“Okay, thanks.” I walk slowly toward my expensive sports car and hesitate. I look over my shoulder. Aria is talking animatedly to the detective. She appears in good hands. I slide onto the Italian leather seat and leave the garage.
I consider going to the Puck, but it’s late, and most likely the guys won’t be there anymore. The rookies will have gone clubbing, and the veterans are probably with their significant others. Besides, for once, I’m not in the mood to party.
Minutes later, I ride the elevator to my floor of the condo building. The Barlowes own this building and lease a lot of the condos to players and staff. Currently, I’m living in a two-bedroom condo by myself.
The double doors swoosh open, and I walk out and head down the long hallway. I stop and do a double take. Boxes, duffels, and suitcases are stacked in front of my condo door. Kirby sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor in some kind of meditation pose. His eyes are closed, and his face is raised toward the heavens. His hands are held outward, palms up, like he’s communing with a great power.
Confused, I step forward until he notices me and looks up. My gaze slides to the pile of stuff and back to him. Unhurried, he takes his time rising to his feet. It’s hard to believe this chill guy is the same man who plays with such ferocity on the ice. He calls it his warrior mode.
“Hey.” Kirby stands and grins as I approach.
“What’s going on?” I sweep my gaze across the stack of boxes and belongings and back to him.
“I need a place to stay, and you have a spare room.”
“What happened to your place?”
“The owner hasn’t been paying his taxes, and we’ve all been evicted.”
“Without notice? Is that legal?”
“We had notice, but I chose to ignore it.”
I don’t bother to ask him why he’d disregard such a thing because I know Kirby. He’s not bound by societal norms or legal situations. He does his own thing and lives his life his way. His attitude is admirable but also disconcerting at times. Yet he always lands on his feet no matter what.
This guy is unflappable under the toughest of circumstances. I could use a little of that chill right now. I’m completely discombobulated by my encounter with Aria. Maybe a roommate isn’t such a bad thing.
I unlock the door and help Kirby carry his stuff to the guest bedroom, including a carved paddle, several baskets most likely weaved by an auntie of his, and an indigenous carving of a salmon.
Both bedrooms are the same size and have attached bathrooms. There’s a bathroom off the entryway for guests to use. Huge picture windows in the bedrooms and living room offer expansive views of the mighty Columbia River. It’s a great place to live, and I’ve been happy here. Not to mention it’s within blocks of the practice facility. No need to navigate Portland rush-hour traffic, which can be brutal.
“I’ll let you settle in.” I survey the large amount of stuff he’s arrived with. “Good thing you drive a pickup truck.”
“Yeah.” He snorts a laugh. Kirby is a complicated guy who’s full of contradictions. At times he’s mysterious and spiritual, at others he’s just one of the guys, but he’s always been dependable and consistent on the ice. He’s one of the top defensemen in the league along with his defensive partner, Briggs. We’re lucky to have both of them.
I’m watching a replay of tonight’s game when Kirby emerges from his room.
“What do I owe you for rent?” He pulls out his wallet.
“Don’t worry about it this month. We’ll split it next month when rent’s due again.” I don’t ask how long he’s staying, and he doesn’t volunteer. Free-spirit Kirby will stay as long as he feels the need to stay. I’m surprised he hasn’t purchased a house, but it’s none of my business. I haven’t bought one either. I don’t need the extra work of owning a home, but he strikes me as a guy who’d relish the privacy and probably have a vegetable garden and a flock of chickens.
He flops down on the couch, and we watch the game in silence. He’s Mr. Dependable as always, playing his game and doing his job. I’d hate to be the opposing team trying to score with him out there.
“You’re still in a slump,” he notes after several minutes. He’s not saying anything I don’t already know, so I shrug. I’m pretty sure I’m about to get some unsolicited advice.
“You’re letting Aria get to you. She’s strangling your game.”
I want to deny what he’s saying, but he knows the truth. “Yeah, I’m working on it.”
“Have you tried meditation or visualization?”
“I have. It doesn’t work for me.”
“Of course it doesn’t because you don’t believe it will.”
He’s probably right there, but I’m a practical guy who doesn’t get into woo-woo stuff. Before I realize what I’m doing, I relay the events of the evening. He listens without comment.
“Someone attacked Aria in the arena parking garage?” he questions as if not quite believing me.
