Taking a Shot Page 11

  He shook his head, stopping her. “You two obviously have a lot to talk about. I can show myself out.”

  …

  It’s just sex.

  Brett flinched, remembering the words, and it pissed him off. After all, that’s why he’d come over in the first place, right?

  Shit.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He never learned.

  He’d walked into the kitchen earlier on top of the world. No one had ever made him breakfast before. Not since the first grade, when his mom leaving the cereal box on the counter for him was the height of being taken care of.

  He grabbed his tie off the floor and shoved it in his pocket before he sat on the couch to pull on his socks.

  It was stupid to think the things she’d said to him last night extended beyond sex. She didn’t mean that he made her braver or better. She meant that he fucked like a pro-athlete. He had stamina, because his body was how he made his living. It was his job to take good care of it.

  He got up and pulled on his suit jacket.

  So she liked his body. So what? That didn’t mean anything. Janelle had liked his body, too.

  “You fuck like a machine,” she used to say. At the time, it had seemed complimentary.

  In retrospect, it was probably one of many harbingers of doom that he’d been too blind to see in the moment.

  “Brett, I’m… I totally forgot she was coming over this morning.”

  “No big deal.” Brett couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, so he focused on shoving his feet into his shoes instead.

  He didn’t give a shit what Shanna thought of him. It was his own reaction that had him on edge right now.

  “I asked her to go. And it was a big deal. She doesn’t understand…” She raked a hand through her hair, searching for the words. “Our arrangement.”

  A bitter chuckle slipped out before he could stop it. “And what exactly is our arrangement?”

  She frowned up at him. “We’re just…having some fun together. Aren’t we?”

  Brett took the blow like a champ, just like he’d taken Leclerc’s shots the night before, although Chelsea’s hurt more. “Fun. Right. Yeah.”

  Christ. He needed to just walk away right now, give himself a minute to regroup. He only made it to the front door, grabbing his coat on his way past. Something was gnawing at the edge of his brain, something that wouldn’t let go.

  “Did you know who I was?”

  The question froze her. “What?”

  “That night in the bar. Did you come up to me because you knew I played hockey?”

  She looked stunned for a moment, but it morphed to anger too quickly for him to figure out if it was more stunned at getting caught or stunned at being asked.

  “Of course not! Why would you even ask that?”

  The latter, then.

  Brett kicked at the edge of the doormat with the toe of his Prada Oxford. “Because in there, it felt a lot like you might be slummin’ it, like maybe all this fun we’re having is just your plan to get back at Daddy for not giving you that promotion.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Then what are you doing with me? I’m hardly the golden boy, in case that wasn’t made clear. I’m the team screw-up. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to be your revenge fuck.”

  She looked like he’d slapped her.

  Not exactly a denial. She was definitely pissed, though.

  Well, so was he. Her friend didn’t think he was good enough for her, that much was obvious. And he wasn’t going to lie, that stung like a bitch. But the fact that she agreed with Shanna, the fact that she didn’t think he was good enough for more than some “fun”… Christ. That was a million times worse.

  “I should go,” he said, hoping she’d ask him to stay.

  “Yeah, maybe you should.”

  Fuck.

  Brett pushed out the door and headed back to his rental vehicle, letting the cold wind have a shot at numbing the sensations roiling under his skin before he pulled on his coat.

  He wasn’t sure how long he sat in the SUV, staring blankly ahead, pretending he was just letting the engine warm up, but the sudden buzz of his cell phone saved him from staying there all day. He glanced at the screen. It was from Ehrhoff, telling him to stop by anytime today if he was still interested in the apartment.

  Brett put the Navigator into gear. No time like the present.

  He followed the GPS to the address Nik had texted him. The blond centerman met Brett in the lobby, and the dude from the building joined them, waxing poetic about “luxurious amenities” and “utmost discretion,” and “short-term leases,” which in Brett’s experience were the bullshit keywords that savvy guys like Armand dropped to try to woo athletes who had money and fame, but might get traded at any moment.

  But honestly, a place was a place, and after that morning, Brett didn’t feel capable of being dragged around the one upstairs, being shown features he didn’t really give a shit about anyway.

  He glanced over at his teammate. “You like it here?”

  “No complaints.”

  “Where do I sign?”

  An hour later, things were mostly in order. He made a quick call to his brother-in-law—Cooper had been traded a few times during his hockey career, and he had the name of a lifestyle management company that could furnish and stock the place after Brett left tomorrow on the Wolfpack’s two-week road trip. Elite was more than happy to take him as a client, and Armand assured him with a big smile and a hardy handshake that he would work personally with Elite to ensure that, when Brett got back into town, he’d be walking into his new home.

  At least something had gone right today.

  When they were out of Armand’s toothy vortex and back in the lobby, Brett was feeling much more charitable toward Ehrhoff in general. The guy had gone above and beyond. “Thanks for setting this up. I really appreciate it.”

  They shook hands, but Nik brushed off the gratitude with his usual easygoing charm. “No problem. I think you’ll like it here. It’s quiet. Not a lot of drama.”

  Not a lot of drama. It was a novel concept, but after the morning he’d had, not an unwelcome one.

