Emma. She’d been here last night. She’d driven him home, then he’d told her to take the truck. He rolled to the side and pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. Seven-thirty in the morning. Saturday. He had over thirty missed messages, including a text from Sean, but he wasn’t in the mood to read that. He wasn’t in the mood to read any of them.
Tyler set the phone on the table and felt along his face. Tender but not terrible. He pushed himself to a sitting position, holding his breath at the ache along his ribs. The morning light streamed through the gaps in the drawn curtains, casting long slivers of sunshine onto the wooden floor.
With stilted breath, Tyler made his way to the kitchen. He was pissed that Sean had started something during the game but more pissed that they lost. When Emma had suggested this plan, he knew there was a chance Sean would lose his shit. Sean wasn’t an enforcer, but he was pretty damn close, and if he were going to protect anyone, it would be his own family. Tyler had to respect that.
He pulled out a skillet and placed it on the stove with a clang as pain flared across his side. He flinched, hoping Brett either wasn’t home or was a heavy sleeper. Normally he was up before Tyler ever was on the weekends.
He cracked a few eggs and whisked them up, throwing in a pinch of salt and some diced vegetables he’d left in the fridge. As the eggs cooked, Tyler popped two pieces of bread in the toaster.
When it was ready, he spread butter over the crusted surface, scooped the eggs onto his plate, and sat down at the table. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until the first bite hit his tongue. Had he eaten anything after the game last night? Normally he would’ve ordered a Reuben at One Place, but they’d come straight back after the game.
He devoured the food, then cleared his plate and rinsed it. The warm water ran over his hands, soothing his sore knuckles. After his bruises healed in a few days, he should schedule a massage.
That thought made him smile. What had Emma called it last night, a knee pillow? She’d been talking about a bolster, but he didn’t want to correct her. She’d been too adorable trying to explain.
He paused for a moment, looking at his reflection in the window above the sink. His father wasn’t going to be thrilled with him showing up like this at dinner tomorrow. Tyler was drying his hands on a dishtowel when he heard feet scuffling in the hall. Brett emerged from the hallway, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep.
"Bud, you look as bad as I feel." Brett rubbed his eyes as he squinted against the morning light pouring through the window.
Tyler leaned back against the counter. "Looks like I’m not the only one that came home with a mark." Brett slapped a hand over the circular bruise on his neck. “That one from Sean too?”
Brett snorted. "He wishes.” He sat heavily in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “Glad you’re okay. You were dead when I came in at two.”
“At One Place?”
“No, we went to Dusty Rose after a few drinks.” He looked up and waggled an eyebrow. “Ginger asked for you, eh.”
Tyler shook his head. “Relentless.”
Brett laughed. “Yeah, go cry in your bag of panties.” He slapped his hand on the table and stood back up. "I'm heading back to bed. Just wanted to check in. You good?"
Tyler nodded. “Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks. Get some rest.”
As Brett shuffled back to his room, Tyler brushed the crumbs from the table into his palm and dropped them into the sink. He mulled over Brett’s comment, annoyed that it bothered him. It only rankled because of what Sean had said the night before.
He wasn’t awful to women. Yes, he spent time with a lot of them, but he didn’t ever lead them on. Didn’t pretend he was giving them something more than he was.He wasn’t like his father.
Tyler turned the corner and strode toward his bedroom when a tentative knock sounded at the door. He paused, wondering if he’d misheard, but it came a second time.Who would be knocking at the door at eight in the morning on a Saturday?
He walked lightly over the floorboards, then hunched to look through the peephole. Emma stood on the step with a toque and scarf, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Tyler’s breath hitched in his throat, and his chest warmed.She was just bringing back his truck.
He opened the door. “Hey.”
Emma smiled and couldn’t keep her eyes on his face. “Hey, I brought you this.” She dropped his hockey bag on the landing between them.
Tyler glanced up at his truck sitting next to the curb. “Did you wash that?”
“The truck or the gear?”
“Truck.” He looked back to find her eyes trained on the hockey bag. “Emma, you didn’t—”
She wrung her hands. “I washed both. I have brothers, remember? I know how to sanitize, and I wanted to do something to apologize.”
Tyler leaned against the doorframe, his eyes as wide as he could make them with the residual swelling. She’d opened his sweaty hockey bag and— He exhaled through his teeth. He’d thrown his bloody jersey in there and his compression shorts with his cup.
His neck flushed. At least he hadn’t played the whole game so it wouldn’t have been as rank as usual. “Apologies don’t typically require you to dive into the third corner of microbial hell.”
Emma laughed and kicked at the thin sheet of ice cracking on the edge of the porch.That was laugh number one.She took a step forward, and his heart kicked before he realized she was handing him his keys. “I should probably go. I'm really sorry about all this. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, just let me know.”
