“Hey, give me a ride?” Eli Boucher, my right wing and closest friend, says as I make my way from the locker room after training.
“I can’t. I have to go across town before heading home.”
He shrugs. “So? I’ll come with you.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the shop. Don’t be a dick,” he says, in a Quebec French accent that makes his consonants sound all fucked up. “It’s not like I’m asking you to drive an hour out of your way. Some of us don’t live in the mountains.”
“Fine, but you’re staying in the Hummer while I run errands.”
“Pfft. What-the-fuck-ever, man. I’m not a damn dog.”
We exit the rink and walk over to my truck. “How the hell did you get here?”
“A bunny dropped me off.”
“Oh, Jesus, you didn’t?”
“What? It’s not like she couldn’t come watch anyway. You can phone ahead and Dolores will tell you what time practice begins.”
“Yeah, but no one is stupid enough to bring a bunny along after fucking her the night before. She’s gonna be pretending she’s your girlfriend now just to get through security at games.”
“Relax. She’s not that kind of bunny.”
“Huh. That’s funny.”
“Why is that funny?”
I shake my head. “Because they’re all that kind of bunny, Eli, otherwise they wouldn’t fucking be bunnies.”
“Whatever. Security won’t let her in on game day anyway.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t turn into a bunny boiler. Remember the one that went psycho?”
“Sweetest ass I ever had. Tellement dommage qu'elle soit folle.”
“Oui, crazy,” I say, making out only two words in that sentence. I hate it when he speaks French. For the most part, he’s pretty good about sticking to words I understand, unless you put him in a room with a fellow Québécois. Then it’s hard to get him to switch his brain back to English.
I climb into the beast. I have half a mind to lock the doors so he can’t get in, but that would just make him suspicious, since he knows I’d never leave him stranded. We might have only been friends since he got traded to Calgary from Ottawa three years ago, but he’s my brother from another mother. He spends holidays with me and my family, since he can’t stand his own, and when he looks at Emmett, he doesn’t see his disability either. He can be a real shithead when it comes to women, and he’s had my back more times than I can count, but I can’t have Eli knowing about Stella. The dude never could keep a secret, and this is one I want to hold onto for a while longer.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off first?”
“What are you hiding, Ross?”
“What? Nothing.” I take a sip from my Gatorade bottle and start the engine, peeling out of the lot. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Bullshit.” He grins, resting his feet on the dash. “You’re up to something . . . or someone.”
Half hour later, we pull into the drive of a music store in Calgary. “Dude, you thinking about buying a tiny violin?”
“Guitar, actually.”
“Since when do you play?”
“Never too old to learn. Besides, I’ve been told I’m awesome with my hands.”
Eli grins and makes a motion as if he’s jerking off a dick on his forehead.
I push inside the shop. I tracked down this guitar two days ago and had it sent in from the US. It seems weird to have a singer occupying my house and not make her sing to me a time or two, and I can tell she’s going out of her mind with boredom. She keeps drumming her fingers on the coffee table, and she’s been humming a few bars of the same song since she arrived.
I found the Epiphone acoustic guitar online. It’s signed by Loretta Lynn—someone she told me she idolizes. It’s also expensive as fuck, but it is perfect, and it reminds me of her. My little songbird.
Jesus. Where the fuck did that come from?
I head straight for the counter but Eli shoots me a look when he sees a pretty brunette in uniform standing by a wall of shiny new guitars. I shake my head and keep walking. I want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, but at least with the distraction of the hot brunette he’ll be tied up for a few minutes.
The old man behind the counter looks up at me through rheumy eyes. “Can I help you, son?”
“Yeah, I have a special order to pick up for Ross.” It’s just easier to use Ross as my first name in situations like this. That way there won’t be some overzealous sales assistant who activates her hockey hooker phone tree and we won’t have to worry about leagues of fans showing up.
“Ross.” The old man scratches at his beard as if he vaguely remembers the twenty-two-thousand-dollar guitar he sold me over the phone, but just can’t quite place it. “Ross?”
“The signed Loretta Lynn Epiphone acoustic.”
