Page 9 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

“You were supposed to wear a costume when you come to a costume party,” Sloane says, appearing with her hands on her hips, looking annoyed with me. Behind her, the Halloween party is in full swing, guests mingling.

I’m sitting in the corner of the room, an untouched beer in my hand. Our next game isn’t for a few days, but I always feel weird drinking during the season. It always seems like I can tell the difference even a single beer makes in my performance.

“I am wearing a costume,” I assert, twisting slightly to show her my back, which shows my name and number.

“It was literally on the invitation: No hockey outfits.”

“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t see that,” I lie. I did see it, but had no energy or time to come up with a Halloween costume. That had been Mandy’s part of the deal for the past three years, and the holiday snuck up on me too fast for me to come up with anything interesting.

Sloane lets out a long breath and drops onto the couch next to me, letting her body sink into the cushions. Then, saying with her eyes shut, “You’re going to have to help me up from here.”

“Sure,” I mutter, taking a tiny sip of my beer, “as long as…”

But my words trail away when the front door opens and Wren Beaumont steps through it, wearing a Boston Tigers jersey, complete with black smudges under her eyes and a football tucked in the crook of her elbow.

The football pants are tight around her ass and hips, socks pulled up over her calves.

She’s gorgeous, and I’m not blind to that fact.

Neither are the other free agents in the room.

I try to keep from grinding my teeth together—her looks are probably another part of the way she distracts, bait and switch.

“Ha,” Sloane says, her eyes following the path of my gaze. “That’s funny—maybe I should have said no athlete costumes. Here, help me up so I can go say hello to her.”

“Absolutely not.”

Sloane blinks, her mouth falling open slightly as she looks me up and down. “What the hell has gotten into you, Luca? You’re like a different person around her.”

“Someday,” I say, sighing and standing, reaching out to help Sloane to her feet, “we’re gonna get burned by this woman, and I’m going to expect a written apology from every one of you.”

“Fine,” Sloane laughs, “if I agree to that, will you stop being majorly weird about her?”

I nod. Another lie.

Sloane pats me on the shoulder and moves toward the door. A minute later, I hear the sound of her laughing, and I turn, leaning against a wall and watching as Ruby, Astrid, and few others gather around Wren. They talk to her, compliment her outfit, laugh together.

Then Wren’s eyes meet mine over Sloane’s shoulder, and she winks.

A ripple of something nearing obsession moves through my body. I want to cross the room right now and grab her by the shoulders, insist that she come clean about whatever it is that she’s hiding.

Throughout the rest of the party, Wren circles the room, talking to the guys, cracking jokes, generally charming everyone. I watch her the whole time, and she occasionally catches my eye, like this whole thing is just a joke between us.

When she’s dancing with Finn O’Brien in the center of the room, laughing and turning around so her back is to him, his hands on her hips, I realize my fingers are white around my beer bottle.

I just can’t stand the idea that the other guys don’t realize what she’s doing here—fucking with us. Waiting to feed information to other teams and take us out of the running for the Stanley Cup.

And if that’s not the plan, then it’s something else I haven’t quite figured out yet.

Moving to the kitchen, I dump the rest of my beer down the sink, rinse the bottle and toss it in the recycling, then walk right out the back door and pull out my phone. A week ago, I saw an ad for a private detective and took a picture, thinking it would be dramatic, but potentially worth it.

Now, I fill out the form on the P.I.’s site, detailing who I want information on, as I walk out to my car. Hopefully, they’ll get back to me soon, but until then, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.

***

Wren leaves the complex on Sunday at ten in the morning, and I make a note to check the security footage later to see what she was doing in there for two hours.

I knew she would come. She comes to work even on the weekends.

Like always, she leaves out the side door and walks briskly to her car, unlocking it and sliding inside. I took her advice, but instead of driving my EV, I did her one better and rented a car—a minivan. Something I would never own.

After waiting for a second, I start it up and follow her out of the parking lot.

Just like last time, Wren does a lot of nothing. Stopping by a post office, picking up a few books from the library, coming out of the grocery store with dry goods.

Then, I follow her to the nicer part of town, where the buildings go from crumbling brick to newly constructed stone, their facades shining with large windows.

We come to what looks like an apartment complex, a large fountain running in the center of a courtyard, and she loops around the fountain once before parking in the lot.