  “Hey, you want to come up, play some video games?”

  The words were clipped with just the barest edge of an accent that Brett would never have pegged as German if he didn’t already know that’s what it was.

  Well, it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be.

  “Sure.”

  And three hours, several hundred digital kill shots, and half a pizza later, Brett was in a much better frame of mind.

  First of all, Decker was right. Nik Ehrhoff was good people.

  And second of all, this was exactly where he should be—bonding with his teammate, far away from the drama that came from having fun with the owner’s daughter.

  He wasn’t in Montana to get laid. He was in Montana to play hockey. He needed to keep his head in the game, and he’d be smart not to forget it again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Later, man.”

  Nik got out of the elevator on his floor, and Brett shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, resettled the garment bag of suits over his arm, and hit the door close button. They’d finished up an intense fourteen-day road trip with a couple of wins, and while going 6-0 would have been ideal, 3-3 was better than it could have been. Now they had a couple of days to regroup before their next game, and Brett was looking forward to chilling out and getting his head on straight.

  The elevator took him up two more floors, and he pulled the key he’d picked up from the doorman from his pocket, reading the number on the plastic keychain. His new place was at the end of the hallway, and he shoved the key in the lock with a deep breath.

  Home sweet home, he thought, stepping through the door.

  It was nice enough. Not exactly the same layout as Nik’s, but it had an open floor plan, a big wall of windows, and a decent view of the city.

  He headed do
wn the hallway to his left, opening doors as he went—storage closet, bathroom, laundry room.

  He stopped there for a minute, hanging the garment bag on the hook on the back of the door and heaving his duffle bag on top of the dryer. Might as well throw in a load of laundry now, he decided, since the place was fully stocked. As he was tossing his stuff into the washer, his eyes lit on the scarlet lace buried at the bottom of his bag.

  He barely flinched. Thoughts of Chelsea had been randomly sucker-punching him since their fight two weeks ago, so he was getting used to it.

  He tossed in a laundry pod, bumped the door closed with his hip, and started up the washing machine. With a sigh, he grabbed his leather toiletry case in one hand, and the bra in the other and continued down the hall, peeking into the spare bedroom, and the office, before he uncovered the master suite at the end on the right-hand side.

  The relocation company his brother-in-law had recommended had done a good job—king-size mattress, gray and black color scheme, and he wouldn’t have to chuck eighteen decorative pillows off his bed every night, which he appreciated. Brett walked over to the bedside table and yanked open the drawer. It was empty but for a box of condoms.

  Huh. Suddenly he knew why the charge on his credit card had been so high. This company wasn’t kidding about taking care of everything. He dropped Chelsea’s bra inside and pushed it closed before heading into the bathroom.

  The en suite was massive, boasting heated floors and a double sink. Brett set his toiletry case on the counter and snooped through the medicine cabinet. Like the bedside table, they’d taken care of the basics he might need, including Tylenol, Q-tips, deodorant, and a complete array of toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss and mouthwash. He walked farther in. The big shower was stocked with shampoo and soap, and some fluffy white towels tucked on the built-in shelf right across from it. Instead of ending, the bathroom opened into an enormous walk-in closet. Interesting layout.

  Lainey had done him a solid and coordinated with the company that had moved him in to have a bunch of his clothes and stuff shipped out from Portland, so some low-paid overachiever had hung his clothes grouped by dressiness—suits on the right, jeans and T-shirts on the left—all organized from dark to light. It looked like a fucking magazine, he decided, shedding his suit and yanking on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He grabbed his phone, Instagrammed a photo with the caption, “Fancy,” for posterity, since it probably wouldn’t stay looking this nice for long and tucked his phone into the waistband of his sweats.

  His ball caps were lined up on several shelves on the back wall, also arranged by hue, and he grabbed one just to disturb the perfection, tugging it on backward before he headed back through the bathroom and bedroom to check out the rest of the place.

  The kitchen was state of the art, gleaming dark wood and stainless-steel appliances, but most importantly, the fridge was full. He grabbed an apple, polishing it off while he stood over the sink, and was hunting for the garbage can—not in the cabinet beneath the sink, but tucked under the overhang at the far edge of the granite-topped island—when his phone buzzed against his hip.

  Brett wiped his fingers on his sweatpants and grabbed his cell, ignoring the bump in his heartrate and the way his thoughts went straight to Chelsea.

  Stupid, he told himself, as the screen revealed that it was actually his brother-in-law FaceTiming him.

  “How’s it going, Rookie?”

  Brett rolled his eyes at the jab and headed into the living room to test out the gray tweed couch.

  When Cooper Mead had gotten traded from New York to the Portland Storm—the first season they’d played together—Brett’s whole team used to call him that, even though it was his second year in the league. It had been their way of keeping his ego in check, to let him know he wasn’t hot shit, like he thought he was. He used to hate it. To his surprise, he still kind of did. Because five years later, he knew he wasn’t invincible. And Coop wasn’t wrong to call him out.

  “Ha. Ha. How long have you been waiting to use that one?”

  Cooper grinned. “If you don’t start playing real hockey soon, I’ll be able to use it again when they ship you back to the minors.”

