Miles is ten years older than I am, so I was only sixteen when he and Anna got married, but she never treated me like Iwas just an annoying teenager. She loved me with her whole heart, which has made it easy to love her back. She’s kind, funny, loyal. And honest in a way that people who love you should be honest, but not in a way that ever hurts my feelings.
Nine years later, the age difference is much less significant—we’re as much friends as we are sisters. Best friends.
Which is why leaving is going to be so hard.
Twenty minutes later, chicken nuggets secure in the front seat, my GPS safely guides me back to my brother’s ridiculously enormous house. The street out front is full of cars, so I’m guessing most of his teammates are already here. I pull into the second driveway and ease past the garage so I can park next to the pool house. There’s a spare bedroom inside the main house that Anna and Miles offered to let me use, but it’ll be Olive’s room soon—as soon as they move her out of the nursery to make way for the new baby. So I’m living in the pool house instead.
It’s dated—it wasn’t renovated like the rest of the house was before Anna and Miles moved in—but it’s cozy and private and I really like having my own space. The only downside is it doesn’t have much natural light, so I still haven’t figured out a good place to paint. I haven’t minded too much—I’ve been so focused on spending time with my nieces—but I’m starting to feel twitchy, restless and ready to get back to it, so I’ll have to solve the problem soon.
I climb out of the car just as an SUV pulls into the drive behind me. A couple gets out and walks together toward the front door, and I swallow a groan.
When Miles first mentioned the dinner, I considered faking a migraine to get out of having to attend. Not because I have a particular aversion to hockey players. It’s watching the sport that’s triggering—not being around the men who playit. But social situations are generally tough for me. Crowds are intimidating at best. Completely draining at their worst.
Anna posed the evening as an opportunity to meet someone—there’s no shortage of single guys on Miles’s team. But I’m moving in a few months. Seems dumb to start something when I won’t be around. Plus, she’s forgetting my brother would probably break his teammates’ ankles before letting any of them date his sister, which is generally annoying but helpful in this case, because I have no interest in being a WAG.
I respect what my brother does for a living. And hockey Wives and Girlfriends are incredible women. At least the ones whom I’ve met—Anna most of all.
But I don’t fit in that world.
I can’t fit. Even if I want to.
Still, Miles has been in Atlanta for most of his career, and he talks about his teammates like they’re brothers. Now that I’m living here too—at least temporarily—it feels rude to avoid them. Or maybe the guilt for missing all his games is starting to catch up with me. Finally meeting his teammates feels like a relatively low-risk way to support him.
I climb out of my car and move around to the passenger side to retrieve the large platter of chicken. It smells delicious and my stomach rumbles with hunger, prompting me to set it on the hood of the car and lift the lid on the tray so I can retrieve a couple of nuggets for myself. There can’t be that many kids in attendance. Surely they won’t miss a few.
The chicken is tender and juicy, and I let out a little groan as I sink back against my car. When was the last time I had anything to eat? I sketched all morning…which, honestly, I often forget to eat when I’m immersed in my work. I suddenly feel like I could eat this entire tray.
“Can I have one?”
I spin around, still licking my fingers, and find a little girl in the driveway behind me. She looks close to Poppy’s age, around five or six, and has long red hair braided into pigtails. She’s wearing fairy wings on her back, which feels like an odd choice considering she also has goalie pads on her legs. Either way, she’s possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
“A piece of chicken?” I ask.
She nods, eyes wide and serious. “The food is taking forever.”
My mind flits back to a conversation I had with Anna when Poppy had a friend over who had at least a dozen dietary restrictions. Gluten, dairy, eggs. The poor kid was allergic to everything. It’s making me nervous to offer food to a random kid, and my eyes dart to the back door, wondering if she has a parent nearby.
As if on cue, the door swings open, and a man steps out. “Charlie?” he calls, eyes on the backyard.
Even if I didn’t know Miles’s house was full of professional hockey players, I probably would have guessed this guy was an athlete just by the size and shape of him. Broad shoulders, tapered waist. Thighs straining against the seams of his pants. I can’t see his face from this angle, but I don’t mind the look of the rest of him.
I look at the little girl. “Are you Charlie?”
She looks toward the man calling her name. “Yeah. But that’s just Uncle Carter. He won’t mind if I have some.”
“There you are,” the man calls, finally turning this way and closing the short distance between us. Turns out, his face is even better than everything else.
Uncle Carter is really handsome. Light brown hair, a close-cut beard. And the most arresting blue eyes.
He offers me a brief smile, then zeroes in on the little girl—Charlie. “Your dad’s looking for you. Did you tell him you were going outside?” His tone is gentle—more curious than scolding.
She shrugs. “I saw a bird.”
“Yeah? What kind?” His answer surprises me, and it must surprise Charlie too because she perks right up.
“It was brown. With orangey-red on his belly.”
“Sounds like a robin. Want to go see if we can find him?” Carter holds up a coat, pink with white hearts stitched around the hem.
