Bowie walks past me into the kitchen and fills his reusable water bottle from the filtered tap. Leaning one hip against a kitchen counter way nicer than I ever gave it credit for, he pulls out his phone.
Well, okay, then. Conversation over.
Sure. Good. No problem.
I start down the hall for the office with the pull-out couch but stop when Bowie calls from the front of the apartment.
“Use Boomer’s room until he gets back.”
I stall, eyes locking on the second door on the left.
I love my brother. He’s funny and annoyingly overprotective and a seriously good guy. But he’s gross. He’s a slob. A player. He’s the kind of man-ho whose hookups have resulted in furniture being thrown away.
I gag a little thinking about having to sleep in his room. Then a little more at the thought of his bed.
I can’t afford a hotel or to move home with my parents. I’d never be able to juggle work if I had to add a commute up to Winnetka and back each day. And while Randy offered me his couch, more than one woman from work warned me about him.
Which officially makes me a beggar without a choice. Something I’m still coming to terms with when Bowie breezes by, pushing the door open as he passes.
I cringe, bracing for the worst, but instead I’m hit with… lemons?
My gaze snaps to the end of the hall, where he’s stopped halfway into his room, one big hand on the frame as he stares at his feet and asks, “Good?”
I force my attention back to the impossible. Ben’s immaculate room. There isn’t so much as a sock on the floor. No collection of water bottles littering the dresser top, no condom wrappers near but not actually in the trash.
“How much did you have to pay to get someone in here to clean this fast?”
He laughs, just once, but it’s enough to have my head snapping around to see. Only he’s already in his room, and all I catch is the snick of the door closing.
Bowie
“Come on. Boomer’s little sister isn’t that bad,” my buddy and tax accountant, Tyrell Preves, laughs three days later, snapping a picture of his lunch as soon as our server drops it off.
Ty’s been talking about starting his own firm for a year and wanted to check out an office space across the street. Joining him seemed like a solid excuse to get out of the apartment, so I came along, hoping it would be the distraction I needed. And it was, until my man started asking about Boomer.
One thing led to another and somehow the conversation turned to Piper.
“It’s not that she’s bad. It’s that she’s there.” And when she isn’t there, I’m wondering where she is. When she’ll be back. If she needs a ride. If she doesn’t need need a ride but would be safer having one anyway.
He doesn’t get it. No one does.
He stabs at his shawarma fries, stuffing them into his mouth with relish and moaning around the oversized bites. “She bringing men over? Women?” he asks, chewing around his words. He gulps some water and then points at me with his glass. “If the answer’s yes, I’ll be there tonight.”
“No. She’d never bring guests into our place without asking.”
“You sure you don’t want a bite? I know it’s not nutritionist approved, but—”
“Already ate, man. But enjoy.” It smells fucking fantastic, but it looks like the difference between me making it to the puck before Kieran Marsh in our game against the Highlanders tonight and me sweating grease while I hang on my stick trying to catch my breath. That elegant fucker doesn’t need any more of an advantage than he’s already got.
More food goes into Tyrell’s mouth, and he takes another picture. Love this guy, but so weird. Not that I care when he can find a restaurant that makes catfish, sweet cornbread, and fried tomatoes that taste so close to my grandmother’s, if she hadn’t passed, I’d think she’d moved to Chicago and started the restaurant herself.
Damn, and now I actually am hungry, but that lunch is going to have to wait until off-season for sure.
“So what?” Ty asks. “She giving you attitude? Doing drugs?”
“What? No. God, no.” I know Piper’s got a bit of a rep for not having her life completely together, but she’s not a fuckup.
“Playing music too loud? Leaving a mess?” There’s like a quarter of a fry left on his plate. Nope. Gone. “Help me out here, man. Clearly, you’ve got an issue, but I’m not seeing what it is.”
Lowering my voice, I lean forward. “I got home from practice yesterday, and she was in the kitchen, making a sandwich.” Like she lived there. Which she does. For now. But damn, that is something I want to forget. Pretend it’s not true. Which is impossible when I can smell her shampoo after she leaves the room or when I hear the clicking of keys on her laptop from the other side of Boomer’s door.
“A sandwich? So… she didn’t make one for you?” Ty looks well and truly horrified.
I study the little painting hung next to our table, and he barks out a laugh.
“She did make one for you? You’ve got a fine woman at home, making you sandwiches? Brother, what the hell are you complaining about? You don’t want her at your place, send her to mine.” Then, he waves a finger at me. “Hey, don’t you look at me like that. Joking. Damn, man, she’s not even your sister.”
Well aware. Too well aware.
I run a hand over my face, trying to wipe away whatever he saw there.
I know this guy. Boomer and I have been friends with him since the year the Slayers picked me up. He’d never put a move on Piper. Ever.
When I look up again, he’s grabbing the check from our server, flashing her a flirty smile before turning back to me.
“Put her up in a hotel if you don’t want her in your space… making sandwiches and cleaning up after herself. Trust me, you can afford it.”
“She’s Boomer’s little sister. He said she could stay.” Which means I can’t dump her at some hotel.
“Yeah, but it’s your place too. You really dislike this girl that much—”
“I don’t.”
And that’s the problem. I never have.
4
Bowie
As a rule, away games don’t bother me. I don’t mind hotel living, have always enjoyed whatever taste of the city we’re playing in I can get. But after two days away, I’m ready to be home. I tell myself it’s because Boomer’s not here, but it’s not the whole truth.
The damn dreams are getting worse. I can hear her laughter echoing, but the lights in the corridors are nearly all out, so I can’t actually see her.
As dreams go, it’s not too hard to decode. And maybe now that we’re back in Chicago, I’ll be able to get some real sleep.
The lights on the plane come up, and I check my phone. It’s after two a.m. Christ, it’s been a long day. The win against Philly was just what we needed.
They pulled Gulbrandsen up from Springfield to cover Boomer’s spot for this trip. Gulls is a good kid. Fast. Busts his ass and mostly keeps his mouth closed and his ears open.
But the on-ice chemistry isn’t there. He’s not Boomer, and while he is a good player, I want my guy back.