1. Stand Down, Killer
STAND DOWN, KILLER
PARKER
We’ve settled into winter hockey, which is arguably the most wonderful time of the year.
By January, the chaos of early-season starts thinning out.
Training camps are long over, preseason obligations are dead, and the team has finally stopped feeling like a group of strangers shoved into matching jerseys.
No blockbuster trades hanging over our heads, so there’s no scrambling to rebuild chemistry every other week.
Just a solid lineup and enough routine for life to start feeling a little more predictable.
I’ve always been predictable. I’m a creature of habit, so routine is probably the only thing that holds me together most days.
Especially at home. After months of accidental clashing over laundry schedules and the occasional argument over cleaning out the coffee filter, Anders and I have fallen into a routine that’s easily made everything function a little more autonomously.
I didn’t think much of it when I first offered to let him stay here for his senior year.
My best friend and former teammate Luca moved to Minnesota three years ago after signing a contract worth an obscene amount of money. He has a wife and three daughters, and stability mattered more than geography at that point.
Anders staying behind in D.C. for school just made sense.
Georgetown’s close enough to my townhouse that the commute is easy, and honestly, the house was too quiet before he moved in anyway.
The only issue now is that I can’t walk through the front door without evidence of him everywhere. Tonight is no different.
The first thing I see when I step into the living room is Anders asleep on the couch with an open book spread across his stomach and noise-canceling headphones hanging crookedly over his ears.
The lamp beside the couch blankets him in a warm glow.
One of his socked feet hangs off the edge of the couch cushion while a throw blanket bunches around his waist like he’s kicked it away in his sleep.
I’ve come home to this more times than I can count now, and the longer he’s here, the harder it is to remember what life was like before I had him around every day.
The fridge is full of expensive green juice and strange organic fruits I still can’t pronounce like rambutans and lychee. Half my pantry has been reorganized according to whatever system exists solely inside Anders’ head.
And of course, I still always have to straighten his shoes that he lazily kicks off by the front door. I used to not care as much, but one night I came home from the airport late and ate shit the moment I tripped over one of his chunky sneakers.
The kid has always slept like the dead. Even when he was little, Luca used to joke that Anders could sleep through a natural disaster if he was comfortable enough.
He still curls inward the same way he did as a kid, one hand tucked loosely against his chest and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
I’ve known Anders for his entire life, or just about. I was there when Luca got custody of him, standing right behind him in the court room alongside our other teammates. I still choke up when I remember the tears of joy that sprung from his eyes when the judge awarded him full custody.
But there becomes a point where he’s no longer a kid. He doesn’t need saving anymore. I think it’s the most dangerous thought that’s ever crossed my mind.
Carefully, I reach down and run my fingers through the loose curls spilling across his forehead. “Hey there, sweetheart,” I murmur. “Fell asleep on the couch again?”
“What the f—holy shit, dude.” Anders startles. “You fucking scared me.” His eyes blink open wide with confusion before slowly focusing on me. For a second he just stares, dazed and heavy-lidded beneath the warm lighting, before his shoulders loosen with recognition.
“Pet’ka,” he groans roughly, his voice wrecked with sleep. “What the hell, man? I was so close to lucid dreaming. You know I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Fucking Pet’ka.
The kid heard my mom use the endearment once and has refused to drop it. When I first immigrated to the States, I thought Americanizing Pyotr to Parker would spare me the trouble. Anders causes nothing but.
“It’s getting late,” I tell him quietly, stepping back before I linger too long. “If you’re planning on sleeping down here all night, I don’t think the book’s gonna make a very good blanket.”
He lets out a sleepy hum and drags his headphones down around his neck. The couch creaks softly as he stretches, arms lifting above his head beneath the slightly oversized sleeves of his shirt that’s almost as baggy as all the jeans he hoards.
Anders closes his book carefully before setting it beside the scattered papers littering the coffee table.
His laptop’s still open up to a half-written document.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him writing.
When he was younger, he would spend hours writing fantasy books.
Luca always had them bound into physical copies so Anders could draw the illustrations.
“You’re home late,” he says. His eyes move over me slowly in a way I pretend not to enjoy. “Well, don’t you look nice…”
“That sounds a little backhanded,” I laugh dryly.
A ribbing grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Finally found a puck bunny who’s up to your standards?”
I snort quietly while shrugging out of my coat. “I did not.”
“It was Bish’s birthday,” I explain. “Went out for drinks.”
Anders wrinkles his nose immediately. “That man is a walking STD.”
“Right,” I mutter, tossing my keys onto the counter.
He grins sleepily before pushing himself upright from the couch. “Hey, don’t be mad at me, but I killed one of your white tees in the wash.”
“Seriously?” I groan. “I’m about to kick you out.”
“You can’t do that. I’m unemployed.”
“You’re freeloading.”
“What? I’m a very agreeable person to live with. I switched your laundry for you!”
I busy myself by walking into the kitchen, suddenly recoiling when a cold wind brushes past me. The air conditioner clicks on a second later. “Did you touch the thermostat again?” I call casually over my shoulder. “It’s freezing.”
He answers by not answering. Typical guilty response coming from him.
I open the fridge and immediately pause, staring at it for a long moment before exhaling sharply. The entire top shelf has been reorganized again.
