Page 9

SIX

COURTNEY

The knock on my door startles me mid-sentence.

“One sec, Dee,” I say, holding my phone to my chest. It’s late in the evening and with how quiet the apartment is, there’s a horror scene playing out in my head over who’s at my door.

I inch it open and peek outside to find the doorman holding a brown paper bag.

“Delivery for you, Miss Nilsson,” he tells me in his posh British accent, sounding like James Bond.

I blink. “I didn’t order anything.”

He shrugs. “There’s a note.”

“Oh okay, thanks…”

Taking the food bag from him, I inhale the warm coconut scent deep. My mouth is watering when I shut the door with my phone hand and cradle the food with the other.

“Delilah, someone just dropped off food.”

“Ooh… trash it. You don’t know who it’s?—”

“There’s a note.”

“Oooookay… What does the note say?” she asks eagerly.

I unfold it, squinting at the handwritten message while I put the food down on the kitchen island. “‘Enjoy. R.’ And there’s a kiss.”

“R for Robert. Aww, I take it back. Don’t trash it,” Delilah coos. “Your dad’s totally trying to win you over. Tell me there’s cookies.”

There’s one big cookie, and it smell gorgeous. So good, that I eat it first. Greedily .

I drop into one of the stools, pulling the contents out of the bag. “He’s trying really hard.”

“He loves you, Court. Maybe it’s time to let him in a little. Stop holding him at arm’s length.”

My throat tightens. The guilt tastes sour.

She doesn’t mean it like that, but it hits deep.

I want to open up to him. I do. But it’s been so long. We haven’t lived in the same city in years, and part of me’s still that little girl waiting for him to show up on the weekends he promised. Now he’s showing up, and I don’t know how to let him in without getting hurt.

Delilah softens her tone. “Has your mom called yet?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “No.”

“Really?”

“She never does after Martin loses it. She just… goes quiet.”

I press the heel of my hand to my eye. “I shouldn’t have gone back there, Dee. I knew how it would go. He’s an asshole.”

Delilah is silent for a beat, then says, “I don’t get it. I really don’t. Your mom’s so— her . She’s strong. Beautiful. Smart.”

“And she acts like she’s lucky to have him,” I whisper. “Like she owes him everything. I watched her make him dinner on her birthday while he drank his wine on the couch. Listened to him tell her she needs to look after herself more. Said his buddy’s wife got a body lift and looked amazing…”

Delilah makes a low, murderous sound.

“I lost it. I told him he was a piece of shit, and he threw his fucking wine at me. Then he grabbed my arm and threw me out of the house. Like I’m the problem.”

“What the fuck, Court?”

“It’s not even his house,” I say again, quieter this time. “It’s the house my dad gave her in the divorce. For me. For us.”

Delilah exhales through the phone. “You’ve got a Martin-free life waiting for you in New Orleans. And if that ever goes to shit, you’ve always got me. My couch. My bathtub. My Adonis-shaped candle collection.”

I laugh, my voice scratchy. “You’re the best.”

The mood lightens just a little, and we slip back into our usual rhythm.

Book talk always saves the day.

“The way the dude chases her down…” Delilah whistles.

“I want to be hunted,” I say, quoting the book. “Taken. Owned. ”

Delilah groans. “You are so twisted. I love it.”

“Don’t act like you’re not right there with me.”

“True. I am a slut for primal energy.”

She pauses, then adds, “Speaking of which?—”

“No.”

“Come on. Tell me it wasn’t hot when The Puckinator called you a brat.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere near Auguste Broussard unless it’s for work. Period.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

I am and I will.

The next morning, I step out of the building and stop dead in my tracks.

Auguste is leaning against his sleek black Lexus, hoodie up, coffee and muffin in hand like it’s totally normal to be waiting outside someone’s door like that.

He straightens as I approach. No sign of a smile on his face. “Courtney.”

“Broussard.”

He clears his throat. “About yesterday?—”

“What about it?” I stand tall, hands gripping my hips so I don’t give him the pleasure of snatching breakfast out of his hands.

“When… umm…”

“When…? When you ignored me? Or when you looked at me like I snapped your stick in half and pissed in your Gatorade?” My voice is flat. Ice-cold. Controlled, but I’m vibrating hot under my skin.

That twitchy, unsettled feeling makes it hard to keep my breathing steady when he comes closer.

“Grumpy asshole doesn’t even cover it,” I go on, pushing my finger into his chest now. “You were a walking tantrum with a god complex.”

Auguste just smiles. Like I haven’t just eviscerated him in broad daylight.

“Didn’t realize I left that strong of an impression,” he says, soft and unbothered.

My stomach twists.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.” He tilts his head slightly. “I’ve got the complex, remember?”

I hate how calm he is.

Like yesterday didn’t happen. As if he didn’t ice me out in front of half the team and make me feel like a damn leper for just doing my job.

And now? Now he’s all smooth edges and gentleman smirks, and it’s only making me fume.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer again, his voice dropping a fraction, “here you are.”

The air between us tightens.

My breath comes faster even though I fight it.

“For the coffee,” I snap. “Not the commentary.”

“And the muffin,” he says, holding it out. “Sugar helps your mood.”

