Page 32 of Shootout Daddies
We stop by the grocery store on the way home, mostly because Hunter insists he needs “real electrolytes” and not “whatever half-sugar Gatorade the rink stocks.”
“I don’t want to cramp mid-fuck, man,” he mutters as we push the cart through the supplement aisle.
I snort. “That’s why you’re pounding coconut water like it’s holy?”
He shrugs, already tossing two bottles into the cart. “Hydration is foreplay.”
The trip takes longer than it should. We end up picking out three different dinner options, because I can’t decide between cooking Thai green curry or roasted poblano enchiladas. Hunter throws in a pint of mango sorbet “just in case Ivy wants dessert.”
I grab ingredients for all the dishes.
When we finally pull into the underground garage beneath our building, I ease the truck into the narrow spot markedPenthouse A. The Range is already inPenthouse B’s slot, parked neatly like always.
But a third vehicle sits in the third reserved slot. Unfamiliar plates. Not ours. An Audi.
Hunter notices it as he hoists the grocery bags from the backseat. “Someone move in?”
“Maybe,” I say, peering at the coupe. Clean. No decals. Tinted windows. Looks like it’s been freshly detailed. “Could be corporate leasing.”
“Or someone with really rich parents.”
We take the elevator up. No sign of whoever owns the new car. No sounds from the hallway either.
The penthouse is quiet when we walk in—Storm doesn’t even lift his head from the couch. Ivy must have taken him out earlier.
“I need a nap,” Hunter says, dropping the bags onto the counter and heading for the hallway, already yawning. “Wake me in ten.”
I start unloading groceries and wave him off. “You’ll be asleep in ninety seconds and you need the rest. Go sleep.”
Once the fridge is restocked, I grab my phone and step into the living room, pacing near the window as I dial my mom. She answers after three rings, her voice warm and a little breathless like she’s been running around.
“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just checking in.”
We talk for a bit, nothing urgent. She asks about practice, how the game went, if I’m eating enough. I tell her I’m cooking tonight and mention the girl I’m kind of seeing, carefully avoiding details.
I know she’ll ask eventually, but for now, I like keeping that part for myself.
After we hang up, I start prepping dinner.
I text Ivy.
>> Spicy dinner or no?
She replies a few seconds later.
>> Either. Surprise me :)
I smile, tucking the phone onto the counter and turning back to the vegetables. I’m halfway through slicing poblano peppers when there’s a knock at the door.
Not the buzzer. An actual knock.
That’s weird. No one knocks up here unless it’s delivery, and we didn’t order anything.
Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I cross the kitchen and open the door.
And freeze.