“Oh, you’re the big spender. What are ya? Some kind of rock star or something?”
“Huh, no. Not a rock star, just a—”
“Big klutz who’s good with his hands,” Eli finishes for me.
“What, no number? You must be losing your touch,” I tease. Right at that very moment, the old man finds what he’s looking for and hefts a hard case onto the counter. He opens it, and gleaming back is a pristine white guitar. It’s inlaid with mother of pearl and a little blue songbird. It’s perfect. The man pulls it out of the case with a low whistle. “She is a thing of beauty.”
Eli screws up his nose. “Kind of a girly guitar isn’t it, even for you?”
My face heats up. “It’s for my mom.”
“Nora plays guitar?”
“She’s learning.”
“I thought you were learning?”
I glare at my best friend. “And I think you’re walking home.”
“You wanna check the inscription?” The old man hands it to me.
“Er . . . no, it’s fine.”
“Of course, he does,” Eli says. I sigh as he takes the guitar from the old man and hefts its weight. “Little heavier than a hockey stick.”
“Maybe heavier than your stick. Seems about right for mine,” I shoot back. We both know we’re not talking about the sticks we use on the ice. I snatch it from him before he can find the inscription. I’m also terrified he’s going to drop it, so I carefully put it back in the case and slam it closed. “It’s perfect.”
The old man shuffles off, muttering something about printing an invoice and needing a signature, and Eli turns on me. “You dog. What? You got some pretty piece of ass hidden away somewhere that you can’t even tell your best friend about?”
“I don’t.”
“Uh-uh-uh. Don’t bullshit the bullshitter. You’re pussy whipped.”
“No, I’m really not.”
He frowns as he studies my face. “What is she? A virgin or something? One of those good Christian girls with the perky tits and the frizzy hair who wear no makeup?”
“That’s not it.” The old man comes back and has me sign some papers, and places the receipt on top of the guitar case.
“Then what?”
“Nothing. I just met her.”
Eli picks up the invoice from my purchase and whistles. “That’s an awful lot of money to blow on a girl you just met.”
“No, it’s not. I make more than you.” I shrug and snatch the receipt. A younger helper comes over and hefts the case off the counter, handing it to me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him and hurrying toward the door before he can ask if I’m Van Ross. I get it, it’s cool when hockey fans see their players out and about in Calgary, and I normally always take the time to talk to them and sign something, but sometimes getting even the simplest shit done becomes impossible because one overzealous fan attracts more, and then you’re surrounded in a grocery store by people who probably don’t even watch the game but want your autograph anyway so they can tell their friends about that one time that they met so and so. Like it actually matters.
Eli looks askance as we head out to the Hummer. I place the guitar on the floor of the backseat. He climbs in, and I jump behind the wheel and start the engine. We’re halfway down-town before he opens his mouth.
“Don’t,” I say, too loud in the cab of my car.
“Don’t what?”
I shoot him an irritated look. “Don’t ask me anymore about it.”
“Wasn’t gonna.”
“Bullshit. I know you.”
“And I know you.” He smirks. “The Van Ross I know doesn’t keep secrets about girls.”
“Well, maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Jesus Christ. You really are whipped.” He makes kissy faces at me.
“Cut it out.”
“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re mad.” He chuckles. “You know it’s only a matter of time before everyone finds out, right? You can’t keep it a secret forever.”
I sigh. I feel my exhaustion right down to the marrow of my bones. He’s right. Sooner or later it will come out that a country star is staying at my house, and then I’ll have to let her go back to Nashville, back to her life on the road—a life without me. I’m not ready for that. I’d be happy to keep her to myself for a while longer. It’s why I let her stay in the first place. I saw how desperate she was to escape it all, and I know that feeling well. The fame is a side effect of what I do. I couldn’t play in the NHL without it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. That’s why I live all the way out in the sticks, because I wanna come home and just be me, free of reporters and fans, just be a guy who happens to play the greatest game in the world, and who gets to pay the bills from it. For the longest time, it’s just been me and Emmett, and aside from a couple of quickies at parties or fucking a couple of puck bunnies here and there, that’s the way I’ve always wanted it. But having Stella in my house these past couple of days? It’s nice, and I’m not ready to let her go yet.
