ONE
Grey
“Please, is there any way we can fix this?” My caregiver—well, ex-caregiver now—shakes her head at my sister, about as done with this as I am. Good old number seven. Eight? Maybe she’s the eighth. Sixth? I don’t know. I don’t keep track anymore.
What I do know is that my sister will hand me my ass after Colleen leaves, but I am not sad to see her go. My sister may only be five foot three, but she takes self-defense classes, and worst of all?
She’s a pincher.
I really don’t know why Alyssa insisted we all have this meeting. I’m done. She’s done. I know Alyssa wants to talk her into staying, but there’s no way I’m letting her stay here. “I told you she’s fired. I want her out of here.” Alyssa’s blue-green eyes scorch into mine.
Same look Mom used to give me when I did something well and truly stupid.
Damn, I miss those looks.
Her manicured fingers clench at her sides. Oh, yep, I am in trouble. You’d think being a six-foot-five hockey player I wouldn’t be afraid of this tiny woman, but you’d be wrong. You’ve never seen this hyena after you’ve eaten her pint of ice cream because she was taking too long to eat it herself and you were hungry. Feral doesn’t touch it.
She rips her thick strawberry-blond hair out of its holder, shakes it out, then throws it back up into a messy bun. The “I mean business” bun.
I’m in trouble.
She used to do this when she was a teenager. It’s what I call her fighting stance. She throws her hair up in a bun, then I watch her hip jut out.
Oh yup. I’m fucked.
My sister is eight years younger than me, and if you think that means I was spared her wrath growing up, you’re mistaken. My sister is five foot three inches of pure attitude, grit, and fire. It’s where her daughter gets it.
Good luck, Landon.
“There has to be something I can do. How much trouble can he really be?” she pleads.
Colleen snorts.Screw you, Colleen.“I’m sorry, Ms. Tremblay, he’s impossible, and rude.” She glares at me.
Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to be kind to the woman stealing my shit? I’m not absolutely positive, but I suspected last week. I placed one of my cameras inside my office and confirmed what I’d thought as I watched her going through my things and pocketing a very expensive watch I’d gotten as a gift during the Olympics in ’18.
She’d also been allowing her friends over without asking, as well as her eldest son, giving them all tours of my house as if she lived here. She acted like this was her space. It made meuneasy. I don’t like strangers in my home, but I agreed to a full-time caregiver to ease Alyssa’s mind.
I should probably tell my sister, but I just don’t have the energy to care about it. I just want her to go. A few days ago, I confronted her about the watch and she denied it—even with the footage, she denied it. She was just cleaning. I’d insulted her, she said. Yeah, well, insult or not, where the hell is that watch? Probably on some website now.
“Please, is there any way? There must have been a misunderstanding. Maybe if we?—”
“The only misunderstanding is that you believe he’s a good person. He’s an asshole.”
Okay, asshole is a bit much. I just don’t like her touching me, or talking to me, or telling me what to do. If she hadn’t done those three things—oh, and stolen—if she hadn’t done any of that, we would have gotten along just fine! “Thank you for coming.” I grin at her. She flips me off and is out the door before I can say, “Oh no, wait, don’t go.”
I watch Alyssa standing in the middle of my living room. Lianna isn’t here, and I really wish I had the buffer. Not that she brings her over much anymore. I hate that I’m happy about that. It’s not that I don’t want to see her—honestly, I’m dying to—I just don’t want her to see me like this. I haven’t exactly felt like me since the accident.
Accident.
I snort, which makes Alyssa’s fiery gaze whip to me. Oh, if looks could burn, I’d be a human torch right now. It’s crazy how our much mother looks like Alyssa now. The same shade of strawberry blond. Mine is more dirty blond from our father. The same blue-green eyes as her. Right now, they’re more green than blue, blazing almost as hard as our mother’s would when she used to ground me.
Anyway, calling what had happened to me an accidentwould mean it hadn’t been on purpose. There’s a nearly seven-foot-tall dickhead defensemen for the Vipers who would tell you otherwise. It’s been a few months since Rome Acciari shattered my knee and ended my career.
At first I’d had hope, but after surgery my worst fears were confirmed. I’ll never play hockey again. Not if I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on crutches or in a wheelchair. The risk is too great, but the depression I have feels greater.
Her shoulders sag. I expect fire in her next words, but instead she sniffs. Ah, shit. “Greyson, I...” Dammit, here come the tears. I’ve done my best to avoid them. At least everyone else’s.
Guess you can’t really escape your own.
