Page 36

L ike confidence, fear is a funny thing. Not haha funny … more weird as fuck funny.

Facing guys bigger and stronger than me, with literal weapons stuck to their feet, happens on the daily. And I love it.

Facing my little big sister with bright pink Doc Martens on hers is a much more terrifying prospect. But it’s what I’m about to do.

What we’re about to do.

“She’s been so good to me since we met. What if this splits us up? What if it splits you two up …” Lotte gasps, then slaps her hands over her mouth. Something I only now notice she’s stopped doing. “WHAT IF I AM YOUR FAMILY’S YOKO ONO?” Horrified, she’s up, pacing circles and wringing those poor, delicate little fingers.

There’s a temptation to taunt her over her boomer music taste, but she’s too distraught to make it fun. “You are no one’s Yoko Ono. Besides, blaming a woman for breaking up the Beatles when there were loads of other factors is totally misogynist, and—” my rant is short by Lotte’s soft, strawberry scented lips pressing against mine while she climbs into my lap.

“That’s the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Awareness that my sister could enter the house at any time cycles through my mind but it’s no completion for the warm, wet tongue sliding between my lips, or the hand dancing over the rapidly expanding bulge in my pants. Even when I hear the car door, or the clomping footsteps on the porch I struggle to break away. It’s only when the jingle of keys, and Claire’s trademark greeting, ‘Honey’s, I’m home’, does enough blood evacuate my groin to promote action. “Lot. Lotte, it’s Claire.”

By then it’s too late.

Lost in the moment, Lotte’s still grinding, riding me like a horse as Claire swans in. Kelly’s short-lived obsession withFengShui dictates the sofa face the entry, so Claire and I lock eyes and the disappointment on her face hurts more than anger would. She clears her throat and Lotte seizes mid grind.

“I knew it. I damn well knew you couldn’t keep your dirty mitts to yourself.” Her bag drops to the floor, its contents spilling out over her beloved parquetry. No attempt is made to gather her belongings, and she doesn’t storm out. Instead she stomps her way over and squeezes in beside us.

It’s beyond uncomfortable and I cannot for the life of me picture why she did it.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute, Lotte, but Noah.” Her choice in seating position becomes clear as she reaches behind me and slaps the back of my head. “What the hell? Of all the girls you had to tap, why did it have to be Lotte?”

“Tap?” I snort, “Tap? I am not tapping Lotte.”

“Sure looks that way.” I follow the direction of her rage-filled eyes and find that yes, I do currently have my hands on Lotte’s ample ass, and yes, I may well have been mid slap before we were interrupted, but that’s hardly the point.

“Yeah, well, even if I was, why does that bother you so much? Am I that much of a creep?”

“You’re not a creep, but Lotte is innocent and needs my protection.”

“Hey!” Suddenly defrosted, Lotte dismounts, stands and slides her skirt back over her ass. “Please stop talking about me like I’m not here. I am not some delicate little flower that needs protecting. I love Noah and I think he might love me, and nothing you say will change that. To be honest, I’m beginning to think your Lady Catherine de Bourgh style objections have nothing to do with protecting me and everything to do with protecting Noah’s career.” She continues ranting and pacing, basically laying down the law in no uncertain terms, and only stops when I rise and she slams right into my chest. I scoop her up in my arms and hold her so close we can barely breathe.

“What?” I can feel the moment realization strikes, her body stiffens and panic rambling sets in. “Oh my God. I just dropped the worst I love you ever. I’m sorry. I was never supposed to say that. It was friends with benefits till you leave. Love wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal?” Claire asks to deaf ears.

“Deal or no deal, I don’t give a flying fuck.” Holding her like this isn’t enough. So I lift her off her feet and kiss her hard and deep, breaking free only when the inconvenient need for oxygen becomes too urgent to ignore. Our foreheads clunk together and regardless of who is in the room, we stay that way, panting, eye to teary eye. “I love you so much, Lotte. From the second I first saw you crying over that cake, I never stood a chance. I don’t want us to end when I leave. I want to make it work. I want you.”

“But how?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. But if you’re willing to try, I’m equally willing to do everything I can to make it happen.”

“This is ridiculous and can only end badly,” interjects Claire. “I promised Mom you’d make it. I can’t let anything or anyone stop you.”

Lotte turns to face her, “No one is going to stop him from making it. I’ll simply be holding his hand as he does.”

