by Rebel Hart
I swallowed.
He looked up at me with the straw still in his mouth. “Hmm?”
“Sorry,” I said. My cheeks burned and I picked up my shake. The chocolate deliciousness spilled over my tongue and delighted my taste buds. My eyes rolled back in my head and I sucked back three more thick gulps of smooth ice cream. “Oh. My. God. Thank you. This was such a good idea.”
His smile was sin incarnate. “I have my moments.”
“Don’t get too cocky, Hughes.”
“Around you? Never. You keep me on my toes, Kimwick.”
“What did I say about calling me Kimwick?”
“I can’t help it. I like it.”
“Well I don’t.”
He set his milkshake down. “We don’t always get what we want.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I muttered.
He leaned back in his seat. His gaze wandered to my knee and I fought not to look down at it. Instead I kept my gaze on him. I watched the lines settle into his forehead as he stared at my swollen, horrendous, hideous knee. Then his bright hazel eyes slid back up to my face.
He cleared his throat. “So you had a good time tonight at least? Before I came in and stole you away from your friends?”
“Yeah. I did.” The milkshake was helping to clear my alcohol muddled mind. My lips were still kind of tingly. “I needed to get out of the house and just let loose for a couple hours. I had a rough shift at work. Stupid knee. And stupid Doyle.”
“Who’s Doyle?”
“Doyle Digby.”
“Don’t know him.”
Of course William didn’t know Doyle. “He went to our high school but he graduated a couple years ahead. Probably a year or two before you and Keith, actually. He’s… it’s hard to put a finger on it. But he’s a bit of an asshole.”
“Did he do something?”
I shrugged. “No. Not really. He offered to walk me to my car after my shift and he just lingered. You know how some guys can’t take a hint when you’re not interested?”
“Most guys, I’d argue,” William said.
He got points for that answer. I nodded. “Yeah. Well. Doyle is the kind of guy I’m afraid to straight-up tell I’m not interested because he’s got a bit of a mean streak. I saw him with his ex around the rink and he could be really mean and controlling. Like he would make her hair appointments when he thought her hair was looking dry. Or her nail appointments. And he’d pick her outfits for her. I don’t know. It was just really weird. And now he’s been showing me all this attention since they broke up and I don’t want it.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that at work.”
I shrugged. “No. I shouldn’t. Eugene thinks I should talk to management.”
“You should.”
“I guess.”
“You should,” he said again, more insistent this time.
I waved him off. There was too much alcohol in my system to talk about Doyle. “You’re just like Eugene. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about me.”
He chuckled. “I never worry about you, Kim. I know you’re tough as nails.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“I don’t know. Will a compliment get me in trouble?”
“No.”
“Then yes. It was a compliment. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you have to work with someone who makes you uncomfortable.”
My cheeks burned again. Damn him. I busied myself with sucking back more of my milkshake. He’d nearly finished his. “Thank you. And I’m sorry for being a bit of a bitch to you since you got here. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It was just a bad night. Bad six months, really.” I gestured at my knee.
He set his empty cup in his cup holder and turned the car back on. “It’s fair. I didn’t mean to crash land in your life out of the blue.”
“It’s all right. You’re not all bad, Hughes.”
He revved the engine and gave me a cheeky grin. “Was that a compliment?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just drive.”
He did. While I enjoyed my milkshake with the windows down and the lingering daze of the alcohol in my system, William drove us back to my parents’ house. He parked in the drive and came around to let me out of my side, and then we made our way to the front door. He held it open for me and I stepped through. The house practically shook with Keith’s snores. He was passed out on the sofa with his arm and leg dangling off the side.
I giggled under my breath and made for the stairs. William followed. It was weird to have him right behind me as I went upstairs. I struggled to take my heels off and sat on my bed while he went down the hall to the bathroom, where I heard him start brushing his teeth. I stripped out of my skin-tight black ensemble and traded it for a pair of pyjamas; loose baby blue shorts and a long-sleeve matching shirt. Then I made my way down the hall in my bare feet and paused in the bathroom doorway. He looked at me in the mirror and arched an eyebrow.
“Do you mind if I take my makeup off while you brush?” I asked.
He motioned for me to go ahead and stepped back from the sink.
He brushed while I wiped my makeup away. He spat, rinsed, flossed, and then rinsed again. Neither of us said a word. Then he left and I closed the door to pee, wash my hands, and brush my teeth. I drank two full cups of water and took a Tylenol to attempt to ward off the hangover I knew was coming for me in the morning.
When I let myself back out into the hall, the light was still on. I padded to my bedroom and began unmaking my bed. While I was fluffing my pillows, William knocked on the doorframe.
I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing there with a throw pillow from the sofa in one hand and an ice pack wrapped in one of my mom’s dish towels in the other. He held them up. “I come bearing gifts.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.”