  “Hey, we finished that road trip strong. And at least I’m still in the game, old man.”

  His brother-in-law rolled his eyes. “If you consider bench-warming integral to a team’s success, then sure you are. At least I retired with grace at the top of my game.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” Brett flopped down on the couch, bouncing his weight on it a little. Not bad, he decided, grabbing one of the decorative pillows and wedging it between his head and the armrest.

  “Is that Brett?”

  His sister’s very pregnant belly appeared in the frame to Coop’s left for a moment, before she bent forward so her chin rested on her husband’s shoulder. Her black hair was pulled into a messy knot on top of her head, and her pretty face was glowing with impending motherhood.

  “You’ve only been on this team for a few weeks. How have you already fucked it up? I told you before you left, don’t be yourself.”

  Brett frowned at her. There were some things that not even growing a person inside you could change.

  “At least I didn’t score on my own net,” he fired back, poking the old wound from her days on the American women’s Olympic team. It used to be the kind of thing that would get his balls ripped off, but since Cooper and Lainey had gotten together, she’d mellowed in all the best ways.

  Lainey gave him the finger, but it was good-natured, and the familiar interaction loosened something in Brett’s chest. He hadn’t always had much in the way of family growing up, but these people—his half sister, his hockey mentor, his niece-or-nephew-to-be—they were the people who mattered most in his world.

  Even when they were being total dicks.

  “Did you guys just call to bust my balls? Because if so, I’m pretty sure the media already took care of that for you.”

  “Hey,” Cooper said firmly, “what did I tell you about googling yourself?”

  Brett sighed. “Don’t.”

  “Exactly. You’re doing good. You just looked a little…distracted.”

  Brett’s fingers flexed against his thigh, the phantom sensation of red lace brushing his fingertips.

  “But hell, that happens,” Coop plowed on. “Trades are hard, and this is your first one. It’ll be better now that you’re starting a four-game homestand. That will ground you. And no one blames you for needing a little time to settle in.”

  “Speaking of which, did all your stuff get there okay?” His sister shoved her head into the frame again.

  “Yeah. Thanks for coordinating. Everything is eerily perfect. It’s like a robot lives here.”

  “You owe me big time. I’m going to take it out in free babysitting once this little monster is released into the world,” she warned him, pointing at her belly.

  The sudden knock drew his attention. “Hey, someone’s at the door. I gotta go. Keep me posted on the whole baby thing, yeah?”

  Lainey rolled her eyes at him, and he did his best to keep his expression neutral, despite the twitch of his lips.

  “No please, Brett. Be more dismissive about the miracle of life. Keep you posted on the whole baby thing? The thing where my ankles are swollen, and I have to pee a million times a day, and I can’t sleep because my insides are functioning as a hotel for an adorable parasite who spends the night kicking me in the ribs? That thing?”

  “But on the upside, you get some time off work, right?”

  “I hate you. Goodbye.”

  “Hate you, too.”

  Brett was still chuckling to himself—Lainey might have mellowed out, but he could still push her buttons—when the knock sounded again.

  “Coming!”

  He jogged the rest of the way. Maybe Nik wanted to grab some dinner or something. He could go for a—

  Brett wasn’t prepared when he pulled open the door to find Chelse
a standing there. His smile faded, but his heart kicked up.

  “How did you find me?” Brett asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing her again. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he admitted to himself. He was sure he felt really damn good about seeing her again, which was kind of the problem.

  He chalked the reaction up to the shadow of envy that sometimes invaded his chest after witnessing his sister and his hockey mentor together.

  Damn he wanted that.

  He’d tried hard to force it with Janelle. And look how that had turned out.

  But he wouldn’t make that mistake again, he reminded himself forcefully, looking back at Chelsea.

  Man, she was pretty.

  “I have my ways,” she said coyly, then ruined the effect with a shrug. “And access to the team contact roster, in case I need to send the car service or whatever.”

  “The doorman let you up?”

  The question earned him a shake of her head. “I got Nik to buzz me through.”

  “Oh.”

  If you ignored the flare of jealousy, it just went away, right? It didn’t linger in your gut, gnawing at you until it hit a growth spurt and busted through your rib cage in an explosion of blood and gore and destruction?

  Brett scratched his chest.

  “I would have called you, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d let me in. And I really needed to talk to you.”

  His shoulders loosened at her revelation. Damn it. He did his best to shore up his fortifications, crossing his arms as a second line of defense. “So talk.”

  Whatever. He didn’t care. Much.

  “I had no idea who you were until the benefit. I swear it.”

  She stood there, looking up at him with those pretty blue eyes, seeming like she meant what she said. And Brett believed her, even though he was trying hard not to.

  “If I had I known who you were in the bar that night, I would have stayed far, far away. But I didn’t stay away.” Her eyes turned imploring, and she took a step forward. “And maybe I should have, but it’s too late to change what happened, and now I don’t want to stay away.”

  Some part of him didn’t want to cave, didn’t want to make this easy for her—his pride, probably—but he’d always been shitty at not taking what he wanted. Delayed gratification had never been his strong suit. As though she could sense her imminent victory, she pressed her advantage, stepping past him, farther into his new place.