“Of course not,” he says as he turns onto my street.
“Well, you were a hockey player,” I remind him. “And you aren’t like Dad.”
He gives me a quick, bitter smile. “Yeah, but I was. And I’ll be honest with you, Shayne, it’s hard not to be that way when you’re playing. Women are everywhere and your adrenaline is always high. After a win you want to celebrate and after a loss you want to commiserate and there are always more than a few pieces of tail willing to help you do it.”
“Never ever say ‘tail’ to me again. Never,” I tell him as he slows and pulls to the curb in front of my building. “So are you saying Jordan is cheating on Jessie?”
“No. I’m not. I’m just saying that the option is ever present.” He turns off the engine and crosses his arms over the steering wheel as he turns and levels me with a stare. “Deveau seems like a good guy. Hothead on the ice but smart and genuine off. Maybe he’s one of the good ones. But are you really going to be able to get past your own baggage to see it? I know you, Shayne, and that’s not going to be easy. You’re likely to fuck this whole thing up trying.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” I snap, and those tears from earlier are threatening to fill my eyes again. “Remind me not to call you the next time I need help, because if this is your idea of it, I’d be better off on my own.”
I unclip my seat belt and jump out. By the time I reach the door, my brother is right behind me. “I’m walking you in because I’m worried about you. Deal with it.”
I ignore him and unlock the front door. He follows me in and I storm to the elevator and punch the button. Trey puts his hands on my shoulders, but I shrug out of them.
“Shaynie, I love you, and I’m just worried that this isn’t going to end well for you.” I can hear the sincerity in his voice, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.
“You don’t know him, and maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
The elevator arrives, and we step in as one of my sketchy neighbors steps out. It’s a dude who lives on the floor below me who I am pretty sure sells drugs. He glances at us as he steps off and I ignore him. Trey eyeballs him skeptically and then shoots me a horrified glare, but I ignore it.
As we chug up to my floor, Trey says, “Why didn’t you tell him about the mugging?”
“He’s starting playoffs tomorrow.” I step off the elevator and march to my door. After unlocking it, I swing it open and flip on the light in the front hall. “Hello! Burglars, rapists, murderers! I’m home!”
When no one responds, I turn to Trey. “Happy now? Go home.”
He ignores me and pushes into my apartment. I stand by the kitchen door with my arms crossed as I watch him wander from room to room. Finally he stands in front of me. “So what if he’s in playoffs?”
“So he’s got to concentrate. You know that.” How is he so stupid suddenly? “Remember when Dad was in playoffs he barely even spoke to us? Remember when I broke my arm in gymnastics and Mom called him to let him know and he was furious? They lost the series and he blamed family issues pulling his head out of the game. I’m not going to do that to Seb over a stolen wallet.”
Trey stares at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for me to clue in. When I stare back blankly he starts to shake his head slowly. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “And there’s the baggage I was talking about.”
He starts to my door but stops at the threshold and examines the dead bolts on my door—I am suddenly very happy there are two and two chains. He seems satisfied with that. “Keep this locked up tight and call me for anything at anytime. Got it?”
He leaves, and I poke my head out the door and watch him walk to the elevator. As he gets into it, he calls out without turning around. “If he’s different and you don’t think he’s like Dad, then tell him about tonight, Shayne.”
I don’t have time to think of a snotty response before the elevator doors slide shut.
Chapter 38
Sebastian
The first person I see when we walk through the door is Sara. She’s about to give me bitchface, which is her go-to since she caught me with Shayne, but then she sees my face. “Oh my God!” she squeaks. “It didn’t look that bad on TV.”
“It’s not that bad,” I promise. “It’s just swollen.”
I knew I shouldn’t come here like this. Damn it. But I really wanted to see Shay. It’s been a rough few days. We won the first game clean and easy, but the second game the Comets came out with a chip on their shoulder. It was rough; there was almost as much going on after the whistles as there was during the game. I caught a high stick in front of the net. That douchebag Braddock nailed me and actually had the nerve to lip off to the ref that it was an accident. I had a nice slice through my chin, but because he drew blood, we got a four-minute power play and scored what ended up being the game winner. Now my chin is swollen and bruised, along with being stitched, and judging by the way Sara is looking at me, I look like Frankenstein’s monster. At least my wrist healed before my face got mutilated. There’s only so much pain I can take at once. Maybe I should wait to see Shay until I look better.
I don’t think Sara even heard my response, because she’s spotted Avery, who came with me. Her eyes grow wide and her smile grows even wider. “Avery Westwood! Great game this afternoon! That goal was a beauty!”
“Thanks. Two down, two more to go.” Avery gives her his typical milk-’n’-cookies smile, the one that’s launched a thousand products.
“You’ll sweep them. I know it!”
“Shh!” He tries to make it sound casual, but I know Avery, and the “sweep” word is on his superstitious “never say out loud” list of playoff words. He thinks it’s a jinx, like when a goalie hasn’t let in a goal and someone says “shutout” before the end of the game. And as if on cue…
“I just know you’ll do it. I bet Choochinsky even gets a shutout next game! He’s playing great! You’re going to win the Cup this year!”
