Page 31 of Stand Your Ground
“Shit,” I muttered when I looked at it, ice sliding down the back of my neck.
Maven bolted upright, brows pinched together. “What? Who is it?”
I swallowed, holding up the screen to the only person in the world who would understand my reaction when I answered her question.
“My sister.”
Giddy Up
Carter
Zamboni stared at me like I’d lost my goddamn mind.
Which, to be fair, maybe I had.
“Does this shirt make me look like I’m trying too hard?”
The golden retriever pup I’d adopted in November just tilted his head, tongue lolling out like the himbo he was, tail thumping against the kitchen cabinets with a rhythmicthud-thud-thud. I’d changed shirts three times already, finally landing on a plain black tee that hugged my arms just enough to show the toned muscles from wielding a stick on the ice without screaminglook at me, I lift weights. I’d paired it with some light gray joggers, and since it was my house Livia was coming to, I didn’t put on shoes, just acted like it was a normal Sunday evening at home.
I was aiming for casual. Cool. Collected.
Totally not sweating bullets over the fact that Livia-fucking-Young was on her way over to boss me around again, and I’d jerked off about ten times in the past few days preparing for it.
I ran a hand through my hair and turned in a slow circle, checking the living room for anything out of place. The vacuum lines on the rug were still visible, which felt like a win. Candles were lit. The lights were low, music soft in the background — not the beat-heavy music that Livia had on in her condo, but a jazzy, chill playlist I usually saved for post-practice decompression.
Zamboni let out a low woof and pawed at his water bowl.
“Don’t worry, Zambo. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I refilled his water before patting his butt. “You onlyalmostchewed her shoe to bits at Aleks and Mia’s wedding. It’s not like you actually did. And how could she not love you? She has to. Look at you.” I crouched to scratch behind his ears, his whole body wiggling with joy. “But just in case, maybe try to avoid jumping up and slobbering all over her, okay?” I stood, smoothing my hands over my shirt. “That’s my job.”
I took a breath, scanning the place one more time like Livia might show up with a white glove and a clipboard to inspect it.
My house was small by pro athlete standards, but it was all I needed. It had a modern coastal vibe and was tucked away at the edge of a canal that fed into the Hillsborough River. It was quiet, peaceful, and just ten minutes from the arena.
Perfect.
The whole back wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, opening up to a deck with string lights, a pair of well-worn Adirondack chairs, my paddleboard, and the boat I barely used enough to justify owning. Inside, the colors were light and clean — white walls, pale wood floors, navy blue and gray accents. A few framed jerseys lined one hallway, along with a shelf of game pucks and photos from my rookie season. My bag of golf clubs rested in the corner, serving as décor as much as any vase would.
I didn’t pretend to be an interior designer. Everything was minimal and masculine. Lived-in, but not messy.
I’d never once given a single shit about my place and how it would appear to anyone other than me until this very moment.
Something about knowing Livia would be inside these walls any minute now had me on edge. She’d seen me naked. She’d quite literally sat on my face. She knew about my insecurities, about all the ways I fell short and needed her help.
But somehow, this felt more vulnerable than any of that.
It was nerve-wracking, letting her into my space and hoping she would like what she saw, that she’d feel something other than amusement for the man who called it home.
I heard the purr of her car when it pulled into my driveway — and even if I hadn’t, Zamboni barking his head off would have given away her arrival. I put him in his crate, promising him I’d let him out quickly if he was a good boy, and then I made my way toward the door at the sound of three punctuated knocks.
I tried to play it cool, but I was triple checking everything in my head.
Wine decanted and ready to pour? Check.
A board of meat, cheese, fruits and olives on my kitchen island just in case she’s hungry? Check.
Electrolyte drinks in the fridge? Check.
Heart pounding like a fucking war drum in my chest?
