“I know.”
I can avoid Brett’s gaze for only so long before I feel compelled to meet it.
“The drive over was fine?” he asks casually, as if my daughter didn’t just basically make me look like a crazy woman who sits in her living room and watches tapes of him late into the night.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, it was great. But did you know there’s a big storm coming in? I feel bad for making Donovan drive in it tonight.”
“We’ll wait it out. Come, sit.” He points at the tall glass of SunnyD sitting on the coffee table, right beside him, a knowing grin touching his lips.
I settle in, wondering exactly how much space I should leave between us.
“Hey, Jack and Brenna, come and help me pick out a few pizzas here,” Richard calls out.
Brenna’s on her feet and running toward the kitchen before Jack even has a chance to finish his sip.
“Brenna likes broccoli and sardines,” he teases, earning her shriek of disgust and my laugh. It’s all so comfortable, so easy. And, I think, as Brett lifts an arm up and over my shoulders, intentional on Richard’s part.
Brett pulls me into his chest in a hug. “I’m glad you came,” he whispers, his lips grazing my cheek.
I inhale the scent of his cologne and sigh, my blood stirring instantly. My fingers toy with the hem of his soft cotton T-shirt, desperate to slide under, to graze the chiseled plane of his stomach again. “I missed you.” I thought it would be hard for me to admit that out loud, but the words just slip out.
He pulls away just a touch and his aqua-blue eyes drift downward toward my mouth. I lean in, desperate for a kiss.
“One with chicken, Cath?” Jack hollers, startling me.
I sit back and clear my throat. And silently curse my brother. “If you’ll eat some, too.”
“You know I will.” Jack will eat anything.
Brett shifts to his original spot and settles his hand on his thigh, his pinky stretched just far enough to drag along my bare skin, teasing me mercilessly.
“He’s having a great year, huh?” Jack wanders over, tipping his bottle to the TV screen, where they’re showing highlights of Toronto’s team captain.
“Incredible year. He stole three goals from me at my last game against them.” Brett turns the volume up.
They start talking about points and assists, and plus-minus scores, things I don’t understand and am not going to pretend to. I’m glad I brought Jack, though. It makes this feel that much more low-key. I sit and quietly listen, observing as Brenna colors her book, and Richard fills bowls with chips and popcorn and other snacks, and everyone waits for the game to start. No cameras, no media, no stress. No talk of heroes and saving lives.
And I let myself imagine us doing this all the time.
“No, no, no . . .”
“Pass it!”
“Get it out of there!”
Brett, Richard, and Jack are all yelling at the TV as the little clock in the corner counts down the last seconds of the third period. Much like they’ve been doing for the past two and a half hours. I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to talk about during the game, that conversation would be stalled, but there’s been very little conversation at all. Just a lot of hollering and cheering.
And yet it’s easily been one of the best nights of my life.
When the clock expires, Toronto has squeaked by with a one-point win. There’s a pile of sweaty hockey players crashing into each other on the ice, Richard is on his feet, congratulating them all through the TV, Jack is twirling a sluggish but giggling Brenna around in the air, and Brett is quietly contemplative, an odd mix of resignation and happiness on his face.
I give his thigh a gentle squeeze. “Next year, it’ll be yours.”
He answers that with a tight smile before seemingly shrugging it off, draping his arm casually over the back of the couch behind me. “I still can’t believe this is the first hockey game you’ve watched from beginning to end. That’s appalling, actually.”
I merely shrug, earning his headshake and chuckle.
Brenna frees herself from Jack’s grip and crawls onto the couch beside me. “I’m tired.”
I can’t help the small sigh of frustration that escapes. I don’t want the night to end. It’s only nine thirty, but we have a long drive and Brenna’s been curled up on the couch in her pajamas for the past half hour, the built-up excitement of coming here tonight having finally worn her down.
