Page 7

6

Luke

“ H eaded out so soon?” a shrill voice calls out behind me as I walk across the parking lot. The breeze brings a bit of a chill to the early evening air, and the sky is painted in various shades of blue and gold.

Glancing over my shoulder, I slow but don’t stop. Jenna Packley jogs to catch up. She shoulders an obnoxiously large bag, and her keys jingle in her hand with the movement.

“Did you want to maybe grab a bite to eat or something?” she asks when reaches me. “These practices can go so long that by the end of them I’m about ready to eat my shoe.”

“It was only an hour-long scrimmage today.” Even though it felt much longer than that.

She brushes my comment off. “There’s a great bar just down the road that has the best wings.”

Ah, so we’ve gone from grabbing a bite to now a bar.

Jenna’s pretty, I’m not going to deny it. She’s got shoulder-length golden-brown hair that she clearly puts a lot of effort into. Her makeup is light but enough to show that she’s done it. And being a former hockey player herself, she’s still in good shape.

But I’m not interested. Not in the slightest.

“I’m headed over to my dad’s for dinner tonight,” I say, reaching my car. It beeps as I unlock it and throw my duffel into the backseat.

Jenna stops next to it, standing a little closer to me than she should be, and bats her eyelashes at me in disappointment. “Well, maybe next week then. I’d love to get to know you better.”

I close the door and lean against it, crossing my arms. “Because we’re co-workers?”

She smirks. “Of course.”

Sure.

I’m not trying to be a total dick, so I say, “I appreciate you and Alice welcoming me into the fold here, but I’m not interested in anything beyond that.”

“If you’re not ready to date, I understand.” Her hand extends toward me, as if she’s going to pat my shoulder, but then it retracts when she sees my darkened gaze. “I’m sorry to hear about your divorce.”

My jaw clicks. “Why would you be sorry about that?”

“Well—” she sputters. “I just thought—It’s polite?—”

“Polite to bring up private business that has nothing to do with you?” If she thought she was going to gain some sort of brownie points with me by bringing up my failed marriage, she has another thing coming.

Her mouth gapes and cheeks flush bright red. The keys in her hand jingle as she fidgets with them.

“You don’t know me,” I say. “We work together, and let’s keep it at a professional surface level, alright?”

“I really wasn’t trying to?—”

I don’t care to hear anything else. Without letting her finish, I get in my car and shut the door with a pointed thud . As soon as she backs far enough away, I reverse out of the spot and take off toward my dad’s house.

It’s a quick drive back to my hometown where my dad still lives in the same house I grew up in. The trees lining the familiar street are just starting to transition, dusting the roads in splashes of orange and yellow leaves. There are times when I wished I still lived in the city, but autumn in Michigan isn’t one of them.

I turn left into a cul-de-sac, driving straight ahead to the white cottage house with blue shutters. Warm light glows from the windows inside, and I can make out Dad sitting in his recliner. I slowly lumber out of my car and up the few steps to the front door.

“Hey, Pops,” I say once I walk in the door. The instant smell of sugared vanilla hits me like a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.

Dad cranes his neck, pulling his attention away from the baseball game he’s got on. “Son, glad you could make it.” He shuts the footrest of his recliner and meets me halfway across the living room for a hug. While he’s getting old, he’s still strong as he slaps my back. “Good to see you.”

“You too. Thanks for the invite.”

He waves me off. “You never need an invite. This is your home.”

It is, but it also isn’t. Even when I was in the league and living in New York, I was still close with my dad and brother. But being back in the same area as them feels different. Like they carved a new way of life here that I no longer quite fit into.

“You need a haircut.” That would be my brother’s way of greeting me. I turn toward the kitchen as he strolls over wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“If you had hair like mine, you wouldn’t buzz it off.”

He flips me off before pulling me in for a quick hug. He’s a couple inches shorter than me but just as strong. He has the same dark eyes too, just like our mom, but unlike me who has always embraced the flow of my hair, he keeps his military short.

Even though he’s a high school history teacher.

“Gotta grow up sometime,” he teases.

I follow him into the kitchen, Dad trailing behind us. The floorboards beneath my feet creak as we walk; the symphony of my childhood.

“Hey, S,” I greet Sierra, my sister-in-law, when we enter.

She flashes me a brief smile over her shoulder as she pulls a large pot out of the oven. “Good to see you. Been awhile.”

Sebastian claps me on my shoulder as he steps around to help Sierra. “I know,” I say. “Been busy.”

“Bullshit,” Sebastian calls me out.

Sierra slaps his chest with wide eyes. “Language.”

“It’s just like Mom is still here,” I joke, earning laughs from everyone. She used to always scold me and my brother for our language, even though it was a losing battle with the mouth on Dad.

Sierra moves around the kitchen with purpose while she directs Sebastian on where to put what dishes and handing him items to run over to the table. When Dad tries to jump in and help, she waves him away with a sweet smile. “Take a seat, Shawn. It’s almost ready, and your son can do the heavy lifting.”

Dad mutters something about not being incompetent just because he’s old, but he lumbers over to his usual spot at the dining table. It’s an old oak-wood table with so many dents and scratches to it I’m shocked no one gets splinters. It was a wedding present my parents got and was the table we used to sit around as a family every single night.

My dad will probably take it to the grave with him.

