She doesn’t reply, and I don’t expect her to. Bryant is likely there, and whenever he’s around, he’s the only thing that can grab her attention. Which tonight is going to work in my favor because that’s not even a good excuse, but it’s the only one my brain can come up with right now.
The weight of Coach Holloway’s stare is heavy, and I look up to find him leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, dark brows drawn in.
“What?” I ask. “Are you regretting this?”
“I should be,” he answers simply.
Should.
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and look around, needing a moment to take a breath after he’s sucked all the oxygen from the room. It’s builder grade, with white walls, cool-toned wood floors, white cabinets, light granite, and clean lines. The furniture is neutral and forgettable, with the exception of the largest TV I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Damn, how big is that?” I ask, pointing to it.
“One hundred fifteen inches,” he says proudly.
I gape at it, imagining how crystal clear hockey games must look on that thing. “That’s insane.”
He simply shrugs, but his mood seems to have brightened slightly.
I scope out the rest of the apartment, or at least what I can see from where I stand. The living room and kitchen are anopen concept, all making up one large space. There’s a door off to the left that looks like it leads into his bedroom, while there’s another door on the right that appears to be a guest bath and bedroom.
But there’s one thing that sticks out above all else.
It’s empty.
The walls are blank, lacking any art or memorabilia like I assumed most professional athletes would hang. The shelves across the room framing a large window are empty, save for a sad little dying plant with a few dead leaves lying next to it. There’s no photos, no trinkets, nothing.
Even in the kitchen, there’s only a toaster and a coffee machine on the counter. No cookbooks, spoon rests, or hell, even a decorative towel.
It looks like the place of someone who just moved in and hasn’t unpacked a single box.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
He purses his lips and murmurs, “A couple of years.”
“Years?” He looks down at his feet in shame, and I immediately apologize. “Sorry, I don’t mean to insult your home. It’s just—looks, um, minimal.”
“Minimal,” he repeats, chewing the word over. “That’s one way to put it.”
“There’s no art or anything you’ve collected over the years to hang? Brighten it up a bit?”
His eyes capture mine as he states bluntly, “I gave most of it to my ex-wife in the divorce, and the rest I smashed myself a few years back.”
I blink, completely stunned not only at the wild new lore he just dropped on me, but also by the detached way he delivered it. He watches me squirm from foot to foot, unsure of how to respond to that, and smirks.
“Let me show you where you can sleep tonight,” he says and takes off toward the door on the right.
Ex-wife…Divorce…Smashed the rest himself…
Those pieces of information are too much for me to fully process when not only am I completely overwhelmed being in his space, a space I definitely shouldn’t be in, but also when I feel like I could actually fall asleep standing up right now.
I follow him, because what else am I supposed to do right now? But as I do, I ask, “Care to expand on any of that?”
He flicks a bedside lamp on in the guest room. “Nope.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. “Bathroom is right next to you, and there’s a set of towels beneath the sink.”
“I already showered at the rink.”
