She disappears into the bedroom.
The door clicks shut.
I stare at the closed door for a beat too long.Callaway stays by the counter, leaning his hip against it, drinking in small sips like he’s trying to keep himself busy.
I break first, because if I don’t, my mind starts building worst-case scenarios like it’s a hobby.
“Harvey will find her one?”I ask, voice low.“We shouldn’t promise her things we can’t guarantee.”
Cally glances at me like I’m being dramatic.Which, fair.“It’s a couch, Monty.”
“It’s notjustabout the couch,” I snap, and then immediately regret how hard it comes out.
Callaway’s expression softens, that golden-retriever patience sliding into place.He sets his glass down.“I know.”
I swallow.My jaw works.“She’s scared.”
“So are we,” he says quietly.
That word—we—hits me in the same place it did in the tunnel after the shutout.It pulls at something I keep locked down because if I let it open, it changes everything.
I should argue with him about thiswehe keeps talking about as if it’s a done deal.Wecouldn’t work the first time.Wewill be impossible for two hockey players.
But before I can say a word, Callaway clears his throat.“By the way ...they accepted the offer.”
My head turns, sharp.“What?”
“The house.”He says it like it’s an update on the weather.“Cash.No contingencies.They agreed to a fast close.”
“Are we sure it’s okay?”I ask, because my brain is grasping for something to control.“Are we sure it’s safe?”
Cally nods once.“Like I said, the security company Harvey hired went in and checked it.They dragged an inspector over too.There are a few renovations we’ll need to do, but it’s good.”He taps his phone.“There, I asked Harvey to send you the report.”
My throat tightens around a truth I don’t want to say out loud: We’re building something.Something that’s scary.
I swallow.
“Fine,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend.
Callaway watches me for a beat.“You okay?”
I almost laugh.
Because the answer is fuck no.
I’m a man who can stop a puck traveling ninety miles an hour with my body without flinching, but the idea of being responsible for a woman and a baby makes my hands feel too big and my chest feel too small.
I nod anyway, because that’s what I do.I pretend control is the same thing as calm.
“So, we’re doing this,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Callaway’s smile is small, but it’s there.“Yeah.”
Everything feels shaky.I don’t want to run from it.I want to hold it.I want to keep it.
But I know I’ve never had any of that.Not since my parents died.Not since I had to learn to look after myself because I was alone.
And the fact that I want that feels like the beginning of something that could either save me ...or ruin me.