William came into my room. He brushed past me and set the pillow and ice pack on the foot of my bed. “Make sure you ice it,” he said, nodding down at my knee. “I know you can’t feel it right now, but you have to try to bring that swelling down. It’ll bite you in the ass tomorrow morning.”
“I know. Thanks, Coach.”
He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “All right. All right. I’ll get out of your hair.” He moved to the door and caught himself on the frame. He leaned back into my room. “Goodnight, Kim.”
“Goodnight, Will.”
8
William
Maxine Mitchell was exactly the same as I remembered her.
A bleach-blond bombshell with curves as relentless as her career-driven attitude. She was a one-woman show as she walked through the luxury penthouse in downtown Chicago showing me all the features she insisted I needed—some of which I’d never heard of.
The penthouse was nice.
Correction. It was incredible. It was the kind of pad I’d always imagined movie stars might live in when they weren’t traveling the world shooting movies. It seemed so far out of reach for a guy like me. And yet here I was, at my own private viewing, playing with the automatic tinting, wrap-around windows, and smart controlled lights while Maxine strutted around in her six-inch heels and mini skirt which hardly seemed to align with the usual attire I saw realtors wearing. I couldn’t help but wonder if this outfit was catered to her specific client.
Maxine stopped in front of the patio doors with her back to me. “William, on the controller, will you open the patio doors?”
“Um—” I stared at the tablet in my hands and searched for the words ‘patio doors.’ I found them after a moment and pressed the button. Then I looked up and watched as six panels of windows slid open, creating an open living room to patio experience. “Holy hell. This is wild.”
Maxine stepped out into the sunshine sixty feet above Chicago. Her heels clicked across the stone patio and she walked to the edge of the plunge pool, which was crystal clear and dazzling in the afternoon brightness. I followed her out and she gave me a knowing smile. “Did I not tell you this
place was top notch?”
“You did,” I breathed, scanning the surrounding skyline and eventually looking around the rest of the patio. It had a jacuzzi and two different seating areas: one lounge area with outdoor sofas and a gazebo and an outdoor bar that would be perfect for sipping cocktails, and one covered larger area for outdoor dining. “But I wasn’t picturing anything this spectacular. I can’t believe this is real.”
She giggled. “Oh, William. Come on. You’re in the NHL now. You’ve arrived. You deserve to treat yourself to a home like this. Can’t you picture yourself coming back here at the end of a long day and unwinding on your patio? Soaking those sore muscles in your jacuzzi?”
“Honestly? It’s still a little hard to picture.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. Her nails were perfectly manicured and pale pink. “Your humble charm will never get old, William.”
She batted her lashes at me. They looked heavy and like they were pulling her dark shadowed eyelids down. Her eyes were heavily lined, making them look even more blue than I remembered. Her lips were bigger than I remembered, too. And very pink. She was a beautiful woman; I couldn’t deny that.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“About what?”
“About the penthouse, silly,” she giggled.
“Oh. Right.” I slid my hands into my jean pockets and gazed out at the patio, at the pool and the jacuzzi, the dining room and open concept layout that opened up the living room and kitchen. “It’s nice.”
“Nice?” she asked incredulously. “William. This is so much more than nice. It was nearly impossible for me to get you a showing in here. Other realtors are chomping at the bit to show this to their big market boys. Wall Street-type clients. If you don’t take a stab at it pronto it’s going to slip through the cracks and be someone else’s home.”
“I think I’m good with that.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It doesn’t feel like a home to me. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
She stared at me with her mouth half hanging open. Her jaw worked but no words came out. Then she straightened up and shook her head at me. “You’re a weird one, William. I’ll give you that. So we’ll keep looking. I’ll set up some more appointments in the city and try to find things that aren’t so… luxurious.”
“Thank you.”
She searched my eyes. “You’re positive about this one?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“All right,” she sighed. The way she exhaled made me think she thought I was insane. Then she smiled. “At least we get to spend more time together this way. So it’s not all bad, is it?”
“No. Not at all. I appreciate your help with this, Maxine.”
“Call me Max.”
After the showing, Maxine made some calls and got us in to see two more penthouses. Neither of them made an impression on me. They were both too much, just like the first, and I insisted that I would know it when I found it.
I realized that Maxine was trying to make sense of my choices. She thought I was indecisive. She assumed I was waiting for something better to come along. But that wasn’t the case at all. I wanted less. Needed less.
How could a place feel like a home when everything about it was sleek and modern and shiny and new?
That wasn’t what I wanted.
The only home I’d ever known was the Renwick house. It was simple. Cozy. Warm. Intimate. You didn’t have to raise your voice when you were talking with your guests because you were close to each other. In these penthouses there was so much space that the homes felt like they were going to swallow you whole. They were ravenous empty pits. I wanted something that was rich and full.
When I tried to explain it to Maxine like that, she’d stared at me like I was an alien. Then she’d asked if I wanted to grab a cocktail. I had to decline because I had an important practice to get to: my first practice with the Chicago Blackhawks.
