Page 3

Chapter 3

Lana

T he air is much cooler this morning than it has been all month. Christmas is in the air.

Awesome.

I'm not normally this moody. But after my jackass of a neighbor pulled his little car stunt last night–it didn’t exactly put me in the Christmas spirit.

It does however, put me in the spirit to break a bunch of shit. If only I didn't have to sell or pawn everything off just to keep afloat this month.

Which is why as I'm taking a step at a time with my luggage with one arm, I'm also hauling the giant waste of space that's been sitting in my closet in the other arm.

I don't exactly know why I waited this long to get rid of the dress. I spent plenty of wine drunk nights crying, watching cringey rom-coms and occasionally looking at it hanging there from my closet door—a stinging reminder that I wouldn't be the girl that gets the happy ending.

Not for now. And honestly, maybe not ever.

Vance rounds his SUV all smiles. He was always the early bird between the two of us.

"Can I help you, Lani Banani?" He reaches for the heavy pile of white fabric hiding under a black garment bag.

I let him take it. "There are two boxes by the door if you wanna grab those, too."

"Sheesh, you weren't kidding when you said you needed to bring a few things."

"Yeah, well mom said she has a friend whose daughter is having a shotgun wedding and will be so pleased to get a wedding in a box. Her words."

He pops the trunk open and the first thing I see is twice the luggage I expected for my brother.

"I thought you said it was just a four day trip—why are you packing like you're gone until New Years?"

The sound of a voice clearing draws my attention to the front seat, occupied by the last person I'd expect to see sitting there, considering my very vocal rebukes of the player. Rebukes that I have not withheld from my brother.

"Hi," Trevor Sincaid says with a crooked smile and gentle wave.

I slam the trunk shut and turn abruptly to my brother.

"Why the hell is he here?"

Vance just looks at me. His eyes trying to tell me all the things his mouth won't say.

Don't be like this, Lana.

He was lonely, Lana.

Be nice, Lana.

"Absolutely not," I say to his wordless expressions.

"Look…" he starts.

"Absolutely not !" I grab my luggage and start rolling it back to my front door.

"And just how do you plan on getting to Breck then?"

I turn to look at him. "Oh, I'm a smart woman, V. I'm sure I can figure it out. But this…" I point to the guy in the front seat. "It's not happening."

The passenger door opens and Trevor steps out of the waiting vehicle. "I-is there a problem here?"

"No," Vance says, at the same time I say, "Hell yes, there's a problem!"

"Let me guess," Trevor says, leaning against the car and sliding his hands into his pocket. "Mick didn't tell you about me coming, did he?" He shoots my brother a glare.

Vance pops open the trunk again. "Fine, you caught me. I knew that if I told either one of you, you wouldn't want to come, okay? But look, we're all up and it's a beautiful day."

"How would you know? Sun's not even up yet," I murmur.

"That's what I said," Trevor adds.

"And we are all grown-ups," my brother continues. "Who can share a small space temporarily for the sake of having a great Christmas, right?"

Trevor and I stare at each other as I stand near the front door of my townhome, ready to just call it. I'm not doing this. His eyes are a soft brown, and even wearing a hoodie, I can see the sun-bleached brown of his hair poking out like he just ran a hand through it after waking up.

"I, for one, have no problem with any of that," Trevor says, grinning. His cheeks reveal two dimples that do nothing but further irritate me.

"Well, I would rather collect loose change from the streets to pay for a flight."

Which is exactly what I plan to do.

"La-na," Vance drags out my name. "Come on. By midnight, we'll be in a giant cabin in the mountains and you won't have to see him if you don't want to."

Trevor looks over at Vance confused, then back at me. "Why do I have the feeling you have something against me?"

I groan as I drag my luggage back toward my waiting brother at the back of his car.

"Because I do. I have a lot of somethings against you, Trevor Sincaid."

Vance drops the handles down and tosses my luggage into the trunk, rearranging things to make space for the other boxes.

