Ella
I clocked Bernard Houser from the top of the escalator and felt immediate annoyance at seeing him again. And then I realized he was here alone, without my brother, and my entire life as an afterthought in the Rujkowski family came rushing back to the surface.
Of course, Jason’s offer to help me find my feet was just another empty promise. Whatever. At least Bernard can lift my bag.
I pout alongside him as he hefts the giant monstrosity upright and grabs the handle with his thick, hockey-roughened fingers. I haven’t seen him in years, but I recognized the huge frame and curly hair sticking out from his black hat.
“Rookie, I mean Jason, asked me to grab you so he could finish cleaning for you,” he lies, and the effort is just charming enough that I inhale, smile, and gesture toward the sliding doors.
“Right. Great. Thank you for picking me up.”
I clutch my purse against my sweater, and Bernard pauses, scratching the back of his neck, the motion hitching up his hoodie and revealing a glimpse of taut muscle above the waistband of his sweatpants. Thankfully, those are black, so I’m not flagrantly staring at his junk, but it’s bad enough that I’m noticing the added muscle and bulk that Bernard “Howie” Houser has put on since I last saw him at a college hockey game my freshman year.
He and my brother both got drafted and left college early for the pros, and I thought that might give me a blessed taste of anonymity for my last few years, but Minnesotans never forget a hockey star.
Even in clinical rotations, I was Baby Rookie instead of Ella, under the spotlight of my brother’s fame. At least I’m used to it. It seems like Jason’s name is the only way I get in doors professionally with grades like mine. The only nurse extern jobs I managed to find were in my hometown—no thank you—and here in Pittsburgh, where my brother’s stupid face is all over billboards promoting beef jerky.
“Ella?” Bernard’s voice cuts through my thought cloud, and I realize he asked me something.
“Sorry. What?”
“I said, don’t you want a jacket or something? It’s like five degrees outside.”
I arch a brow at him, and he laughs, shaking his head and rolling my bag through the doorway toward the parking garage. I follow, absolutely not noticing the tight, round bulge of his gluteus maximus, deciding not to chastise him for asking a Minnesota girl if she’s cold.
He makes his way toward an expensive SUV, clicks a key fob that opens the hatch, and tosses my bag inside like it weighs little more than a rancid hockey glove.
I head toward the passenger seat, surprised to find him sprinting around the car to open the door for me. Judging by the look on his face, he, too, is taken aback by his chivalrous instinct. “Thanks,” I tell him, climbing into the ridiculously luxurious leather seat, eyeing the heated seat button as soon as he turns the engine on.
This is a major upgrade from my last experience sharing a ride with Bernard Houser, that’s for sure.
He turns the radio down to a quiet hum and backs out of the parking spot, tossing his arm around the back of my seat despite the backup camera that would have guided him just fine. I’m hit with a wave of spicy deodorant and soap, and I really shouldn’t find it … there is really no word apart from titillating. Shit.
“So,” I flick on the seat warmer, eager to distract myself from unclean thoughts. “What’s the tea on the team? Who does Jason want to punch?”
Bernard chuckles and leans a bit to check his mirrors. God, he’s a good driver. Ew, why am I focused on that? He says, “Your brother and I are tight with the Stag twins. You know Tucker and Alder?”
I shrug. Of course, I know my brother’s teammates, but I’m not going to let this douche canoe know that I follow the Fury. I’m here to forge my own path.
Bernard’s fingers drum on the steering wheel, knuckles scarred and forever bruised from his trade. “Well, Tuck knocked up our goalie’s ex-wife, and they have twins. So that’s been …”
I whistle. “Awkward! Wait. Isn’t the goalie also a Stag?”
Bernard shakes his head, glides into the passing lane, and zooms by a battered Buick struggling to keep pace on the highway. “We have a tandem goalie rotation. Grentley is the one with the ex-wife. Gunnar Stag is absolutely in love with his wife, and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual.”
Neither of us has much to say in response to that, so I stare at the window as we ease past an IKEA. “Tell me about my brother’s place. Is he still hoarding meat and being weird about sharing?”
Bernard grunts, which seems like a neutral response to questions about my brother’s juvenile rules. “Let’s just say we do our own food shopping.”
“Good to know. Good to know.” I turn to face Bernard. “You still live there, too, right?”
He turns and stares at me, slowing the car until someone behind him lays on the horn. He snaps his eyes back to the road and speeds back up, saying, “When you say too, do you mean … did Rookie … are you staying at our place?”
“Well, yeah.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him as he tries not to look at me, following signs toward downtown. “Jason told me to come stay with you guys until I pass my NCLEX and get hired permanently. What’s the issue?”
I watch the muscles of Bernard’s throat as he swallows, glancing over his left shoulder and heading into a tunnel. “There are only two bedrooms in our place,” he says, drumming those fingers on the steering wheel.
The car shoots out of the mouth of the tunnel, revealing the city of Pittsburgh in a yellow splash of beauty and bridges. The city makes an entrance as profound as the realization that my brother has once again fucked up my life.