To say I wasn’t nervous would have been a lie.
I arrived at the rink at two in the afternoon, a good hour before practice was set to start. I made my way to the locker room, where I found my locker with my name and number on it: seventy-one. My jersey was hanging inside and I pulled it out to run my fingers over it.
It didn’t feel real. Not really.
But then again, nothing about my career had ever felt real.
The other players began to arrive over the course of the next twenty minutes. Everyone stopped to shake hands with me. We made small talk. They cracked jokes about me playing for Vancouver’s team and I joked back. That city had never felt like home to me. The team hadn’t either.
Maybe I would finally find what I was looking for here among these athletes. Maybe their bench and their rink was where I belonged.
We donned our gear and uniforms. With sticks in hand and on our skates, we made our way to the ice, where the coach would soon come out to meet us and run drills.
As my skates bit into the ice I thought about my father and how badly he’d wanted this, and how he’d drunk himself into an early grave and died in a drunk driving accident and missed out on everything I’d done since high school.
I didn’t know if he’d be proud.
He was a hard man to read. One minute he was cheering me on during hockey practice and the next we were back home and he was shit-faced and screaming profanities at me because I’d interrupted his TV show. I’d make myself dinner while he poured back beers. I’d put myself to bed. I’d wake up the next day to find him passed out on the sofa reeking of stale beer and sweat.
What would he think now?
What sort of father might he have been had he had the chance to stand in the crowds of this arena and chant his son’s name?
I didn’t know. And I never would. Maybe this would be the place where I finally made peace with that.
9
Kimberly
The last few days hadn’t been what I considered good ones.
For starters, I’d spent the entire morning and afternoon after my night out in bed nursing my knee, which was still somewhat swollen and discolored, and endured the constant visits from my parents, who brought me whatever they thought I needed at the time: tea, a grilled cheese sandwich, a funny article about the presidential campaign, and in secret (smuggled past my mother by my sneaky father) two packs of Twinkies which he claimed were ‘healing food’ for my soul.
I think he just wanted to do whatever would make me feel better. And it did make me feel better. A little bit.
What did not help my darkening, hungover mood was the fact that William was there. I could hear him downstairs laughing with my folks. I could hear him out in the drive showing my dad his rental Porsche. I could hear the pair of them cracking open beers in the afternoon and sitting on the patio catching up.
He made everyone in this house so damn happy. Except for me.
But it wasn’t his fault that his presence irked me so much. It was my own petty bullshit. He was a professional hockey player. He was living a dream I’d had for myself since I was seven years old; a dream my father and I spent a decade and a half fighting for. A dream I’d lost in an instant.
And he had it.
All of it.
The following few days weren’t as bad as the first, but I was grateful to get out of the house on Monday to meet my brother for brunch before I started my shift at the rink.
I met Keith at our usual spot: a diner four blocks from the rink with exceptional waffles and shitty coffee. He was already there when I arrived. I shrugged out of my bomber jacket and placed it on the bench seat before sliding in.
Keith was stirring his coffee and took a sip before he said hello.
“Hey,” I said, picking up the menu even though I knew full well what I was going to order. “How’s it going?”
My brother leaned back and peered under the table. “It’s going. How’s that knee?”
I didn’t know what he was looking for. I was wearing jeans. H
e wouldn’t be able to see if it was still bruised. “It’s fine.”
“It still looks swollen.”
“It’s going down.”
“Why did you push yourself so hard, Kim?”
“I didn’t think I was pushing so hard.” I wanted him to drop this. I hated talking about my knee. I hated being constantly reminded that I was half broken and my entire family took pity on me. “What are you going to order?”
Keith took the hint and dropped the subject. “Same as always. Blueberry waffles. And you?”
“Same.” I closed my menu and pushed it away. The server came to take our orders, even though she too knew exactly what we’d both be asking for. Then she collected our menus and went to the kitchen to put in our two blueberry waffles. I rested my elbows on the table and reached for a coffee creamer. “How was the rest of your weekend?”
“Good. It’s been nice to have William back around.”
“Yeah. So nice.”
Keith eyed me over the rim of his steaming coffee mug. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Bullshit. Everything he does seems to annoy you. Why? William is a good guy. He’s like our—”
“Don’t say brother.”
Keith sighed. “Well, he is, in a way.”
Pretty sure you’re not supposed to feel sexually attracted to someone who was ‘like your brother.’ I stirred my coffee and took a sip while wondering what Keith would think if he ever found out I thought his best friend was a walking, talking testament of male perfection.
Keith pressed me again. “Come on, Kim. Why don’t you like him?”
“It’s not that I don’t like him. He just annoys me.”
“Why?”
“He’s entitled,” I said. And I meant it. “He always has been. He’s a cocky know it all and he’s always on.”
“What does that mean?”
“He always knows the right things to say. The right things to do. The guy never makes a mistake and when he does, everything just magically seems to work out for him.”
