Page 8

Nash

I wasn’t exactly surprised to wake up alone. Porter always left super early for training—even on Sundays, though on Sundays the team only had early morning conditioning. What surprised me was that I hadn’t heard him get up and leave.

My phone was on the bedside table and through the open doors, I could see across the hallway where my my clothes were folded in a neat pile on the end of my bed. How dead to the world had I been? Holy crap. I mean, sure, we had fucked a couple times last night in a fuck-nap-wake-fuck again pattern, but I shouldn’t have been that knocked out.

I grinned into the pillow. I couldn’t complain since it was because of Porter. Inhaling, I breathed in, inhaling his scent and letting it fill me the same as it surrounded me. With a happy sigh, I flopped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling then laughed. Last night I’d been so distracted by Porter that I didn’t realize he had motivational messages plastered to his ceiling.

My eyes pinned to one in particular by Mike Eruzione. “Hockey is a metaphor for life. You have to be willing to get knocked down and get back up.”

That was something I needed to remember. I’d been knocked down early with my mother disappearing and my dad being an alcoholic crook who had tried to rope me into his schemes. I’d heard horror stories about foster homes, but for me, I knew it had been the best thing to ever happen to me. If he hadn’t been arrested, I would have gone down that path, been a crook like him.

Trouble was, I’d kept myself down, and kept myself small ever since then. “Keep your head down; don’t get noticed.” That had been my motto…until last night. Last night I’d stepped outside the shell I’d kept around myself for years. And look what had happened.

My phone dinged letting me know I’d missed a call and I had a voicemail. That must have been what woke me. Scooping it up, I reclined back on the pillows, holding my phone over me to read the screen.

Unknown caller.

Ugh. Probably spam. Out of curiosity, I opened the voicemail and hit play.

“Nash, this is Fletcher George…”

Porter’s dad? Why was he calling?

I sat up, trepidation roiling in my gut.

“I’m calling because, well in short, I know your background and who your father is, since I check into all the people around my son. Please call me, so we can talk about this.”

I dropped the phone into my lap as he finished with his phone number and disconnected.

“Shit,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face. I should have known better than to think I could just be with Porter, that my past wouldn’t rear up again and ruin everything.

I’d spent the last eight years doing whatever I could to not be like my father and he was still poisoning my life. I wouldn’t let him poison Porter’s life, too. He had such a promising future, with professional teams already scouting him for training camp this summer and placement on their teams this fall. There was a real good chance he’d land with the Charleston Lynx and be staying right here in South Carolina, albeit a little over two hours from where we were now.

And me…? I had the gig with two of my friends as Nerd Patrol. We were growing by leaps, and it was lucrative for all of us, but what would they think if they knew my background?

My eyes closed and I shook my head before I climbed from the bed. Unsure what to do, I just stood there for a moment, looking around Porter’s space, taking in the bits of his life all around. Hockey. Everything hockey. It was his life, everything he’d been focused on. He’d once told me he started playing when he was four. een years he’d worked toward his future. I couldn’t screw it up.

The phone rang in my hand as I stalked toward my room, still unsure what to do.

“Hello,” I barked into it, not even looking to see who was calling.

“Nash?”

I froze at the sound of my little brother’s voice. We didn’t talk often, both of us trying to make our way in life, but he was my only family. And if he was calling me this early on a Sunday morning, when it was barely five a.m. where he was, something was wrong.

“Knox. What’s wrong?” I asked, suddenly on high alert.

“They kicked me out. Said…I was eighteen and…They kicked me out.”

Mother fuckers. The kid had just turned eighteen this past week and had a couple more weeks of high school before I brought him to live with me, or near me, depending on Porter. Something I had yet to discuss with my new boyfriend. Well…would-be boyfriend.

“Where are you?”

“One of my friends has been let me squat on his couch, but his mom and dad said I had to go before Monday.”

Shit.

“You should have called me sooner. I’m going to come get you. Do you have your stuff? Can you meet me at the airport?” I asked. I already had my laptop open and to the airline site to buy tickets.

I supposed that I could just buy him a ticket and have him come here, but to my eyes, Knox was a vulnerable teenager. I’d never forgive myself—or his mercenary foster parents or the system—if something happened to him.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’m getting tickets, and I’m going to send you some cash. Once you get to the airport, go to one of the restaurants or lounges and wait for me. I’ll be there in… Looks like in about six hours.”

“Thanks, Nash.”

“Don’t worry. We’re gonna get this all worked out.”

After hanging up with Knox, I rushed around my room to pack up a few things and my laptop. I’d work on the plane and while I was in California, taking care of my brother. Then I’d come back here and take care of Porter.

I didn’t call back Fletcher George, however. That would have to wait for another day. Knox was the priority right now, and I was rushing to him. It wasn’t until I was almost to the airport that I realized, in my rush, I’d forgotten my phone somewhere between talking to my brother and flying out of my apartment. But as I climbed out of my car at the airport’s long-term parking, it was too late to deal with that problem, too.