"Glad we can be civil," he says to me, before heading back up the steps to retrieve the rest of my failed wedding belongings.

Trevor comes up to me.

"Are you going to tell me what those somethings are?" he asks like a curious puppy. A very cute, curious puppy. Damn him.

"Do you have a week?" I say, all bite.

"No, but I have four days and a really great attention span."

"Great, because I'll need every minute of those four days if you want to know all the reasons why I find you to be obnoxious, entitled, and everything that's wrong in professional sports."

I turn on my heel and open the back door, tossing my purse in.

"Okay," he says thoughtfully. "Listen, I can take the back seat, if you want to sit next to your brother," he says, appearing at my side again.

I can already see he has a very keen, inability to take a hint.

"I'd rather not have to interact with either of you at the moment. Thanks."

He backs up with hands surrendered, just as Vance tosses the last of my belongings into the trunk.

He shuts it and slides into the drivers seat. Trevor takes his spot in the passenger seat and Vance looks back at me, excitedly. "Ready?"

I don't grace him with a smile, instead I just stare at him with a blank expression on my face.

“I am!" my older brother says, ignoring me. He turns his attention to the radio and puts it on a Holiday station. As he pulls out from the parking in front of my town home, his teammate looks back at me.

His hoodie is still up and it's dark except for the small glow of the dashboard. I refuse to look directly at him, as I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the window.

But my body is fully aware of the way he's studying me. From my peripheral I can see his eyes taking me in. They study my black curls, drag down the length of my athleisurewear down my legs then back up, before he quirks up a smile and turns his body to face the windshield.

It's fast, the way his eyes soaked me up. But somehow it felt like time slowed as he watched me.

And I want him to know I don't approve.

"You got a problem wit the way I look?" I say to him.

Vance glances at me through the rearview mirror, brows cinched together.

"You know, if I wanted to die by way of looks I could've just gone to work today," Trevor says, not turning to face me.

"We can still make that happen. Space City Arena is just down the road. Care to make a pit stop brother and dump some unwanted baggage?"

"Ouch," Trevor says, holding his chest in mock offense. "You know, I'm starting to think maybe I'm not welcome."

"Starting?" I scoff. "Took you long enough."

Vance reaches for the volume knob and turns it down. "Nope. We're not doing this. It's Christmas, people. We need to be nice or at least pretend to be or we can just forget about the whole trip."

"I'm not doing anything," Trevor says, cocking his head my way.

I glare at him, doing my best to keep my clenched fists out of his view.

I know his type. Athletic. Charming. They win everyone with their dimples and abs. It doesn't matter if they're just walking dicks in the shape of men.

When I don't say anything else, Vance puts the music back up. I dig my phone out of my backpack. Mom's already shot over her "safe travels" text to Vance and I in a group chat.

I pull up her contact and type out a message just to her.

Me

Did you know about the Sincaid situation?

Mom's text comes in right away.

Mom

He's hot, right? *winky face*

Oh my god. My mother knew. She knew and didn't tell me. Despite everything I've tried to communicate to her about the Trevor Sincaid's of the world and my complete and total disdain for them.

It's easy to just accept his type when your entire career isn't built on fighting him and the inequalities in the sports world.

I take a deep breath as I try to calmly type out my next words.

Me

Mom. No. We can't just let him crash our Christmas. This is insane. Why didn't anybody tell me?

Mom

Lana, your brother called and said he had a friend in need. We aren't just going to leave him out on the streets.

Me

In need?! The guy makes bank, mom. Even as a new player. He wasn't going to be "out on the streets."

Please. I'm supposed to feel sorry for the lonely hockey star whose bare body graces the pages of a well known calendar and whose entitlement got my car impounded? I feel no sympathy.

Mom

You know what I mean, Lana. Since when have we ever been a family that turns people away?

If we were, you and Vance wouldn't be here.

I roll my eyes.

Vance and I are adopted. It's very clear that we are just by looking at a family photo. My dad is built like a viking and has long-hippy like hair that he wears in a man-bun. He wears flannels year-round and has a laugh that can rattle windows.

