Chapter 17
Seventeen
Storm
Tap. Tap. Tap!
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, pulling the pillow over my head.
The man literally never sleeps.
Tap. Tap. Tap!
I clamp the pillow tighter.
Tap. Tap. Tap!
“All right. Christ!” I grab my phone, note it’s barely after seven in the morning.
See?
Rain never fucking sleeps.
Groaning—and knowing there’s no point in trying to go back to dreamland through the incessant tapping—I get out of bed and hit the shower.
As it’s warming (and taking a long fucking time to do so because even though we’ve fixed the burst pipe, we—okay, I—still need to buy a new water heater), I decide that since I’m up, I should be torturing my teammates too.
STORM: What are you all doing on August 10th, assholes?
There’s a long pause before the replies start coming—slow at first then with more rapid frequency.
ACE: Do you know what time it is, asshat?
SHEP: Are you like the one person in the world who doesn’t have your phone on DND?
ACE: I don’t play Dungeons & Dragons, motherfucker.
SHEP: DND means do not disturb, asshole.
ACE: No. Apparently I AM the one person who doesn’t have my phone on DND. Because I forgot that was a thing.
SHEP: World class athlete. Married to a kickass chick. Doesn’t know how to work a cell phone properly. What the fuck does Vi see in you?
CLARKE: What do you want us to be doing, Stormy?
STORM: For you to never use that nickname again.
CLARKE: Now you’ve gone and dared me.
STORM: Really, Superman?
CLARKE: You’re an asshole…Stormy. Now, spill. What’s happening in August that has you texting the group chain at seven in the fucking morning?
STORM: A charity hockey game.
GRIFFIN: For the Hawks?
STORM: No.
ACE: Then what?
I hesitate, wondering why the fuck I’m doing this.
I don’t want them here. God knows, I don’t want to open this part of my life up to further inspection.
I start to set my phone down, to leave the conversation there.
But then I think of Holly’s face.
Think about her excitement for the programs at the Pioneer Museum, the adorable way she struggled through the phrase goose deterrents. I think of the field trips I took there in elementary school and how cool they were when I was her age. And…I think of the worry in Poppy’s eyes.
The real concern the museum may not be able to continue to provide for the kids in the community.
And, fuck me, but I think of Holly running toward Rain.
The connection they’ve clearly built over the last year.
A connection I don’t have—won’t have anytime soon.
Because she’s my daughter, but she doesn’t know it yet.
Poppy and I have agreed to take it slow, to let Holly get to know me before we dropped the bomb of me being her dad on her.
But…fuck that stings.
And maybe I’m enough of a bastard to want her to look at me like she looks at Rain.
To want me over him.
And if I do this, if I help save the fucking Pioneer Museum in fucking Cedar Hollow maybe she will.
Dumb, huh?
The air’s sticky by the time I finish the argument with myself, and the entire water heater is likely depleted.
But I don’t set my phone aside and get under the lukewarm stream just yet.
I grit my teeth and…double down.
STORM: It’s to raise money for a museum in my hometown. They provide afterschool and summer programs for the kids here in Cedar Hollow and they’re struggling. I said I’d play, but I figure we’d bring in more money if a few of you assholes joined me.
There’s a long pause.
A long ass pause.
Long enough for me to tighten a screw on the vanity cabinet so the door is no longer at risk of falling off.
Then my phone starts buzzing again.
GRIFFIN: Is it just me or is that the most words I’ve ever heard this asshole say?
SHEP: Or type, technically.
GRIFFIN: You know what I mean.
SHEP: I do. So what gives, Storm? Last I heard, you were shitting on your hometown. Now you’re raising money for it?
“Christ,” I mutter.
STORM: Nothing gives. Do you want to do it or not?
Another fucking pause has me typing—
STORM: If you don’t want to, I’ll ask some of the Sierra guys.
I won’t. There’s no fucking way I’m going there again. But the lie ought to get them focused on the rivalry instead of the shitshow that’s my life.
SHEP: Yeah, that’s not going to work, kid. Spill it.
“Asshole.” I glare at my phone for a second.
STORM: Fine. Then I’ll text Smitty.
Which, thankfully, lights a fire under their ass.
Or Ace’s, anyway.
ACE: Don’t you fucking dare. He’s already obsessed with Vi and her job. If he gets wind of a chance to hang out with her then we’ll never get rid of him.
Vi—or Violet Lamour owns Blue Line Matchmaking, a secret, not-so-secret matchmaking company that hooks up hockey players with the women in their lives. She’s hardworking, beautiful, smart, and has an excellent slapshot.
Like Poppy.
Well, aside from the whole slapshot part.
But Ace has a point.
Smitty, who plays for the Grizzlies—and who considered himself the premier matchmaker in the league before finding out about Vi and her copious skills—would jump on this with a vengeance I’ll likely regret.
But I don’t let them know that.
STORM: So are you guys in or out? I need to tell Poppy.
There’s another blip of quiet—long enough for me to realize what I’ve done.
What I’ve said.
Fuck.
Shep, of course, is the first person to pick it up.
SHEP: Who’s Poppy? Some teenage love interest you’re falling for all over again?
Christ. That’s far too close to the truth.
GRIFFIN: Hallmark Channel here we come.
CLARKE: I vote that he wears a flannel button down and teams up with this Poppy to repair an old inn.
“Fuck my life,” I hiss.
Because that’s too damned close to the truth.
Old house. Old love. The only thing left for them to guess is—
ACE: And she’s got to be a single mom. Lots of kid shenanigans. Food fights and bedtime stories.
SHEP: And skating lessons and mistletoe kisses.
STORM: It’s summer, remember? And Poppy is just an old friend.
SHEP: a.k.a. code for an old fuck.
STORM: Right. Time for you all to fuck off. I’m texting Smitty.
ACE: Christ. Okay. I’m in.
SHEP: Me too.
ACE: And I’ll tell Vi she can call off the matchmaking powers that be now that you have this POPPY.
I groan.
CLARKE: I’m in too. Because I also need to meet Poppy.
GRIFFIN: Ditto.
“Assholes. Every single one of them,” I mutter even as I send a begrudging thanks and a promise to pass along the other details soon.
My phone keeps buzzing.
I ignore it.
Toss it aside.
Get undressed.
And climb into the shower.
I curse as the cold stream of water hits my skin.
But I don’t get out.
I just wash as quickly as possible then wrench the water off, rub myself dry with a threadbare towel, get dressed, and go down to our makeshift kitchen in the garage.
The saw is going.
There’s wood dust everywhere, quickly making the icy cold shower I took a moot point.
But we have peaches and cream muffins.
And they’re the only reason I say yes to helping Rain reframe the remaining rotted portions of the second floor.
Mostly because he asks while shoving two muffins at me.
I’m being manipulated by carbs.
And I can’t even bring myself to care.
Especially when—as I hold boards in place while Rain secures them—I allow my mind to drift to other peaches-and-cream things.
Like Poppy’s skin.
Like Poppy.
Soft curves and plump lips and my name on her tongue.
Seven years gone, angry words, fists and curses and inadequacies and hurts.
And for a few seconds, I kind of wish I was in a Hallmark movie too.
Because then a happy ending would be guaranteed.
But I should know better.
I’m a Harrison.
There aren’t any happy endings.
Not for me, anyway.