Argument forming, Claire sucks in a breath but stops when Kelly, who has sat, listened and carefully considered each spoken word, enters the fold. Her always happy face is glum, the same frustrations that dogged her when Claire was at theNeuroclinic showing. “Claire, this is getting out of hand. You need to stop.” A simple hand placed over hers stalls her wife’s retort. “You love Noah. You helped raise Noah. But he is Noah. Not Claire Jr. He is a grown man, not the little brother you swore to protect. You need to focus on yourself and let this go. Lotte loves him, Claire. Let them be happy.”

Exhausted and talked out, we leave home two hours later, no closer to a resolution. No amount of reasoning could change Claire’s mind. Not how I’ve been supporting Lotte to process the news about Professor Carole, or her job or school. Or Kelly’s reminders that Lotte has helped me turn from a thoughtless, self-centered, spoiled hockey boy into a caring young man who wants to be someone’s everything. If anything, she sees that as proof of the distraction romance brings.

Ultimately, having my sister, a woman who I adore, who has cared and nurtured me through my teenage years and supported me while grieving Mom hurts like hell. But deep down I know it’s nothing to the pain I would feel if I walked away from Lotte.

The night has worn my girl out. Sound asleep when we pull into her pot hole-filled parking lot, I carry her limp body upstairs, down the hall and tap the door with my foot.

“Shh,” I whisper and nod to the still snoring beauty, when Quinn, dressed in a satin pj’s, her face covered in chocolate ice cream, lets me in. Silently, she follows me through to Lotte’s bedroom, opening that door too and watching on as I lay her down and tuck her in.

“I take it things didn’t go well?” She sighs the second we are out of earshot.

“Could say that.”

“Hmm. I had a shit day, too. Fancy a beer?”

Feeling my body slowly deflating, I prop myself against the wall, and slide down till my ass hits Lotte’s hand quilted rug. “Quinn, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted one more.” She pats my head like a dog and pads towards the refrigerator.

“So, Claire won’t be co-chairing the Lotte and Noah fan club with me?”

“No. She might be up for the - my brother is a greasy hockey slut who can’t remain faithful and will crash and burn in his rookie year if he has a girlfriend - club.”

“Yeah, but that’s going to be a lot harder to write it on a banner.” An ice cold beer is placed in my hands, and consumed in one solid guzzle.

“Thirsty?”

I nod, schooching over so Quinn can plop beside me on the sofa. She drags Lotte’s favorite crocheted blanket over her bare feet. A subtle waft of vanilla and coffee sparks a thousand tiny embers to life in my brain, the scent so quintessentially Lotte. “Could say that.”

“Disapproving family is tough. I’ve given Mom and Dad every reason to be distrustful with who I give my heart too, but Claire is way off being so worried about Lotte. That girl is coo coo bananas for you. She would never hinder your dreams.”

No, she wouldn’t, I think to myself as I nod again. “She could change them, though, and I think that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

What do I mean?

“Playing in Florida next season means I won’t be graduating, but …” I pause, pondering if I’m really pondering what I think I’m pondering, and suck down the last remaining drops from my empty bottle.

“But?” Quinn grunts and lands a sharp kick to my thigh. “That was a big but, Noah. But what? What?”

“Well, Lotte will still be here in school so … I’m thinking … it might be good for my life after hockey if …” Again, the million or so opposing thoughts clogging my brain grind to a halt. And again, Quinn kicks me back into action.

“Stop stopping and tell me.”

“Right, sorry. Well, the average NHL career is five years right. And that’s if you don’t bust a nut and get put on permanent IR. So I need to have something to fall back on.” I take a deep breath and finally say, “I’m thinking of asking my agent to ask Tampa for another year at school.” It all comes out as one word, and for a second Quinn’s blank expression leads me to think she didn’t catch what I said.

But only got a second.

“Holy hot fucking hockey boys,” she squeals, tears bursting from her eyes while leaping from the sofa, and performing some kind of happy dance before wrapping me in a too-tight-to-breath hug “You two are so getting married.”

Married?

The image of Lotte standing at an altar in a white dress, her eyes shining so brightly as she looks up to me and promises to be mine, has tingles swirling up and down my spine. “Hope so.” I sniff, not at all feeling close to crying along with the now sobbing Quinn. “That’s if Claire doesn’t unalive me first.”