Page 4

THREE

COURTNEY

The silence in the penthouse is jarring.

It’s making me question whether maybe I should’ve taken Dad up on his offer to crash in his spare room. Question it as I might, my gut stands by this decision. Even if the more I look around the more lost I feel in the vacuous space.

My student apartment back in Virginia was always buzzing—pipes groaning, people slamming doors, neighbors stomping up and down the stairs like elephants.

Here? Nothing.

Just my breathing and the hum of the air particles around me. It should be peaceful, but instead, the quiet presses in from all sides while I continue wandering through the sleek, modern space, fingers brushing across the spotless granite kitchen island.

I move to the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors, pressing my hands to the cool glass surface along with my pounding head.

The glittering skyline of Los Angeles in the distance is beautiful—literally a city of stars.

Makes me question if I belong here—in this city, this apartment…

this job. I couldn’t even make it past day one without causing a ruckus and embarrassing myself.

Pressing my face harder into the glass, I savor the cold. The dull throb is right behind my eyes now and won’t let up. Even with the pain meds Doc gave me before I left.

At least I’m not dizzy or nauseous. Just exhausted.

I head back to the kitchen for a bottle of water. The only way I’m making it through this is by staying hydrated .

Sipping it slowly, I look around the open plan living space before I make a beeline for the large chaise with my backpack in tow. Everything I need to survive the night is inside—snacks, headphones, iPad, and kindle.

I’m making myself comfy in the mountain of decorative cushions when my phone buzzes.

Delilah.

I answer on the third ring and sink down into the cloud of feathers, hovering my phone over my face. “Hey.”

“Are you alive?” Delilah’s voice is the familiarity I need to make me feel somewhat at home. “Because if you died on day one, I’d sue the team, the league, and your dad.”

I laugh softly. “Not dead. Just mortified, maybe a tad concussed… I went down like a sack of potatoes in front of the whole team.”

“I can’t believe you really took a puck to the head?”

“Apparently my reflexes suck.”

Delilah hums with a light chuckle. “And let me guess. The guy who hit you was tall, scary, and unreasonably hot?”

“Broussard is a center—” Maybe a little bit hot. But that’s not relevant. “—it’s literally his job to smack the puck at his target.”

“You’re not a fucking target, Court.”

I rub at my forehead. “It was an accident.”

“Still.”

Talking about Auguste Broussard is a bad idea. It’s why I hesitate at first.

“Auguste was sorry. Drove me home…”

“And,” she croons, propping her phone up on her vanity while she knots her hair up on top of her head.

“And nothing. Not much else to say.”

With narrowed eyes she levels me with a knowing stare. “Really? Cause it sounds like you’re withholding from me. Your bestie. You know that’s against the BFF code.”

“Delilah—”

“What, Court? Auguste Broussard is delicious. Between him and Hillier… a girl could die real fucking happy.”

“Really?”

“Come on, Court. Admit it, you’re in hot girl summer heaven.”

“Sure.” There’s no way I’m giving her an opening to this conversation because as much as I adore her, Delilah will get carried away.

Besides, I don’t want to talk about Auguste. I really, really don’t. He’s cracked my head open and now all I can think about is the way he was looking at me when I came to—like he wasn’t sure whether to call an ambulance or punch out the universe.

Those mossy green eyes bugging out with his brows still pulled all tight. He’s so serious. All the time. Even when the conversation is light, he’s still… broody.

Anyway, I don’t need to start spiraling into wayward thoughts. Nope. No, I will not be talking or thinking about Auguste Broussard and his impressive arms. Long, muscular, but with enough give that it didn’t hurt when he held me tight. Not one bit.

“Court…?” Delilah calls, clicking her fingers in front of her camera. “You’re quiet.”

“Headache,” I say, clearing my throat like that’s going to stop my brain from going through every second of what happened, all the way through to the elevator.

I’ve never actually heard a guy growl before. I mean, I thought I had, until Auguste did it and the sound literally ripped through the middle of me. I had to distance myself in case he felt my insides vibrate.

“Maybe you should go to the ER. Get checked out by a proper doctor.”

“I was checked out by a proper doctor, Dee. In fact, I don’t think any doctor will have as much experience with concussions as a sports team doctor. So…” What I need to do is reset.

From… now .

No more talk of Auguste Broussard. No more thinking about Auguste Broussard.

Done.

Nothing is getting in the way of my job or the time I’m supposed to be spending reconnecting with Dad.

“Fine. Okay, but I am not happy about it. Concussions and solitude do not go well together.”

I breathe out a soft laugh. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Okay, but I’m calling concussion protocol into effect.”

“Concussion what?”

“Bish, I’m staying on FaceTime with you tonight. All night.”

“What? Del?—”

“I’m serious. You are not dying on my watch. We’re binge-watching trash reality TV, I’m sending you Uber Eats, and if you start slurring or making less sense than usual, I’m calling 911.”

This is why I love her. Why I’ve never had the yearning for a sibling— aside from the fact that I wouldn’t wish Martin on any other person—I have Delilah.

“You’re the best,” I tell her, wriggling deeper into the cushions.

“I know. Now grab a blanket and?—”

My phone buzzes with another call.

Dad.