“You and me both, kid.” Richard stretches his arms over his head. His gaze drifts to the wall of window, where rain is drizzling against the glass. The storm doesn’t seem to be in any rush, though; the bursts of lightning are slowly becoming brighter, the rumbles of thunder only now beginning to grow deeper and more frequent. Heavy rain warnings have scrolled across the bottom of the screen repeatedly, advising motorists in the Philadelphia area to stay off the roads for the evening. “Looks like you’re stuck for a while, at least. Why don’t you take this spot right over here where there’s lots of room?”
Richard stretches a gray knit blanket over Brenna, who has settled in comfortably. He gives the top of her head a playful rub to mess her hair. “You know, there’s a free room upstairs, if you’d rather just stay the night.” Kind gray eyes peer to me. “Probably a better idea than dragging her home so late tonight.”
Stay overnight? Here? With Brett? My heart begins to race. And his dad, Brenna, and Jack, I remind myself. “Thank you. I guess we’ll see how the storm is.” I climb to my feet. “But just in case we go, I should say goodbye now.” Brett said that Richard was flying home to California on Thursday.
I’m about to offer my hand when Richard pulls me into a tight hug that lasts a good five seconds. Oddly enough, it feels natural. “We will see you again, and soon,” he assures me. “Need anything before I turn in, Brett?”
Brett declines with a thanks.
Giving Jack a firm handshake, Richard disappears down the hall.
“Hey, Cath?” Jack is pulling on his jacket, his eyes on his phone. I’m still amazed by how much he’s grown. “I’m actually going to head out. I’ve got a friend from school who wants to meet up.”
“Out in that storm?”
“It’s just a few blocks away.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. I half expected him to ditch us at some point. When you’re nineteen years old and single, why go back to a sleepy town when you’re in the city on a Saturday night? “Okay. But what about getting home?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “She said she’d drive me tomorrow.”
“She. Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. “Just don’t forget to text Mom to let her know not to expect you.”
He groans. “Nine months of freedom and now I’m back to doing that.”
Brett chuckles. “Don’t miss those days.”
“Tell me about it. Listen, it was amazing hanging out with you.” Jack leans in and clasps hands with Brett. “If you’re gonna be around this summer and on the ice, I’d love to get out with you.”
“Definitely.” Brett smiles, but I sense him stiffen. My chest pangs for him.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Cath?”
“Call me if you get into trouble. But don’t get into trouble.”
He leans down to kiss the top of my head. “Night, favorite sis.”
“Be safe,” I tell him, watching him gently ruffle Brenna’s hair and then saunter out the door.
And now it’s just the three of us.
Brett turns the volume down on the TV until it’s just a low murmur. He watches Brenna closely. “Will that bother her? Should I turn it off?”
“That kid can curl up in a booth at Diamonds and fall asleep within minutes. The noise actually puts her to sleep.” A crack of thunder sounds and her little body jolts slightly. “Though that might wake her up if it gets worse.”
Brett’s warm hand drags lazily over my bare thigh, one of many fleeting touches and gentle nudges he’s stolen tonight, when attention wasn’t on us.
&
nbsp; Does he realize what he’s doing to me?
My heart feels like it’s about to explode in my chest.
“Sounds like my dad. He’ll be out cold and snoring within thirty seconds of his head hitting the pillow. My mom’s convinced he’s narcoleptic.”
I steady my shaky breathing, trying to shift my focus from climbing onto Brett’s lap right here—with my daughter five feet away—to Richard. “I like your dad a lot. He just seems so . . . normal.”
Brett’s eyebrows quirk. “And that surprises you?”
“Yes. I mean, no! I mean . . .” Ugh, I sound like an idiot. “I feel like I might run into him at the grocery store on a Tuesday afternoon and, if I did, we could talk about . . . I don’t know . . .” A crack of thunder sounds. “The weather. Or the news, or . . . you know, normal stuff.”
Brett squeezes my thigh, his skin hot against mine. “I knew what you meant. I just like seeing you get flustered.”