I pull up to the drive and stare at the house. It’s quiet, and I wonder what she’s been doing all day. Visions of her naked and diddling herself on my couch dance through my head, and I have to readjust my dick before I pull the guitar from the backseat and walk inside. “Honey, I’m home.”
Stella’s on my couch, alright, but she’s definitely not buffin’ the muffin. She’s sound asleep, and what’s more, she’s dressed in one of my flannels and a pair of tights that Em and I picked up from the mall in Calgary after practice on Tuesday, along with some tank tops, bunny slippers—because I couldn’t resist the joke—and bras and panties from Victoria’s Secret. We got some pretty weird looks in that store, but once I’d been made, I was asked to sign several pairs of panties that I have no doubt will wind up on eBay.
Stella’s hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, her face free of makeup, and she’s so damn beautiful it makes my chest hurt. She’s surrounded by pieces of wadded up paper, but one of them rests on the coffee table. It’s a song. I stare down at the lyrics, and a smile creeps over my face. I can’t believe she can create something like this.
I don’t create. I don’t make anything. I hit a piece of volcanized rubber around the ice with a stick, and I get paid a cool twelve-mil a season to do it, but I don’t create. I’ve never made anything a day in my life. It makes what she does for a living pretty awesome. It also makes me realize that though she might not want to go back right this second, she will soon. I can tell how much she misses it. I’d go fucking crazy if I couldn’t play hockey every few days.
I quietly set the guitar case on the table, brushing the few flakes of snow off that haven’t yet melted, and I grab the afghan from the couch opposite and gently lay it over her. She doesn’t stir, so I stoke the fire, which has almost gone out. As quietly as I can, I put another log on and get it crackling. Then I stretch out my aching muscles and sit on the couch beside her. There’s a whole other sofa across the room, and another couple armchairs, too, but her feet are freezing, so I pull them into my lap and rest my head against the soft leather. I have no intention of dozing off. I should get started on dinner, but I like being this close to her, and I don’t wanna walk away.
I stare at her sleeping face, lit by the glow of the fire and the dying light from the window. This is the first time we’ve been alone in my house. Emmett works Thursday nights and Friday mornings at the Calgary Hospital on the children’s ward filing paperwork, and lunch is spent with his social group outings, so he stays with our mom in Calgary on Thursdays. He hates it. He hates the social stuff, too, but it’s good for him, I think. Emmett doesn’t feel like a dude with Down syndrome, and he hates being forced to take part in group activities with people his age who have disabilities, but he goes anyway. I think because he knows people can be assholes, and girls won’t talk to him outside of that group. Unless, of course, they happen to be puck bunnies. Those girls only acknowledge him because they think it will impress me. Because talking to my adult brother as if he’s a fucking kid is super impressive. That doesn’t make either one of us happy. It just pisses both of us off, and ensures I’ll never give those bunnies the time of day.
Emmett’s a regular guy. Sure, he sometimes reverts to a bit of childlike behavior when he doesn’t get what he wants, but he’s the coolest guy I know. He’s my best friend, my world, and more important to me than any puck-fuck could ever be. Stella’s never treated him like the other girls do. She doesn’t talk down to him, she doesn’t seem uncomfortable around him, and she actively involves him in the conversation. I respect that about her, so much.
I don’t care that staring at her while she sleeps makes me a total creeper, and I don’t know when I’m going to ever get this chance again, so I slide my phone from my pocket, turn it to silent, and snap a pic. It makes a stupid rapid-fire clicking noise anyway, as if I’m supposed to believe there’s an actual shutter on my iPhone, and I wince because I don’t want her to wake. She stirs, but snuggles farther into the couch, and a chuckle escapes me. If I could carry her without fucking my shoulder even more, I would. I’d take her up to my room and lay her down in the bed, and just watch her sleep. Though she’d likely wake up, wonder what the hell I was doing, and start attacking me with my electric razor again.
Instead, I fall asleep with her feet in my lap, as if we’re an old married couple, as if we do this every day, and it’s the best sleep I’ve ever had.