hesitate. I don't really want to see Ethan in that environment. But then I think about it. Maybe it's time to see what makes him so proud.
"Sure," I say finally.
Lauren smiles. "Great! I'll get your ticket."
As we walk out of the café, I feel a strange mix of excitement and dread. Seeing Ethan in his element might be exactly what I need to put things into perspective.
Three days later, I’m sitting in an arena filled with noise and bodies swaying to the rhythm of the game. I'm perched in the director's box, with a bird’s eye view of the chaos below. The energy of the fans is infectious, and I find myself drawn into the frenzy.
The crowd erupts as the players skate onto the ice, and I spot Ethan immediately. He stands out, not just because of his skill but because of the way he carries himself—like he owns the rink. Fans around me start chattering excitedly, fawning over how good and handsome he is. I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the comments.
“He’s so dreamy,” a woman behind me gushes. “And such a phenomenal player!”
“Yeah, right,” I mutter under my breath, my eyes narrowing as I watch Ethan glide effortlessly across the ice. I find myself rooting for the defenders going against him, hoping someone knocks him down a peg. But as the game progresses, my annoyance shifts to grudging admiration. The man is undeniably talented.
The first period is intense, with both teams fighting hard. Ethan comes up clutch, weaving through defenders and setting up a perfect shot that sails past the goalie. The arena explodes with cheers, and despite myself, I feel a thrill of excitement.
The second period is even tougher. Ethan takes a hard hit and goes down. My heart lurches, and I lean forward, holding my breath. When he gets back up, I let out a sigh of relief, telling myself it’s only because an injured Ethan would be even more unbearable to live with. But deep down, I know there’s more to it.
The final period is nail-biting. The score is tied, and the tension is palpable. With just seconds left on the clock, Ethan makes a daring play, maneuvering past the defense and firing the puck into the net. The goal horn blares, and the crowd leaps to their feet, roaring in celebration. I find myself standing with them, clapping and cheering.
Damn it, he’s good.
As the crowd begins to disperse, I stay in my seat, watching the players celebrate. Ethan stands on the edge of the celebrations, looking isolated. There's a sadness in his stance that worries me.
I'm about to leave when I hear a conversation behind me.
"He’s so handsome. It's such a shame he doesn't do fan events. I want to meet him," a blonde Blizzard fan says.
I know immediately she’s talking about Ethan.
"I know," another woman replies. "I heard it has something to do with his brother."
I turn around, my curiosity piqued. "His brother?" I ask.
The woman nods. "Yeah, he died a couple of years ago. It was a really tough time for him."
I feel a pang of sympathy. So that's why he's so guarded.
"I didn't know that," I say, quietly.
The woman looks at me sympathetically. "It was a tragedy. He's never really been the same since."
The news about Ethan's brother hits me like a ton of bricks. I didn't know. How could I not know? Lauren should have told me, but as his team therapist, she probably wanted him to do it. She’s been hinting he has trauma, but I was too caught up in my own drama to listen.
Guilt washes over me. I've been so focused on my own problems that I haven't stopped to think about what he might be going through. Maybe that's why he's been such a jerk. Maybe he's just trying to protect himself.
I thank the woman for the information, my mind racing. I need to talk to Lauren. I need to understand what's going on.
I nod, feeling a strange connection to Ethan. Loss, grief, they're emotions I understand all too well. Gran stood in for both my parents when they weren’t in my life and losing her last year was the most painful period I could imagine—it felt like I lost my dad and mom at once.
As I leave the arena, I can't shake the feeling that I've learned something important about Ethan. And maybe, just maybe, I understand him a little better.
As I go through the turnstiles, I almost collide with someone.
“Sorry—”
“Jake Roland!” Someone gasps. “It’s Jake Roland!”
“Hey everyone!”
I look up to see the last shit-grin I’d ever want to see right on my ex’s face.
It's Jake. Of course.
He's standing there, looking smug, with a woman draped over his arm. She’s a carbon copy of the countless models he’s dated in the past.
“Excuse me, sweetheart. Go wait in the car.”
The Barbie smiles and follows one of the security details away. I look into Jake’s smug face and cross my arms.
"Well, well, well," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If it isn't the fallen angel."