Page 16 of No Shot (The Toronto Tundra #2)

Penn

I’m woken up from my pre-game nap by a sharp pang in my stomach.

Not unusual. I’d say nine times out of ten, I wake up ready to eat my way through the world.

I’ve got one serving of squash left, I guess, but just thinking about it makes me want to hurl.

It’s been delicious, don’t get me wrong, but it’s also bunny food, and I could smash ten burgers right now.

For a pre-game lunch, that just won’t hit the spot.

I could always order something in. Heading to the kitchen, I grab my phone and turn off my alarm.

Who needs one anyway when your internal clock won ’ t let you go more than four hours without sustenance?

I ’ m actually excited at the prospect of getting some real food in my fridge.

I ’ d be pretty sick to whip up some gourmet shit anytime I want day or night without having to wait for delivery.

Maybe next week she can show me how to make a lasagna or something.

I swear I could crush an entire pan right now.

My stomach gurgles at the prospect. Whipping open my fridge, I assess my incredibly limited options. I mean, I have a shit-ton of snacks, it ’ s like the world ’ s first fridge sized charcuterie board. I ’ ve got cheese, meats, dips, and chips, but I just want a little more substance.

Ah, fuck it. I ’ m out the door and praying my neighbor is home. To my sweet relief, she answers the door almost immediately. It ’ s then that my nose is hit with a rush of amazing smells.

Bri startles in the doorway for a moment, clearly surprised to see me here, but she recovers quickly with the usual smug look I like so much. “ Can I help you?”

I stumble in place, grasping at the door. “ Need food. I ’ ll perish if I don ’ t—” I take an exaggerated breath, slapping the back of my hand on my forehead. “ Eat,” I finish.

“ You ’ re an idiot.” Her laugh rings out, and my chest does this dumb little jump. I don ’ t get to hear it often, but fuck, is it special when I do. She cracks the door open wider, and I snap up, walking in quickly, not giving her a second to reconsider.

“ So, what ’ d you make me?” I ask innocently, trying to get a closer look.

“ I made me braised chicken tacos and churros.” My mouth waters at the sound alone. The moment I spot the tray of crispy, stuffed tacos, I fight to stay upright. So. Much. Better. Than. Squash.

“ You ’ re my favorite neighbor, Soup. Did you know that?”

She chuckles again, and I can ’ t stop the smile from spreading on my face.

“ Ugh, feels good to laugh. Even if it is at your lame attempts at flattery in order to obtain food.”

When I look over at her, she drops her gaze and busies herself with putting together two plates.

“ Have you had a hard day?”

“ Oh, um. No, it ’ s okay. Just messing around.” Why is she lying right now?

“ Come on, you can tell me.” I make my way over to comfort her, but she shoves a plate in my hand, pushing me over to a seat on the island.

“ They ’ re spicy, so be careful.” Pure avoidance, got it. I ’ m zero percent surprised that she ’ s locked down like a vault .

I take a massive bite of the shell, and it ’ s like an explosion of flavor in my mouth. Fresh lettuce with tender and spiced chicken, and rounded out by lime and cheese.

“ Jesus, this is unreal.”

She perks up, looking over to me for reassurance. “ You like it?”

“ You ’ re insanely talented. Seriously, I think you should make this every day. If I had one last meal on this planet, I ’ d want it to be this.”

“ Tell me, were you born this dramatic, or is it something you picked up along the way?”

“ Born this way, baby.” I emphasize it with a little eyebrow wiggle before inhaling the rest of the taco in one bite. She shakes her head, sitting next to me and taking a bite of her own. “ Whatcha been up to?” I ask.

“ Just the usual. Assignments, studying, work, and chores.”

“ Holy, your life is drab.”

“ Gee, thanks, Penn.” She rolls her eyes, but there ’ s a slight hesitation in her voice as she looks down at her plate. I was just messing around, but I can ’ t miss the shift in her expression. Guess I struck a nerve.

“ Whatever would you do without your quirky and ravenous neighbor stopping by and pumping mayhem and joy into your life?”

“ Be at peace,” she quips back, but I catch the corner of her mouth tug up before she covers it with a bite. She ’ s defrosting, I know it.

I ’ ve never had to try this hard, or at all, really.

Not sure why this game is so addicting, but I ’ m locked in.

I ’ m four tacos deep when a chipper chiming sound rings out. “ What the hell is that?”

“ Uhhh, my laundry machine,” she replies, sounding puzzled. She blinks, then tilts her head, a knowing smile breaking out, looking like a cat that just caught a canary. “ I fucking knew it.”

Shitttttt. Play it cool. “ What ’ d you know?” I reply, stuffing my face with the last taco. Dodge man, DODGE.