“Where the hell did my beer go?”
“Left side drawer,” Anders says easily, moving around the kitchen like he owns the place. “You keep putting it in random spots and it ruins the system.”
“Don’t start—”
“Oh my god, Petchka.” Anders gives me a conceited look. “There’s always a system.”
I shake my head and mutter how annoying he can be under my breath, but I’m smiling unwittingly because I do secretly enjoy this. His personality is just so contagious, and his little quirks entertain the hell out of me.
He brushes past me to reach into the freezer, close enough that his shoulder knocks lightly against my chest. The contact is only brief, but I feel it linger after he steps away.
Anders pulls out a pint of ice cream before hopping up onto the counter.
“Pretty sure Ben and Jerry’s has microplastics,” I tease.
“It’s too late to worry about microplastics.”
“Ah. Of course it is.” It’s such an Anders thing to say. He’s been on this microplastics kick for months now. Even made me replace all my plastic Tupperware with glass ones.
He digs the spoon into the pint, shamelessly taking a bite straight from the container. When he catches me watching him, he lifts the pint toward me lazily.
“C’mere.”
“Don’t tempt me. You know I’m on a strict diet.”
“Come hereee,” he sings horribly, dropping his voice an octave. “Pet’kaaa.”
I take a step closer and shake my head incredulously. “You’re a horrible singer.”
“Shut up.” Anders rolls his eyes. “The sun is down,” he whispers solemnly. “It’s time to lose yourself.”
I stare at him for a second, then I take the spoon from his hand. “Lose myself…” I echo.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. “Yeah.”
Throwing all caution to the wind, I take a generous bite.
Anders immediately looks proud of himself. “Worth the ten pounds you think you’ll gain?”
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Can’t ruin my figure.”
The look he gives me almost makes me wish I just kept my mouth shut, and it’s gradually becoming more difficult to blame this on the three beers I had earlier. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm to breathe normally. “Here,” I laugh weakly, handing the spoon back. Our fingers brush briefly.
His gaze stays on mine a second too long. “Thanks,” he mutters. “So where were you tonight?”
I’d be a fool to think I could get away with a night sans his interrogation. I lean back against the counter and answer truthfully. “I went out.”
“Only with Bishop?”
“Mhm.”
“And nobody else?” The question lands lighter than it should, but I know him well enough to sense what’s beneath it.
I cross my arms loosely. “You asking me something in specific?”
Anders shrugs one shoulder. His expression stays easy, but his grip tightens slightly around the spoon. “You smell like cheap perfume, Park.”
That’s code for I know you’ve been out with some whore…
I almost laugh. “Interrogating me now?”
“Just curious.”
“Yes,” he impulsively says a second later. “Tell me.”
“We had drinks at Rogue.” That gets a subtle reaction out of him.
“Oh,” he laughs dryly. “The strip club. Of course.”
“It’s not a strip club.” My mouth pulls into a grin. “Bish held a gun to my head and told me the only thing he wanted for his birthday was for me to take him to the strip club.”
“Sure,” he says skeptically, looking down at the ground for a minute. He sets his pint of ice cream down on the counter and scratches the back of his head.
“Did you hook up with someone?”
“Anders,” I sigh. He knows he shouldn’t be asking me this, and I sure as hell know better than to enjoy it. “You know I didn’t.”
His mouth curves faintly like he expected that answer. “I don’t know anything, Parker.”
“That’s not true,” I mutter. “You know too much.”
Anders watches me quietly for a moment before pushing away from the counter and stepping closer.
My heart beats harder than it should. “Anders—”
“Whose perfume is it?” he asks finally, jealously creeping in quickly. Anders never tries to hide it, even though he knows he can’t keep reacting like this. “Some girl’s?”
“No,” I shake my head. It comes out sounding weaker than I’d wished. “Well…yes, there was a bartender, but—”
“Okay.” His eyes meet mine steadily. “Whatever. I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
Something low twists in my chest. I open my mouth to argue, but I think arguing would just make it worse. One of us needs to keep this under control.
“Am I wrong?” he presses, just itching for a fight.
I straighten instinctively. “It’s late, sweetheart.”
Anders exhales through his nose. “Mhmm.”
“You should go to bed.” I try to sound authoritative, but it comes out more as a suggestion than a command.
He tauntingly grins. “You were the one who woke me up, Parker.”
I shake my head and push away from the counter, walking over to him pressing my palm against his forehead like I’m giving him an exorcism. “Stand down, killer.”
Finally letting him go, Anders watches me move toward the stairs, laughing like he’s won the conversation. “Oh, so you’re not gonna beg me for a kiss goodnight?”
“No,” I fire off quickly, forcing myself not to give him the reaction he wants. “Goodnight.” The bottom step creaks beneath my weight.
“Don’t miss a step,” he calls out.
“Goodnight, Anderson.”
Maybe I’m a hypocrite for thinking it, but sometimes it’s impossible not to look for the cracks in the things we keep buried. As much as I’d like to think I’m strong enough to move on from the past, I don’t think it’s possible until I’m willing to let certain things go.
And the problem isn’t that it’s hard to let things go…it’s the fact that I don’t want to.
I refuse to.