Page 13 of Cross-Checked

“Why?”

“Because Nicole had wine last night.”

The laugh comes from the back of my throat and sounds almost like a snort. One of the first things Nicole and I bonded over when my brother started dating her a year and a half ago was how much we both love red wine, but how it makes us snore if we drink too much. Now that I’m not sharing my bed with anyone, it’s not something I worry about, but my brother’s always a little bitter when she chooses to drink it.

Taking a few steps forward while I roll my suitcase behind me, I step out of the small entryway and into the living room. My eyes scan the space, and I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Everything is organized, and it looks lived-in, with no trace of the moving boxes that have been my roommates for months.

“What the hell?” My gaze flicks over to my brother, where he’s rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous.

“We made an executive decision while you were gone. You’ve lived out of those boxes long enough. It’s time you were settled.”

I’ve been saying I’d “unpack the rest soon” or I’d “unpack once the season’s over.” Nicholas obviously knows me well enough to know I’d probably still be living out of those boxes next season too.

“So . . . what? You guys finished unpacking for me?”

He clears his throat as he bends to pick up Tabitha, and she cuddles into his arms, closing her one eye and letting her front leg hang over his arm. “Uh, we sort of hired a professional organizer to unpack and organize everything.”

“You didn’t have to do that!” As a college senior who is working as a waiter for the summer, he definitely doesn’t have the money for that.

“Well...please don’t be mad.” He widens his eyes in a silent plea. “I sort of used your credit card for it.”

My chest shakes with laughter. “Of course you did.”

I’m not mad in the least. The lightness I feel walking into this space and not seeing evidence of all the things I have to do makes it worth whatever was spent.

“Now you can just relax when you’re home.”

“That’s . . . really thoughtful, actually. Thank you.”

“You don’t even want to know what you spent on this?”

“Nope. I’m just glad it’s done.”

“Okay.” He releases a whooshing breath. “Nicole thought you might be mad.”

“Nah,” I say. “I probably would have still been living with those boxes when next season starts. It takes some weight off my shoulders not to have to think about how I should be unpacking them. Plus, now when I need something, I can just hunt through drawers and cabinets to figure out where my shit is, instead of having to open up boxes.”

Truth be told, when I couldn’t find something I knew I already owned, I usually ended up buying a new one. Because which is easier: buying a new can opener, or rifling through five unopened boxes of kitchen stuff to find it?

I’m not normally big on avoidance or wasting money. At work and in my personal life, I’m more of a take-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of girl. But for some reason, the weight of everythingI still had to do to finish moving in was crushing me. I couldn’t feel settled until it was done, but I also couldn’t force myself to do it. Time was certainly a factor, but it was also like I couldn’t allow myself to feel settled in this new place, and I’m still not sure why.

“I’m relieved you’re not upset,” he says. “But you look exhausted. Did you not sleep on the flight?”

I can normally sleep in any moving vehicle, but on last night’s flight—with McCabe sleeping next to me after learning that we’re neighbors—I don’t think I slept much, if at all. I’d close my eyes, but then thoughts of running into him in our building kept haunting me. I fell asleep at one point, because I dreamt that I was leaving very early to go to work and when I opened my front door, he opened his too and was standing there in nothing but a towel.

It was nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times in the locker room. But something about that sight in my own building, and the way we locked eyes and stood there staring at each other, jolted me awake. And after that, there was no hope of going back to sleep.

I’ve never dreamt about one of my players before. Never allowed myself to picture any of them in a state of undress, even though it’s a sight I’m so used to. I don’t allow my eyes to go below shoulder level when I’m in the locker room.

I’m a goddamn professional, and there’s no chance I’m ever looking at one of my athletes as anything but the hockey players I hired them to be.

So why did I dream about McCabe in nothing but a towel?

“Yeah, I had a hard time sleeping,” I tell my brother. “I think I’m going to head to bed and see if I can get a couple hours in.”

“You going to work today?”

“Maybe for a little bit,” I say. No one expects me to work on the weekends, yet I find myself in my office most days.

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