“That’s not funny,” I mock-protest, even though I’m smiling. I poke him in the ribs, my finger digging into hard muscle. He doesn’t even flinch, grabbing my hand and holding it for two . . . three . . . four seconds before his eyes flicker to Brenna.
With a heavy sigh, he lets go. “My dad’s the best. He kept me and Michelle grounded while we were growing up. Not saying that my mom’s not great, too. It’s just that her life is insane. She gets recognized everywhere. She can’t go out without her bodyguard.”
“How does she deal with it?”
“A lot better than my dad does. He hates the cameras. He hates Hollywood. But they don’t bother with him anymore, because he doesn’t give them anything worth reporting about. He actually wants to move east again. He’s been working on my mom for a while now. She was holding out, but since the accident . . .” He shrugs. “He thinks she’ll give in soon. Plus, Michelle got that role so she’s moving to Miami. My mom and her are really close. They do everything together.”
What must that be like, I wonder, a spark of envy flaring inside. “You guys lived in Canada for a while, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” He sighs, smiling. “Feels like so long ago. But it was the best thing they could ever have done for us. I got the coaching and the competition that I couldn’t get anywhere else. At least, not in California.”
Another crack of thunder sounds. The rain is pelting against the glass in sheets now, the wind picking up. Yet inside Brett’s condo, curled against his side, listening to the dull rasp of his voice as my daughter snores softly nearby, I couldn’t feel more at ease. “How long were you there for?”
“Until I was fifteen and my sister was fourteen. Then we moved to New York. It was just him a lot of the time, with my mom off filming somewhere. He took me to every practice, every game. He built a rink in our backyard every winter, just so I could practice more.” Brett shakes his head. “My dad sacrificed everything for all of us. For my mom, so she could have her career and I’d have a shot at the NHL, and my sister could chase after what she wanted, which turns out to be acting, too.”
“He sounds like an incredible father.” I think mine would have been, too, had circumstances been different. I see the closeness between him and Jack. And there’s definitely a shift in my relationship with him in recent years. I actually feel like I’m starting to have one.
“He is.” Brett’s brow tightens. “It kills me that, after all that, that he has to sit here and watch another team in the play-offs.”
“Meanwhile, all he’s thinking about is how happy he is that he gets to sit and watch a game with you.” Every time I think of Brett not surviving that accident, an uncomfortable burn blossoms in my chest. It’s unbearable to even imagine.
Brett sighs. “I know you’re right. I have to just shut up and get over it. I’m sure Seth would rather be alive and sitting on this couch right now.” His jaw tenses.
Somehow, in all the hype around Brett and me, Seth Grabner’s death became a quiet, accepted loss for the media, fading to only a line mention within weeks. Instead, they’ve chosen to focus on the miraculous part of the story—how Brett survived in the first place. Seth’s story is finished, over. A tragedy but an unfortunate death due to his own carelessness, I’ve heard many times over.
Even I’m guilty of settling my focus almost immediately on Brett—and myself, selfishly.
I rest my hand over where his sits on my lap. “You were good friends, weren’t you?”
A sad smile curls his lips. “When we first met, he was playing for Tampa and I was playing for the Bruins. He would ride my ass on the ice. Every pass, every block, every goal, he was on me, ready to fuck it”—Brett glances at Brenna—“to take my chance away. No one’s ever pressed me like him.” He chuckles softly. “I wanted to punch the bastard in the face. And then the Flyers brought me on and, a year later, him. We were in sync from the first day on the ice. I can’t imagine playing without him now.” He picks at the label of his beer bottle, the one he’s nursed through the entire night. “His girlfriend came by yesterday.”
“That must have been hard.”
“She pretty much sat here and cried on me the entire time.” His throat bobs with a hard swallow.
“Were they together long?”
He shrugs. “Four months? Maybe five? I don’t know. But he wasn’t the type to stick to one girl for more than a few weeks, so I knew she meant something to him.”
