Page 17 of Hot Puck
Lowering my tired ass to the bed, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, think about everything that has happened this morning.
The nanny I hired didn’t show up on time and when she did, the woman I thought was the nanny dispatched her in a way that was proficient and kind when it could have turned into a scene.
I made a decision about our parents’ business that was the best for all of us but feels like the worst—like I’m letting everyone down.
The general manager of the newest NHL franchise offered me a contract to be their starting goalie, and I laughed in her face then cried on her shoulder.
And there’s a stranger in my house taking care of things and I can’t summon the energy to feel ashamed or confused or relieved about letting Natalie—the contract-offering Rogues general manager—take over.
It’s been months since I’ve had the chance to sit.
To lie still and not worry about ten different things while doing two others.
To do nothing except breathe.
Nat
Considering there’s a twenty-year-old college student in charge of the Hawkins household, the fridge is surprisingly well stocked with fresh vegetables, fruit, and meat. I don’t know if Chase is responsible or if he has a delivery service.
It doesn’t matter because whoever is responsible, they’ve given me plenty of options for dinner and Chase’s lunch. Pulling out a container labeled chicken salad with a neatly printed date of two days ago, I crack the lid and give it a sniff.
Smells fine to me. Looks good too. It’ll do for a quick sandwich for Chase, and I’ll eat the rest while I work out what to cook the family for dinner.
I can’t hear the water running in the pipes and I hope that doesn’t mean Chase hasn’t made it into the shower. He might not need one, but it will help him feel better after his breakdown.
And that’s what it was. He broke down in my arms.
The breakdown I understand. He probably hasn’t let himself feel emotions or grief, in the misguided belief that he needs to be strong for his sisters.
The twins have each other and Candace doesn’t have a clue what’s transpired around her. Who does Chase have to talk to?
What I can’t wrap my head around is the way I stepped forward and pulled him into my arms, held him while he cracked.
Other than the girls, I’ve never held anyone when they cried.
And none of them cried the way Chase did.
It only takes a few seconds to make Chase’s sandwich. Moving it to a plate, I shove away all thoughts of my need to support him while he cried and instead concentrate on giving his body nourishment before he has a rest.
He might be the hottest man—and I have to admit, as much as I want to focus on his age, he isn’t a boy, he’s all man—but he looks exhausted. Ravaged. Like he’s waged a war on the ice for days instead of hours.
Plate of chicken salad on sourdough in hand, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge as I pass on my way upstairs.
The house isn’t huge—not like the one I grew up in—but it isn’t small either. When I get upstairs, I see the top level is split in two.
On one side are three bedrooms, on the other there’s a set of closed double doors—which I assume is his parents’ room—and a second door barely cracked open, a soft lullaby floating through the gap into the hall.
Candace’s room. I’ll peek in on her before I head back to the kitchen.
Straight in front of me is an empty bathroom. The wisps of steam and fogged mirror tell me Chase has at least done the first part of my directions.
I’m holding his second.
Turning to the left, I glance into each room until I find him in the last one. He’s showered, pulled on sweatpants that conceal nothing and have my insides clenching like they haven’t in years, and is laid out flat on his back on the bed.
At first I wonder if he’s passed out, but as I walk closer, I hear a light snore slip through his parted lips.
Part three of my directive complete.
