Lunch was a delicious Italian sub with peppers, prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, basil, and semi-dried tomatoes. Hannah’s and my bellies were full, and I had a glass of Tamarindo made to my abuela’s recipe next to me. The television was down low, but Hannah was still mesmerized byToy Story.
The guys were in the kitchen, having insisted on tidying up. I felt awful. Brayden had a game tomorrow. He rarely got time off. He was flying out first thing in the morning, headed for San Francisco, then onto New York, and after that Winnipeg. He didn’t need to be hanging around us, especially when Hannah was still likely contagious.
I sighed and rubbed my temples again. I’d taken some Tylenol, but my headache was still there, thumping across the whole back of my head. I couldn’t even switch off and relax either. I had too much work to do to ignore it. We needed another person on the PR team, but management wouldn’t approve it. The team owner loved my idea of organizing events with an LGBTQIA+ focus in mind, but she didn’t give me the staff resources to pull it off. My assistant was overworked, and Tim, the other PR team member, was pushing back on anything else being added to his already busy workload.
Truth be told, I doubted he’d stick around very long. He wasn’t overtly homophobic, but he was hardly an outspoken ally either. The owner’s agreement to actively promote queer events we were supporting in addition to hockey wasn’t sitting well with him. He thought we should be focusing on the game, leaving the politics aside—the catch cry of every person who was clueless or willfully ignorant of their privilege. He’d certainly never been a minority before with his white, male, middle-class private boys’ school upbringing, only to double down on the then highbrow frat in college, I’d already had to pull him up for calling me a DEI hire—ironic considering his only experience in PR had been working for his daddy’s company until—and we only found this out after he was hired—he was let go. But apparently “Didn’t Earn It” only applied to Latinx supervisors.
So, as the Team’s PR manager, it meant everything fell on me. I needed to deliver or the owner’s support would disappear. I wouldn’t let that happen. The boys on the team were alltrailblazers. They’d all paved the way for the NHL to become a more accepting place for queer people, and I was there to show the world that the whole team was behind them.
“Still got your headache?” Spencer asked as he came to stand behind the sofa and rubbed my shoulders.
“Yeah, the pain meds haven’t even touched it.”
“You need rest,” he murmured, his lips against my temple. I hummed, and he asked, “Can I do anything?”
Brayden sat down next to me and took my hand in his as Hannah popped her thumb into her mouth. I smoothed her curls, and she snuggled into me, laying her head on my lap.
“You’ve both done more than enough. Why don’t you head home and relax? Hannah’s on her way to falling asleep, and I should get some work done.”
“Or,” Spencer said slowly, “we could go to the shops and get some food, and I’ll cook dinner tonight. Then you can have leftovers, I get to eat something other than room service, and I don’t have to smell Bray heating up broccoli.”
I huffed out a laugh as Brayden teased, “Y’all’d better say yes. He’s going through kitchen withdrawals.”
“Still haven’t found a place?”
Brayden shook his head. “I loved one of them, but Spencer’s still unsure.”
I leaned my head back against the sofa and peered up at him only a few inches away. “What aren’t you sure about?” I asked, trying to picture the kind of place they’d go for. I could imagine it being a total bachelor pad—underground garage space, a games room filled with pinball machines and arcade games, and giant television screens indoors and out.
But maybe I was wrong. Brayden’s truck stood out like a sore thumb among the other players’ rides. It was in worse condition than the piece of junk I’d driven in college. He was a millionaire,yet he still drove around in a thirty-year-old truck that had more rust than metal.
“I’ve heard mixed things about the school district,” Spencer answered matter-of-factly.
Huh.
I blinked, processing his answer.
They didn’t seem to care about material things, but this was taking it to another level. Were they planning on fostering or adopting? Or maybe seeking out a surrogate? I was blown away. I couldn’t quite believe it. These two men were in their mid-twenties, in the primes of their careers, and here they were, thinking about school districts for children they didn’t even have. They surprised me at every turn.
“Cleo, Rune’s girlfriend, is a middle-school teacher. You could ask her what she thinks.”
They shared a look and nodded.
“I’ll talk to Rune,” Brayden said.
“So it wasn’t the house itself you weren’t sure on?” I asked.
“Nah, the house is perfect—way over the top—but it’s private as hell. It’s in a gated community with full fencing around the property, and it’s at the end of the street, so it’s hidden from the neighbors. There’s nothing across the Bay for miles.”
“Is it on the water?” I asked.
“Yeah, and the outdoor area is next level too.”
“What about the interior?”
“I like it. There’s nothing really I’d change except part of the basement—I’d build a recording studio there. It’s laid-back and beachy with lots of whites, teals, and blues. Timber floors, a great home office, a gym that’s perfect for Bray, lots of spare bedrooms, and a kitchen to die for.”
“It sounds like a dream.”