It’s only when I park and get a good look at the sign that I realize where we are.

Oak Park Retirement Home.

I feel something prickle at the back of my neck—aren’t the elderly the easiest to take advantage of? They’re always the ones falling for those social security telephone scams.

After she goes inside, I slip in after her.

“Sir?”

I stop, turning to the front desk, where a middle-aged woman sits, smiling up at me. “Are you here to visit someone?”

“Uh, yes. I am.”

“Alright, I’ll just need you to sign in here, and I’ll write you up a pass.”

I glance toward the hallway where Wren disappeared and think about how hard it will be to find her now, but step to the counter and follow the instructions.

Georgia—according to her name tag—is perfectly nice, but takes her time typing in my name and printing out my tag.

I’m struggling to keep from tapping my foot by the time I get it, and can turn toward the hall.

“Just check in with the nurse at the desk,” Georgia says behind me, “and she can help you get to the right room.”

“Great, thank you so much.”

When I step into the hall, I’m hit with a particular smell—mashed potatoes and cleaning supplies. The faint, fading scent of fresh paint. So, this is a new building, likely full of wealthy elderly people. It makes sense why Wren would choose this place.

Taking a random guess, I turn right down the hallway and keep my eyes peeled for the nurse’s desk. Maybe I’ll ask after Wren to see which way she went, pretend I came here with her.

I see the desk, but before I can reach it, a man stops me.

“Well, I’ll be! Luca McKenzie?”

I wince, wanting to ignore him and keep moving, but I worry that if I do, he’ll just shout my name louder. So I turn, smiling at him and tipping my head down to meet his eye. He’s a short guy with a square face and wears a Vietnam War veteran’s hat.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, sticking out my hand to him. “Thank you for your service, sir.”

“Thank you for yours!” he says, lifting his own hand—blue veins, thick knuckles, age spots—from his walker and thrusting it toward me. I take it, finding his skin soft, and his grip surprisingly strong.

“I’m a long-time hockey fan,” he goes on, “wanted a team here since I was a kid. And now we finally got one! I can stop watching the damn Wild. Even if you don’t win the cup, that’s enough to thank you for.”

That draws a genuine laugh out of me. “Well, I’m glad I could help out. Did you—?”

“Luca?”

The sound of Wren’s voice causes the words to die in my throat as I jump, turning to see her standing at the doorway to one of the rooms—eyes fixed on me. Something flashes over her face, and I try to read the expression before it disappears but don’t quite catch it.

Did she know I was following her this time? Or is this a surprise?

I’m not sure which I want to be true.

Something tells me she knew, but didn’t expect me to come inside.

For a second, I feel something mirroring shame, but I remind myself that my intuition has never led me wrong.

Just a few years ago, I had the sneaking suspicion that something was going on with Callum and my sister.

I’d pushed that away, thought there was no way it could be true. Then I found out I was right.

Even though I’m glad to have Callum as a brother-in-law now, I don’t want to be blindsided like that ever again.

“Wren, you know him? You’re in close with the Milwaukee Frost?” the man asks, his eyes darting back and forth between us. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Sorry, Reggie, I guess it never came up,” Wren laughs, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “What are you doing here, Luca?”

Before I can answer, a shaky feminine voice floats out of the room, “Wren, dear, what is going on out there? Did you get my water?”

“Sorry, Gran,” Wren calls back, and I notice the cup in her hand for the first time. “I just ran into a…friend.”

“A friend?” the voice comes again, excited now. “Well, tell her to come on in!”

Wren is still staring at me with a wary look, but sighs, stepping to the side and gesturing for me to go inside, like it’s not worth it to argue.

I raise my hands, suddenly having the realization that I might have gotten ahead of myself with this whole following her into the nursing home thing. What the hell am I doing here?

“No, no, that’s—” I start.

“Is that a man, Wren?” the woman laughs roughly. “Tell him to come sit down! I insist!”

“She insists,” Wren says. And this time, when she meets my eye, there’s a challenge there. “Unless you’re going to be late?”

“Late?”

“To see whomever you’re visiting?”

We stand there for a moment, gazes holding, and I find myself rising up against the challenge.

“Nah, I’ll come in. I have plenty of time.”