“Smells good, Sierra,” I say as I settle into my usual seat as well.

She deposits a bowl of potatoes in the middle of the table and pushes her blonde hair behind her ears. “Thank you. I got a new recipe to try from Elle.”

I feel everyone’s eyes shift to me, gauging my reaction. If they expect me to rage, to burst into tears, to storm out, they’re mistaken. They may not understand the reasons for my divorce, but I do.

“That’s great,” I say evenly. “She was always a great cook.”

Sierra watches me, her expression unreadable, before she heads back into the kitchen with my brother to grab the remaining dishes.

Dad clears his throat and runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “You talked to her lately?”

I ball my fists beneath the table. “Why would I?”

“Because you have history. You’re not with someone for that long without?—”

“Without what?” I cut in. “Without caring? Without wanting to keep in touch? We’re divorced,” I say forcefully. “For almost three years now.” I pointedly look at Sierra and Sebastian as they settle across from me. “I wish her nothing but the best, but we’re done.”

Sierra bites her tongue, clearly wanting to say more about her friend, but she must think better of it. Good . What the fuck is with everyone bringing up my divorce today?

Dad cuts through the tension he created by saying, “Let’s say grace.”

We all dip our heads, and once he’s done, bowls of potatoes, veggies, and some sort of chicken pasta are passed around.

There’s an invisible weight on me every time I feel Sierra’s eyes dip to the empty chair on my right and settle back on me, disappointment and a little contempt filling them. She and Elle grew close over the years, and out of everyone in my family, she took the divorce the hardest.

“How’s the team looking?” Sebastian asks when the silence grows taut.

I shrug and take a bite of pasta. “Fine.”

“Got any potential?”

“Maybe.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “More than one word answers too hard for you?”

I sigh. “Alice thinks they have a shot at the Frozen Four this year. Guess they came up short last year.”

“You don’t think they do?” Dad pipes in.

We’re only a few weeks into the season, and I haven’t seen them tested in an actual game yet. “Hard to tell.”

“How are you liking it so far? Bet the girls have been loving you,” Sierra chimes in.

“Not as much as you’d think.” I snort, thinking of Kilcrease’s smart mouth today during the scrimmage. The way her pale cheeks flamed in anger…I kinda liked it.

I mean, yes, I still feel the stares from some of the other girls, and some are bolder with their interest than others. But as the season goes on, they’ll lose interest.

“If you need any pointers at all, let me know,” Sebastian says over a mouthful of food.

“Babe, I love you, but I don’t think there’s anything you can teach Luke that he doesn’t already know. He’s the one who was in the NHL after all.” Sierra hides a smile, and I decide I’ll let her off the hook for her obvious rift she still feels on behalf of my ex-wife.

Sebastian looks at her with wide eyes. “I’m not talking about playing! I mean coaching.”

She rubs his shoulder and winks at me. The corner of my mouth threatens to rise, and I tamp it down.

“Thanks, man. I think I’m good, though.”

“First seasons can be hard. If you change your mind?—”

“Yep. Will do.”

He looks wounded at my quick denial, and Dad shoots me a reproachful look. Sebastian has been coaching for years, so I know he would have some good insight. He’s a great coach and is respected among his players, which can be a tall task with teenage boys.

It’s not that I don’t think that he can help me. It’s just that I don’t want help. I don’t care for tips and tricks on how to be a better coach.

But as I sit through the rest of dinner, listening to the chatter around the table while eating my first home cooked meal in I can’t even remember how long, I find my mind drifting back to today’s practice. More specifically, Lennon’s goaltending.

Alice is right. She’s talented and definitely has earned her spot as their starting goalie. But as I thought she would, when she gets under pressure in a game setting, she panics. Not all the time, but often enough to allow for mistakes. And those mistakes lead to goals. It’s clear she holds herself to a high standard because even though she took her frustration out on me today, it’s her own errors that caused it.

She might’ve thought I wasn’t paying attention, but I was marking every single time she dropped to her knees too quickly and left the slots over her shoulders exposed. I marked each time she worked herself into a frenzy when a player stood at the front of the crease and blocked her vision of the puck.

She’s capable of more. And she knows it.

I’m starting to see it, too. The potential, her hunger for the game, it’s starting to pull at something in my chest that I want to keep locked far, far away. I won’t allow it.

I can’t allow it.

Once we finish eating, Sebastian and I tag team the dishes while Sierra and Dad sip coffee in the living room. They try to convince me to stay to watch an episode of Shark Tank, but I bid them good night and head home. My social battery expired halfway through the meal, and I’m ready for the peace and quiet of my apartment.

Once I park in the underground garage and make my way up to the third floor, I almost collapse when I open the door.

The walls are empty, and the shelves are filled with a few items that the apartment was originally staged with that I never bothered to replace with more personal touches. Even the furniture are all the staged pieces, some of it more comfy than others. But I can’t bring myself to change it. It doesn’t bother me. It’s home.

For now.

I flick on the lamp in my bedroom and quickly shower and brush my teeth before climbing into my unmade bed. This room is just as untouched as the rest of the apartment, but it brings me an odd sense of comfort. The white walls, plain bedding, nightstand free of knick knacks or clutter.

One might call it empty. And sure, I guess it is.

My life is empty, but that just means there’s no more room for disappointment to pull me under again.