My heart sinks. I totally forgot to message him.

It’s not something I do. He’s always so far away, and it feels crappy to worry him when there’s nothing he can do to help.

So anytime I need help or anything else, I call Dee…

sometimes Mom. Although I don’t like hassling her either.

She has enough on her plate with the demanding douche canoe she married.

I hesitate on what to do for a beat.

“Hold on,” I finally tell Delilah. “It’s my dad. Let me talk to him real quick.”

I hold our FaceTime call and accept Dad’s voice call.

“Hey, Dad,” I greet him.

“Courtney…” His voice isn’t angry exactly, but it’s tight. Clipped. “You didn’t wait for me.”

“There was no need to make any more of a scene.”

“Tig, I had to hear it from Doc. From the players.”

I exhale slowly. “I was fine, Dad. Auguste drove me home. Doc said it was minor.”

“Don’t bring up his name.” Now, he sounds pissed.

“It was an accident.”

“It better have been a fucking accident?—”

“Daddy… I was in Auguste’s blindspot trying to get an action shot and the puck went astray. If anything, it’s my fault.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not the point. You should’ve waited for me. I should’ve been the one to take you home.”

“I just needed to get out of there. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. You were busy and I’m used to looking after myself.”

There’s a long pause.

“I get that,” he finally says, quieter. “But I’m your father. Let me be there for you, Court.”

My throat tightens. Shame coils in my gut.

This is why we can’t live together. Why we need to take our time reconnecting. Because I don’t want to say things that are going to hurt him. It’s not why I’m here. There isn’t a part of me that resents him.

“I know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I didn’t mean to shut you out, it just… happened so fast, and I panicked. I didn’t want to be the girl who cried for her dad on her first day.”

“Court… honey, I would’ve shown up for you.”

“I know,” I say again, voice smaller.

That’s what scares me about all of this. Being here. Letting him in. He’ll be the parent I’ve needed since Mom took me back to Washington after filing for divorce. When she was too angry and bitter at her choice to leave him. Then when she married Martin a year later.

What happens when I leave LA? When we’re on different coasts again?

“Lunch tomorrow,” Dad announces in a stern tone that evokes no arguments. “My office. I’ll handle it all, you just need to show up.”

“Okay.”

“Next time?—”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“If there is, I want you to call me. Please, Courtney.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me. I know how seriously you take promises, so?—”

“I promise, Daddy.”

“Thank you.” He’s quiet again for a beat; I’m about to say good night when he asks, “How’s the apartment? Everything okay?”

“The apartment? God, it’s huge. It’s… more than okay. I think it might be too much.”

“It's a great complex. All the guys that live there rave about it. Especially the rooftop garden and pool. There’s also a state of the art gym in the basement. Morrow and Hillier wax lyrical about it.”

“I’ll have to check it out?—”

“Not until Doc gives you the all-clear. I told him he’s to keep an eye on you until you’re one-hundred percent again. Seven stitches is not a joke, especially when it’s a puck wound. Those bastards cut deep.”

“It did leave me a little dazed.”

“Coach Hollinger said it knocked you clean out,” he bites back.

There’s nothing I can say to change the facts, so I remain quiet until he eventually tells me, “Get some rest. If you’re not feeling up to it, do not come in tomorrow. Nobody would judge you or think any less of you for it.”

“Okay, I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.”

“Good. Rest, Court.”

“I will.”

“And if you start feeling bad, call me. All right? ”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I love you, Courtney.”

“You, too.”

When he hangs up, I switch back to Delilah. There’s something in my chest that doesn’t feel easy. Like a lump in my throat, except it’s in my heart or something.

“Let me guess,” Delilah says gently, “Coach Dad is spiraling.”

I exhale shakily. “He was just—he was trying, and I made it harder. He wanted to be there and I didn’t let him. And I feel like the worst.”

“You’re not,” she assures me. “You’re navigating an awkward situation. Don’t put pressure on yourself. You’re allowed to misstep.”

“I just want to do the job right.”

“You are. You’re also concussed and dealing with a lot of… feelings . Which means it’s time for an escape. Some comfort smut.”

She holds up her iPad. “Primal Touch, just dropped. We buddy-listen. You’ll fall asleep to a growly hero saying ‘mine’ on loop and wake up better.”

My lips twitch. “You want to listen to violent audioporn with me as I battle a potential TBI?”

“Exactly.” She props her phone up on her bedside table and tucks herself into bed, laying on her side to face the camera. “Put alarms on every hour.”

“Already done.”

“Of course it is.”

“You don’t have to stay on with me all night, you know.” I pull my iPad from my backpack along with my comfy headphones and set myself up.

“It’ll help me sleep on the flight to Mykonos tomorrow. You’re doing me a favor.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re going to come back to the States a tanned goddess with an Adonis on your arm.”

“Amen, sister! Manifest that shit for me.” After a moment where she’s connecting her AirPods to her iPad, she adds, “I’ll also be happy with a sore pussy and hot memories for the spank bank.”

Our laughter fades into soft smiles as the audiobook begins. Delilah makes a joke about how the narrator’s voice sounds like sex and sin and I curl into the plush sofa, finally letting myself rest. Maybe everything isn’t perfect. But I’m not alone.

And that’s something.