Page 68 of Hot Shot
“She never did before.”
“No. She wouldn’t.”
“She stood back and let me take the lead. Look where that got us. From now on she calls the shots. Both on and off the ice and I’ll be the happiest man in the world if she’ll do it for the rest of my life.”
“You love her.”
“I’vealwaysloved her.Willalways love her. Never thought I stood a chance until she was there for me after Mom died. Pulled me out of that darkness and showed me the light. And she’s doing that all over again now.”
“She loves you too.”
“I hope so. But even if she only feels a fraction of what I do, I’ll be the luckiest guy on earth.”
“You should probably buy yourself a lottery ticket.”
“No need. If Blake loves me, I’ve already hit the jackpot.”
Blake
After Bran leaves to find Landon, the rest of us talk a little more before calling it a night. Mom and Dad headed off to their side of the house holding hands, whispering in each other’s ears. Corbin gives me a tight hug and a sad smile, before heading to the room he and Landon shared when they lived at home and continue to use whenever they’re here.
And I do something I’ve never done before.
I take the back hallway to the suite of rooms Bran and his mother lived in from the day they arrived in Westwood.
It’s bizarre to think I’ve never actually set foot in this part of the house. Not when I was younger, before Bran and his mom arrived, not when I was a teenager still living under my parents’ roof, and not in all the years since.
This has been my family’s home my entire life. Up until I bought my place in Baton Rouge two years ago, this house was my home. And not once did I think about coming to this part of it.
The walls are the same color as the rest of the house, the furnishings a little more worn—faded—and I imagine they were Loretta’s choices, unchanged from when she was alive.
They feel like her. Which is a strange thing to say but it doesn’t make the feeling any less real.
I feel like she could step into the room at any moment. Like she hasn’t been gone for six years.
I wonder how Bran felt sleeping here again after all that time.
Once he went away to college, he never returned for more than a day or two. Not until his mother was killed and even then, I don’t remember him staying down here. Mom put him upstairs in one of the guest rooms. To be closer to the twins—to family. She didn’t want him here alone with his grief and memories.
Although now I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure no one slept the night before or the night of Loretta’s funeral. Her death—the suddenness of it—had been a huge shock to all of us, left a gaping hole we all struggled with.
Not once in the last few days has he mentioned anything about staying here, or his mom, so I have to assume he’s comfortable. And glancing around I see signs of his comfort, signs he’s been here. A shirt draped over a chair, shoes kicked off beside the couch, an empty glass on the counter of the small kitchenette.
I can see and feel his presence, and that offers me a small amount of relief. To know he’s made himself at home when in reality this is no longer his home and hasn’t been for a while—if he ever thought of it as home.
I don’t want to intrude but I also don’t want to be hovering like a weirdo in his living room when he’s finished with Landon and finds his way back here.
And I’m honest enough to admit I want to see where he’s been sleeping, where he slept all those years ago when he was a teenager and nothing more to me than my brothers’ friend, our housekeeper’s son, another competitor on the ice.
Leaving a lamp on in the living room, I switch off all the other lights as I make my way toward the bedrooms. It’s a short hall, a door on either side and one at the end. All open.
In front of me is the bathroom. To the left must have been his mom’s room with its frilly lace bedding, and to the right, with its unmade twin bed, has to be Bran’s room.
Stopping in the doorway, I can’t bring myself to step inside; it feels like an invasion of privacy and yet…
My gaze is drawn to the desk in the far corner.
The surface is bare except for Bran’s wallet and a single photo frame. Off to one side, it’s not the silver frame that holds my gaze, it’s the picture in it. A picture that pulls me over the threshold with a visceral tug.