My mom has a delicate look to her with porcelain, doll-like skin and bright blue eyes and golden hair. And though she looks petite, especially when she's standing next to my brother and father—the woman is a force.

Vance has dark skin, brown curly hair and bright green eyes.

And me? I have mocha eyes, caramel skin and freckles. Lots of freckles. I never knew my real parents. Vance knew his, but refused to ever talk about them. We were just six and five when the MacDonald's took us in.

But where Vance and I grew up, we were always given assessing looks by complete strangers as we walked hand in hand with our parents. We didn't fit the description of what they would expect a typical Canadian family to look like.

And I may or may not have developed a really defensive way of approaching the world because of it. I don't take kindly to people assessing me. And so far, not even twenty minutes into this trip, that's all my brother's "downtrodden" friend seems to be doing.

Assessing me.

I choose not to further engage with my mom at the moment. She always looks at the glass half full and I have a problem with that. Because of course she would. People take one good look at Janie MacDonald and they want to help her. They want to make life easy for her. Mom doesn't know a world where people see her as a threat just by merely existing.

I feel the prickle of awareness on the back of my neck that tells me I'm being watched and I look up from my phone to see those light brown eyes on me again. The color in them is soft like amber.

At the sight of him I drop my phone and he reaches down at the same time that I do.

"Can you not invade the air I breathe?" I say to him.

He looks at me, smirking as he hands me the phone."Jeez. I was just trying to help. You texting Santa to make sure he adds me to the naughty list?"

"Oh, trust me. You're already at the top of that list."

"Good to know I make such an impression."

I can already tell this trip is going to be hell.

"You make an impression the same way a small rock inside my shoe would," I say back.

"Impossible to ignore?" he offers, with a small pull in the corner of his lips.

"Annoying," I say, turning away from him again.

Somehow that seems to please him, because from my peripheral I can see him still staring at me with that stupidly handsome grin.

"What?" I bark out.

"I'm ready to hear all the reasons why I'm the actual worst whenever you're ready," he says.

Vance gives him a glance. "Are you a masochist? Just leave well enough alone man," he says.

"No, your sister decided after one look at me that I'm the human equivalent of a vending machine that takes your money and never gives you what you pay for so I want to know why."

I internally applaud him for his creativity in the realm of analogies. That's exactly how I see him.

Vance just shakes his head. "Your funeral."

Trevor turns his attention back to me. "So? Let me have it."

I glare at him. "Well, should we start with the fact that you rose to the top because your daddy has more money than he knows what to do with so securing deals for his precious kids to get everything they want has become his own personal sport?"

He tilts his head but waits for me to say more.

"Or should we start with the fact that the only reason you're with the Heatwave is because you used your ex to help you get a spot on the team and then left her once you got what you wanted?"

He opens his mouth like he's about to say something then shuts it immediately, motioning for me to go on.

"Or," I say, "should we talk about how athletes like you are the very reason that I wake up everyday to teach a sport to young girls who all they want is to be taken seriously when their male counterparts just take their shirts off and get deals without ever having to prove their worth?"

"Is that what you think?” Trevor finally speaks up. "That I didn't get here on my own merits?"

"You're everything that's wrong in professional sports—flashy male athletes that dominate headlines while women who are far more talented constantly get overlooked. Never to be taken seriously. If we were to do half the things guys like you do, we'd be dropped from the sport without a second thought."

His body is now fully twisted toward me, "Careful little grinch, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were jealous."

"Jealous?!" I scoff. "Please I'm stating facts, Sincaid. If you're too dense to realize it, then that sounds like a personal problem. And the name's Lana MacDonald."

"Hm, sounds like a clown's name," he retorts.

"The only clown in this car is you," I bark back.

"Okay, you two…" Vance chimes in.

"No," Trevor says, putting his hand up. "She wants to pretend she knows everything about me, then let's do this. And allow me to set the record straight."