Ayla

“Mom, I’ll call you later, okay?” I stand outside the Spartans’ ice rink late Monday morning. It’s been nine days since the funeral now. Bryce’s coach called me earlier today, asking if I could come in at some point to discuss establishing a foundation in his name, and he was shocked speechless when I told him I could come in immediately. I guess I’m supposed to still be in mourning? Over a complete stranger who hated my guts?

“When are you coming home?” she asks, proving once again that she’s the hardest person in the entire world with whom to end a phone call.

“I told you,” I remind her gently, “as soon as everything is straightened out.”

I don’t tell her that New York is kind of nice in the summer, that I spent all day yesterday with Bostyn, and that Bryce’s apartment is too amazing of a place to let sit empty for the next five months.

“But what about your place in LA? You have a lease,” Mom says, as if I need reminding.

“Bryce’s rent is paid through the end of the year, and I’m still making my half of the rent on the condo,” I say. “I told Vivian she could sub-lease my room if she wanted, but I think she likes having a little love nest with Fernando.”

Mom giggles. “Oh, stop. I just hope they’re not touching your things.”

I roll my eyes, laughing through my nose. My mother thrives on creating drama out of thin air, bless her heart. She just can’t help herself. But she means well most of the time.

“Anyway. Busy day today,” I say. “Love you. Call you later?”

I hang up before she has a chance to stall, and I head through the automatic doors at the front of the building.

A directory on my immediate right points me to Coach Harris’ office on the second floor, and on my way to the stairs, I pass a hallway of Spartan mean-mugging portraits in alphabetical order.

Alistair, Ridley

Atwood, Wyatt

Briggs, Brandon

Carson, Rhett.

Oh, god. Rhett.

My cheeks warm when the vivid memory of my Facebook fiasco washes over me all over again. I still can’t believe I did that.

It’s a miracle that I was able to muster up the strength to show my face around the Spartans’ headquarters, truly. I was serious when I told Bostyn I could never come around those guys again.

If only it were that easy.

The sound of trampling footsteps and men’s voices echoes through the stairwell, growing closer, louder. I steal a good look at Rhett’s portrait, studying his chiseled jaw line, dimpled chin, sun-kissed complexion, and piercing blue stare, and I turn to reach for the railing, my eyes still glued on his beautiful face.

I can’t breathe for a second, his image burned into my mind, and then I realize I’m on the ground, the wind knocked from my lungs.

A hand extends as I come to, and I realize in my gawking glory, I must’ve bumped into one of the players as they made their way down the stairs. I place my hand in his, and it’s rough, calloused. Shielding the fluorescent lights from my eyes, I brace myself as he pulls me to standing. Our eyes don’t meet. In fact, he won’t even look at me.

But I know it’s him.

It’s Rhett.

His gaze pierces past me, narrowed at something in the distance. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge me.

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Ayla?” I recognize Shane from the other weekend, though he looks completely different in a white t-shirt and faded green chino shorts. His hair is soft and fluffy, free of product, and he doesn’t smell like the cologne aisle of Macy’s.

“Hey,” I say.

“What’s up?” Shane slides his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make conversation or if he’s actually asking me what I’m doing here.

“Just meeting with Coach Harris about a few things.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and glance toward the door once more on the off chance Rhett might be lingering outside, but there’s no trace of him.

“Ah, I see.” His eyes rest on mine. “You doing okay?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“You still have my number?”

I nod again, holding my breath and waiting for him to bring up the Facebook post.

“Listen, if you ever want to-”

“Ayla?” I turn toward the voice calling my name, and I see Coach Harris standing at the top of the stairs, decked out in a Spartans green tracksuit. It’s amazing that after meeting me once, at Bryce’s funeral, he recognizes me so easily.

“Hi,” I turn away from Shane, quickly whispering an apology, and head toward Harris.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, his expression stuck in shocked mode. The bags under his red-rimmed eyes tell me he’s still struggling with this, and maybe I should be the one comforting him. “I’ve got the conference room all set up.”

He slips his meaty arm around my shoulder like I’m one of the guys, and we climb the remainder of the stairs and turn the corner, stopping at the end of the hall.

“Go on in,” he says, right behind me.

I take the seat next to the one at the head of the thirty-seat table and eye a pitcher of water.

“Help yourself.” He pushes everything toward me, and I pour a glass of still water.

There’s a quiet knock on the door behind me, and when I spin in my chair, I see a woman with kind hazel eyes and sleek black hair standing with a file folder pressed against her chest.

“Charity,” Coach says. “Come on in.”

She closes the door behind her and takes the seat across from me.

“Ayla, Charity is our HR manager,” he says, plopping into his seat and exhaling. His hands fold in front of him as his gaze narrows on me.