“ You know, I should of connected the dots when there were multiple pairs of boxers on hangers at your door.”

I widen my eyes at her. “ You little sneak. You ’ ve been going through my dry-cleaning?”

“ As if,” she denies. “ It ’ s just hard to miss when I have to walk by your door, and every day there ’ s a new chunk of pressed clothes.”

“ Maybe I just like getting everything dry-cleaned. Or, I ’ m too rich, handsome, and famous to deal with such trivial tasks.”

“ I don ’ t buy it,” she objects.

“ Fine, I don ’ t know how to do laundry, okay? I don ’ t even have a washer-dryer in my apartment. Jack was gonna teach me, but you know, he ditched and left me with you.”

“ Tough life ya got with a beautiful, quiet, and welcoming neighbor who feeds you.”

“ Humble too,” I mumble, trying to mask the embarrassment threatening to escape. I mean, I ’ m an adult, even I know it ’ s pathetic.

She pops up, grabbing our plates, before offering her hand out to me. I hesitate, my hand lingering in the air before I take it slowly.

“ Where are we going?”

“ To a wonderful and mysterious place,” she replies. I watch in fascination as we navigate to the laundry closet, where she starts to set up some sort of drying rack.

“ This.” She motions to the machine. “ Is a washing machine.” I suppress a sigh, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “ These clothes are wet. Clothes should be dry.”

“ Soup,” I warn with a grin, the playfulness in my voice matching the gleam in her eyes. Even when she ’ s giving me grief, it ’ s tough not to enjoy the back-and-forth.

“ I hang up most of my clothes, otherwise they ’ ll shrink in the dryer. The towels and stuff, though, we can throw in there. Makes sense?”

Actually, it does. “ Got it.” I pop open the door and start pulling out the initial items, handing them over to her. “ Wow, me and you doing laundry? Feels so domestic.”

I ’ m surprised by her groan. “ Yeah, that ’ s kind of my nightmare.”

“ Being domestic?” I inquire.

“ Not just domestic—I mean, the idea of giving up everything I ’ ve worked for to stay home... It kind of freaks me out.”

“ Why?” I genuinely can ’ t understand the extreme opposition.

“ Imagine working your whole life to build something for yourself—gaining independence, sacrificing day in and day out, creating a strong career—and then having to give it all up… It would feel like losing a part of myself.”

“ It ’ s not for everyone, I guess, but it ’ s not all bad,” I share. “ My mom stayed home with us, and she loved it.”

It ’ s one of the main reasons I had such an incredible childhood. She sacrificed so much for my brother and me. She ’ s always been the most selfless person I know. I hope she never felt like she had to give anything up—that raising us was everything she wanted.

God, I wish I could hug her right now.

“ Don ’ t get me wrong—it ’ s the perfect life for some. Being home and raising a family is everything they want, and that ’ s amazing. It ’ s just not what I want. I ’ m on a different path, and my dreams are too much a part of me to let go of.”

“ It ’ s cool that you ’ ve got such a vision for yourself.” Her faint smile doesn ’ t reach her eyes. I hand her another shirt as an awkwardness settles between us. “ Well, that got deep.”

“ Yeah, my bad. Bit of a trigger there for me.”

“ Shit, I feel like I should confess to some sort of crime I haven ’ t committed or something now.”

She chuckles, but it ’ s dry. “ What ’ s your biggest fear?”

I blow out a breath, running my hand across my jaw. “ I don ’ t know… a five-foot-two brunette when she ’ s grumpy, I guess?” That earns me a shove to the arm. “ See! Fucking terrifying.”

“ Ha, ha, very funny.”

“ No, I guess, um…” I think through the thoughts of doubt that swirl in my head.

I ’ ve always wondered if I ’ m where I ’ m meant to be.

I started playing hockey because my brother, Reid, fell in love with the sport.

He was such a great player, and I just tried to follow in his footsteps as best as I could.

I don ’ t even know if I ’ d be playing had he not led the way.

“ Sometimes I wonder if I have what it takes.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Like in the NHL, I don ’ t know if I ’ m cut out for it.”

Her face grows somber. “ I seriously doubt that.”

“ It ’ s true, when I was younger, I got a lot of opportunities because of my brother.

He was a lot better than me, but he got injured, and just like that, I had my chance to take his place.

If we went head-to-head, I never would have won.

It ’ s been a long string of things just working out for me, but I think my luck is running out. ”

“ Penn, you can ’ t be serious. It takes a lot more than luck to make it as far as you have.” She places her hand on my arm. I ’ m not used to this comforting side of her; it ’ s different, and I kind of like it.