What about you? I don’t say the words out loud, but I can’t help think them. Sure, he was with Courtney for a year, but there was plenty of time when he wasn’t tied down, and a guy like him—with his looks and his money and his social status—must have had his pick of the prettiest puck bunnies throwing themselves at him after games. I’ve learned all about those, thanks to my brother, who for some reason thinks it’s completely normal to phone up his older sister and fill her in on his college escapades.
I don’t see Brett being the type to bring home a random girl for the night, but I could be way off. It may feel like I know him, but I don’t yet, not really.
I desperately want to, though.
Beside us, Brenna lets out a small snore. Brett shifts his gaze to her for a long moment. Into the lingering silence, he finally says, so softly, “Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens with anxiety. “Yeah.”
I feel his eyes on my profile. “Does she ever ask about her dad?”
Somehow, I just knew it would have to do with Brenna’s father. “Sometimes.”
“And what do you tell her?”
I hesitate. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
Brett frowns, shakes his head. “Sorry, I just . . . I was thinking how hard it must have been for you, to be alone and raising a kid so young.”
“It’s always just been her and me. That’s what she knows. That’s what I know.” I study her peaceful face. “And I try to give her double the love to make up for anything she may be missing.”
“Could you get child support from him, at least? Is he still in prison?”
“I’d have to give him rights to her, and there’s no way I’m doing that.” Just the thought of having to share Brenna makes me uneasy.
Brett’s becoming adept at reading me. “You really don’t like talking about it, do you?”
“No.”
The first real uncomfortable silence hangs over us, and suddenly I find myself itching for escape. “The storm doesn’t seem as bad as they made it out to be. We should probably think about going.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” I turn to meet earnest blue eyes. “Take my room. Don will drive you tomorrow.”
“Where will you sleep, then?”
“I’ve been in a spare room since I came home. The stairs are a pain in the ass.”
My gaze wanders from the metal staircase that would be a nightmare with crutches, to Brenna’s sleeping body, to the steady pour of rain against the windowpane—the storm is probably just as bad as they made it out to be—back to Brett, who’s patiently waiting for my answe
r.
“Look at her. She’s so warm and comfortable. You’re not going to make her sit on a cold leather backseat for hours in a storm, being jolted and bumped, risking her life. She’ll wake up confused and afraid. She might not fall back asleep again for hours.”
Brenna is the easiest car-to-bed transport ever, but I’m not about to tell Brett that because I like that he’s making it so easy for me to say yes for smart, responsible, nonhormonal reasons. I glance down at my outfit. “I didn’t really come prepared.”
“Borrow one of my shirts.”
Sleeping in Brett’s bed and wearing his clothes. With my daughter, I remind myself. But still. Not how I saw tonight going.
A million times better, actually.
“Okay?”
Those dimples settle deeply into his cheeks with his smile. “Okay.”
I nod, suddenly overwhelmed by the very idea of an entire night with him.
“Let me call Don. Can you manage bringing her upstairs? I would but—”
“Don’t be silly.” I chuckle, even as I’m hit with the mental image of my daughter in Brett’s arms and my heart stutters.
“There should be some extra toothbrushes and clean towels in the bathroom. And don’t worry, my dad changed the sheets.”
Is it wrong that I’m disappointed, hearing that?
I feel Brett’s eyes on me as I scoop up Brenna’s tiny hot body. It used to be so easy to move her, but I’m finding it’s getting more and more difficult. My arms are straining by the time I reach the top of the staircase.
Brett’s bedroom is on the small side, and as sleek and neat as the rest of his place, with a view of Philadelphia from two sides, though the curtains are already drawn. I don’t spend too much time there, just long enough to tuck her into the king-size bed and make sure she isn’t going to stir. A loud crack of thunder sounds as I’m sneaking down the staircase, and I cross my fingers that she doesn’t wake in a panic.
Brett’s not in the living room, so I take the time to clean up, collecting and loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and then head for the bathroom.
A low voice from the cracked bedroom door catches my ear, stalling my steps.