My eyes move to the folder, which I now notice has Bryce’s name scribbled on the tab in blue ink.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“This is Bryce’s file,” Charity says, tapping a pointed red nail on top of the dossier. “Were you aware that he designated 100% of his life insurance premium to you?”

“Wait, what?” I ask.

Her head bobs. “He did. Says so right here if you’d like to see.”

My jaw loosens, and I can’t string together a sentence to save my life.

“There’ll be some formalities,” she continues. “He didn’t list your Social Security Number, so you’ll have to jump through a few minor hoops before this can be paid out, but we wanted to let you know, he left you three million dollars.”

What kind of single, twenty-six-year-old man needs a three-million-dollar life insurance policy?

“Wow,” is all I can manage to squeak out. The room feels hot. I don’t tell them that I’ve spent the past twelve years believing the guy hated me. And not the kind of hate when you say you hate mushrooms or green olives on your pizza. I’m talking pure, genuine, unabashed hatred. This doesn’t add up. You don’t leave someone you hate three million dollars. “Are you sure?”

Charity and Coach exchange looks, chuckling lightly.

“Yes, Ayla,” she says, her voice smooth like honey and cool like an ocean breeze. She opens the folder, retrieves a piece of paper, and spins it so I can see.

There it is, in what I assume is his sloppy handwriting ...

Designated beneficiary – Ayla Lane Caldwell – 100%

I didn’t even know he knew my middle name.

“It says here that his last will and testament is on file at the Greenbrier Law Firm on the Lower East Side. You’ll probably want to reach out to them, when you’re ready, that is. Their number is listed here,” Charity says, pointing to a line on the paper before me. “I can write everything down for you.”

I’ll be extremely shocked if Bryce has left me anything beyond this. This ... this is generous. This is too much. This is completely unnecessary, and I don’t even know if I want it.

Is this his way of apologizing?

I’d have taken a boring old brother-sister relationship over this money any day of the week.

This makes no sense.

Plus, I don’t even know what I’d do with three million dollars because up until now, I’d resolved that I’d be perfectly happy living the rest of my days as a starving artist, with nothing but the clothes on my back, the words in my head, and the occasional cup of hot tea to warm my insides.

“Are you okay?” Charity asks, reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. She reads the shock broadcasting across my forehead.

“I’m just a little shocked, to be honest.” I sit up tall and clear my throat. “We weren’t exactly close.”

Coach sniffs, nodding. “Yeah. Kind of figured that. We never knew he had a sister. Only found out because of this.”

“I never even met him.” I shake my head, soaking in the hush that falls over the room. “Anyway. You wanted to talk to me about a foundation?”

Coach squares his shoulders. “Yes, we’d like to set up a charity in Bryce’s name, maybe offer hockey lessons to underprivileged youths or scholarships. Not quite sure which direction we want to go, but we thought we’d let you decide.”

“Oh, um.” I’ve never spearheaded anything that didn’t involve a computer, Microsoft Word, thousands of sentences, and innumerable hours of alone time with the door locked.

“If you’re up for it, we’d love for you to be the CEO of the organization,” Harris says.

I’ve never been a team player, preferring to do everything on my own. Guess that’s why I’m the writer and Bryce was the athlete.

My jaw hangs, but nothing comes out. My gaze moves between the two of them, and while this sounds like the last thing I want to do with my spare time, I can’t tell them no. I can’t walk in here, walk out with my cool three mil, and not give back to the legacy of the man who so bizarrely set me up for the rest of my life.

“Sure,” I say with a breathy smile.

Harris and Charity smile, like I’ve just made their days.

“Just so you know, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” I say.

Harris pulls his phone from his pocket, pressing his chin against his chest as he thumbs through his contacts. Ripping a piece of paper from a notepad a second later, he scribbles down a name and number for me.

“This is the team attorney,” he says. “He’ll help you file any necessary paperwork.” He jots down a second name and number. “And this is a buddy of mine who does a lot of philanthropic work. Anything else you need, you let me know. I’d really like to get the team involved as much as possible, so anytime you need the guys, they’re all yours.”

I rise, unsteady on my feet, and Charity hands me a copy of Bryce’s life insurance information.

“Thank you.” I turn to show myself out, passing a mirror in the hallway.

I sure don’t look like a millionaire.

And I don’t want to act like one either.

My hands tremble as my new reality sends shockwaves straight through me.

I need a cocktail and a good, hard pinch, because so far this feels like a dream I could wake up from at any moment.

The second I hit the pavement outside, I call Bostyn and ask her where I can find the stiffest drinks in all of Manhattan, and she tells me to meet her at The Prescott Club at nine o’clock tonight.