Page 110 of Forecheck
He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the knob of the hall closet, kicked off his shoes near the sideboard, and made his way down the hall to the living room.
“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked.
“Beer,” he said. Then quieter added, “Please.”
I grabbed one, removed the cap, and walked to the living room. Brent stood behind the couch, hands braced in front of him, staring blindly out the windows.
“Here, baby,” I whispered, trying not to startle him. He angled toward me and took the beer. Without a word, he stripped his tie and dropped it to the floor, then raised the bottle to his lips. I watched his throat move in the dark as he took several deep swallows, lowered it, and retreated to his room.
After picking up his tie, I followed, watching helplessly as he gripped the placket of his shirt and ripped it open. Buttons flew free, pinging against the walls and floor. That slip of control was the only outward sign he’d give that he was angry as well as sad. Kicking off his pants, he crawled into bed clad only in his boxers, beer firmly in hand. I opened the floor-to-ceiling curtains.
I rarely got to study the city from this vantage point. When the sun came up, it shone directly into the room, so the blackout curtains were almost always closed.
At night, the city glowed. Detroit wasn’t like New York or Paris or Tokyo or Vegas, full of sights and sounds not found anywhere else in the world. It was simply…Detroit. A city that, despite its reputation, was beautiful because of how hard it worked to overcome setbacks. Detroit was a blue-collar city, as was evident in the way it constantly built itself back up in the face of adversity. The lights sparkled on the river, and the buildings stood as a tall and strong reminder that this was a great city, that it would take care of itself.
Brent held out his arm, and I slid into bed and curled into his side. For a while, the room was silent, save our breathing and Brent sipping his beer.
“You okay?” I asked, tilting my head to meet his eyes, which glinted faintly from the lights outside.
“No,” he croaked. “But I will be.”
“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” I said, extricating myself before he could protest. “I’ll be right back.”
“I love you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”
Perched on the edge of the bed and about to stand, I reversed course until I straddled his lap. I cupped his face in my hands. Though he’d shaved that morning—the last time he’d do so until they lost out of the playoffs or won the Cup—thick stubble already shaded his cheeks and rasped against my palms.
“You don’t ever have to apologize to me for feeling the way you feel,” I said. “Tell me you understand that.”
Brent only nodded, and I pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love every version of you, okay?”
“Okay, baby.”
After dropping a soft kiss to his mouth, I finally rose to take off my makeup, brush my teeth, and change. When I returned, he was sound asleep, snoring softly with his head lolled to the side, beer bottle barely remaining upright in his limp hand. I removed it and headed to the kitchen to dispose of it.
When I returned, I paused in the doorway, taking a second to study him. The planes of his face and chest were displayed in stark relief in the moonlight and city lights filtering through the window. In these moments, he appeared so much younger than his twenty-nine years, his face slack with sleep, the weight of the world shed from his shoulders.
Crawling under the sheets next to him, yet again wearing one of his t-shirts, I lifted his arm and pressed my body against his.Even in his sleep, he reached for me, shifting to accommodate me, tugging me so I was half sprawled over his body.
Safe in his embrace, I fully relaxed and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Do You Feel That?
Four days had passedsince the night I surprised Berkley by bringing her family to my first playoff game.
We’d won our second game two nights later, tying the series at one game a piece. Today, we were heading to Buffalo for games three and four.
Berkley and I had moved around the apartment—mine, hers, it didn’t matter—like ghosts. She hardly spoke to me, and when she did, they were clipped responses, one word answers, or hums of agreement or displeasure.
I had to leave for the airport like…nowif I was going to catch my flight with the team, and I wasn’t leaving here until we’d resolved this issue. I knew she was mad at me for flying her family in for my game, and I’d been waiting for her to tell me that herself, but it seemed I’d have to take matters into my own hands.
Squaring my shoulders, I turned to where she sat next to me at my kitchen island, picking at the omelet I’d made her.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?” she asked, eyes widening innocently.
My own narrowed. “Don’t play dumb, Blondie. It’s not cute.”