I snatch them from his hand like it might erase the flutter in my chest.

“My mood’s fine.”

“Sure,” Auguste says, and I want to hit him. “You’re glowing with serenity.”

“You don’t get to act like you’re sweetness personified,” I say, low and tight. “You don’t get to be cute and calm and helpful when yesterday you were an unprovoked storm in a six-foot-two meat suit.”

His face softens just slightly, lips quivering with the murmur of a laugh. “I’m not pretending yesterday didn’t happen. I was an asshole. I know that.” He opens the car door for me. A silent offer. “But I’m trying not to be one today. That counts for something, right?”

My phone buzzes.

Hallelujah —my perfect out arrives.

I hug the muffin and coffee to my chest like they’re a shield and shake my head.

“You don’t get off that easy, Broussard.”

The Uber pulls up behind his car. The universe doing me a solid.

I don’t say goodbye.

I don’t look at Auguste when I climb in.

But the second the door closes, I feel his stare like a hand at the back of my neck.

Steady. Intense.

Like this is far from over.

And worst of all?

I’m not sure I want it to be.

It’s been a long day of going through photos, editing and getting them to the marketing and PR team.

After almost two hours of hiding out in the office, I’m glad to be done for the day.

No more purposefully avoiding Auguste Broussard so I don’t have to feign cool, calm, and collected again.

I don’t think I could, assaulting one of my father’s players is not the way I want my career to go down the drain.

Thinking of Dad, I send him a text. After I bailed on lunch today, I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful after he sent me dinner last night. Anyway, it would be nice to catch up over a drink before I go home.

Courtney

You still at the facility?

Dad

Wrapping up now. What’s up?

Courtney

Want to grab dinner?

He doesn’t even pause.

Dad

Always.

Ten minutes later, I climb into the passenger seat of his truck, greeted by the familiar scent of pine air freshener and the rumble of the engine beneath us.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over with a smile. “Wasn’t expecting this, but I’m glad you messaged.”

“I figured I owed you one,” I say, tugging my seatbelt across my chest. “For the last few days. For this whole opportunity, actually.”

His brow lifts a little.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy pulling strings for me,” I continue. “But I really appreciate you going out on a limb. It means a lot.”

“Court,” he says, his voice going soft, “I didn’t go out on a limb. You’re talented. You’ve got the eye. The position was open, and you earned it. But…” he smiles, “it’s good to hear that.”

We drive in silence for a few blocks. It’s not awkward—just easy. Calm. And strange, in a way, how natural it already feels to be back in his world .

When we pull up to his place, he tosses me a look. “You want the nickel tour?”

I grin. “Lead the way.”

He shows me through the entry, the spacious kitchen with sleek counters, and the living room with high ceilings and team memorabilia scattered around like museum pieces. Pictures of me from when I was younger sit tucked between team plaques and championship medals.

“You’ve got some serious decor taste,” I tease.

He smirks. “Don’t let the framed jerseys fool you. I’ve been meaning to hire someone to help me make this place feel less like a locker room.”

I laugh. “You? Let someone take over your space?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the person.”

Then he turns, rubbing his hands together like he’s got a secret. “You still like dessert before dinner?”

I blink. “Obviously.”

With a laugh, he pulls open the freezer and retrieves a Tupperware container lined with parchment. “Look familiar?”

Inside: cookie ice cream sandwiches—our old homemade kind. Frozen whipped bananas and peanut butter between soft-baked cookies.

I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “You made them?”

“Of course, they’re a staple in my freezer.”

We head outside and sit by the pool, each holding a tall glass of sweet tea and our ice cream sandwiches while the grill warms up.

It tastes like memory. The easy kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

He watches me between bites. “For the record, you never have to thank me for being your dad. That’s the one certainty in my life—I’ll always be your dad, Court. And I’m proud of you.”

My throat tightens. “You sure? Even after I didn’t move in with you this summer?”

He chuckles, warm and quiet. “Especially after that. You’ve grown into the strong, resilient woman I always knew you’d be.”

We fall into silence, sweet and slow.

The grill crackling as it heats. The pool filter humming gently behind us.

Then, he says, “Have you thought about coming back west? Maybe staying longer?”

I pause, watching the way the light shifts over the surface of the water .

“You could be here one day and on a different coast the next… maybe even in another country,” I say. “That’s the hockey life.”

“I miss you.” He exhales slowly. “And I think about you all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve fought harder. For your mom. For us.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t about you. I don’t think Mom was ever made for this kind of life.”

Silently, I realize: I don’t know if I am either.

I like the idea of putting down roots.

Of making a home.

Of staying.

Of building something steady—something that’s mine.

Maybe even… someone to share it with.

Dad nods, eyes soft. “She was never comfortable in the chaos. But you—you’ve got a different kind of fire, Courtney.”

I glance over, and he’s smiling again.

“You should be proud of what you’ve done,” I say. “Of everything you’ve built. Of all the dreams you’ve helped shape. All the people you’ve lifted.” Then, softly, “If anyone ever inspired me to believe in myself, to go after what I want… it’s been you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches across the armrest and squeezes my hand.

And for a little while, that’s enough.

That’s everything I’ve needed for years. Thirteen to be exact. Since mom took me away from him.