Page 16 of Drop the Mitts

Brett laughed. “So you’re going to show her?”

“She needs to loosen up.” André straightened his jeans and stepped in. “She’s here for another couple of months. Jennashould be grateful, she’s been worried about her holing up in her condo?—”

Country snorted. “Jenna made one comment.”

“And I listened. I’m a sensitive, thoughtful, altruistic?—”

“Panty chaser.” Tyler shook his head as he walked past them to the door.

“And you can talk?!” André gave him an incredulous look. “You’re with Emma now, and suddenly you’re a saint?”

Brett grinned. “That’s what love does, bud. The whole world you knew tips on its head. It’s the death of the old self.”

“Ah, thank you, Dr. Jung. I’m so glad you stopped by to enlighten me.”

Tyler shrugged and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I get it. I didn’t think I’d ever settle down. But when it’s right . . . I didn’t know what I was missing.”

André pulled his shirt over his head, then opened his bag and started shoving in his gear. Over the last two years, he’d watched half his teammates drop roots. If he was being honest, he resented it a little. Their celly’s after wins looked different now. Especially since Country and Jenna got married and adopted Hope. He was happy for them, but he missed their nights at The Dusty Rose. He missed his wingmen.

“If this is an intervention, I’m going to need beer and a recliner.” He zipped up his bag.

Country leaned against the lockers. “If you want Grace’s number, you’re going to have to come up with some reason to get it. One I can justify to Jenna.”

André chewed on this. “What if I get her to sign up for the charity game?”

Country shook his head. “She shot that down already.”

“Maybe she didn’t have enough information.”

_____

By the time André pulled up to the curb, the post-game high was wearing off, replaced by the usual ache settling into his muscles. He dragged his bag from the backseat of the truck and walked up the steps to the house, let himself in through the front door, then dropped his hockey bag near the front closet. He unzipped it and hung up his gear to air out. The skates went on the rack, and his game jersey went straight into the washer with the rest of his stuff.

His eyes flicked out the window to the detached garage that he’d turned into a workshop. Housing prices in Calgary were brutal, but this place had been worth every penny. Having a heated space to work had doubled his productivity in the winter.

He wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the counter to check his messages.

J. Mitchell

Did you get a chance to adjust the hinge layout? Need to confirm before we finalize the post dimensions.

André rubbed a hand over his jaw. He needed to finish that custom gate by Monday, and he’d left Sunday wide open besides Sunday supper to do it. He sent a quick text back, promising measurements and pictures by the next night.

He set his phone on the counter, circled the island, and pulled chicken out of the fridge. He heated a pan with olive oil on the stove, seasoned the chicken, then tossed the chopped veggieshe’d prepped that morning—sweet potatoes, zucchini, and red peppers—onto a tray with a drizzle of oil. He slid it into the oven and cooked the chicken. He plated everything and walked to the living room, then pulled out his phone, dialed, and propped it up on the coffee table.

The screen flashed, then connected.

“Tiens, le voilà!” Luc’s voice boomed through the speaker, and the knot in André ’s chest immediately loosened.

His older brother was propped up on the couch in his apartment back in Montreal, wearing a hoodie way too big for him, his dark curls a mess.

“You eating?” Luc eyed André’s plate like he could smell it through the screen.

André smirked, holding it up. “Real food, no takeout.”

Luc whistled. “Damn. What’s the occasion?”

André shrugged, shoving a bite of chicken into his mouth. “Don’t need one. Just fueling a masterpiece.”

---