Page 39 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

W hen she said she was ready to go home, she meant Seattle. Kit was determined we find a flight as soon as possible. Especially me.

“You can’t miss another game,” she said. “I won’t allow it.”

Within hours, we’d closed up Anna’s house, dropped a key to Susan for emergencies, and boarded a flight.

I don’t know how Damian pulled it off, but he got us all on the same last-minute flight.

As soon as the plane took off, Kit passed out.

She slept the entire flight. A testament to how emotionally draining this trip was for her.

The only time she ever sleeps this well is after a major life moment. Or an especially chaotic day. She had said her mind is always all over the place, and I think that’s why she keeps her life simple. She doesn’t keep a busy schedule—a good day for her is living her best homebody life.

I overheard her speaking to Willa, earlier.

She said she hated dragging the rest of us into her vortex, these past days.

But none of us wanted to be anywhere else.

And honestly, her storm isn’t the tornado she thinks it is.

Her childhood trauma, her mother’s tragedy, those are huge.

Everything else, though, only feels overwhelming to her.

She’s not the burden she’s been taught to believe she is.

I’d weather a million of her hurricanes.

Because on the other side is her, looking at me like I’ve hung the moon.

When, really, it’s her who has. I don’t know if she’ll be able to forgive me.

I’ll live with whatever she decides, as long as it isn’t cutting me out of her life completely.

Loving her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Losing her would be the hardest.

My future, whatever it looks like, includes her in it.

Her father is a piece of shit for not seeing how great she is.

What he said, about her being indifferent, was bullshit.

Had he cared enough, he’d have tried to learn why she doesn’t process and react the same way as most. Instead, he put the responsibility on her, a child.

A child who didn’t understand that what she was doing was different from everyone else.

I understand how challenging it can be to live with a neurodivergent person. When you love someone, though, that challenge isn’t difficult. It becomes part of life, of who you are. It becomes precious and beautiful. Different isn’t bad. I happen to think it’s better.

Fuck him for not seeing that. Fuck him for dismissing her. Fuck him for not begging her forgiveness.

Also, bravo to Kit for having the strength to tell him goodbye.

Kit will always be my priority, but she’s right about one thing. I can’t miss another game. The regular season ends with the next game, which is only twelve hours away.

Flying from one side of the country to the next, and still being ready to suit up, is part of the gig. I’m not worried about that. With our playoff spot secured, I’m not worried about that, either.

I can taste the cup, though. Fuck, I want it.

Zander picks us up at the airport. I help load luggage, while Damian gets Kit and Willa settled in the backseat. They’re both practically dead on their feet after a long few days.

“Fair warning,” Zander says after shutting the hatch. “Cillian wants a word with you.”

“A word, or right hook to my jaw?” I ask, assuming my fuck up with Kit has finally found its way to him.

“Could go either way,” he answers.

“I’ll take whatever he decides. Hopefully, we can squash it and not fuck up the team dynamics.”

“You both damn well better. I want the cup.”

“You and me both, man.”

Me calling Kit his wife’s name was always something I knew Wylder would find out. There was no way around it, just like there’s no way around him being pissed off about it. I get it—I deserve some level of retribution. Avoiding it only makes things worse.

So, when I get to the arena, he’s my first stop.

“You want your shot before or after I attempt an explanation?” I ask, dropping my game duffel into my cubby.

“Explain, first. That way, I know how many hits to take.” He looks up from the bench, a scowl on his normally smiling face. “You’re not leaving the locker room without new bruises, though.”

I take a seat next to him, releasing a heavy sigh. This conversation should be happening with Kit, first. She’s not ready, yet—her plate is full of more important situations. It’s understandable, but still, I wish it was her sitting next to me to hear this.

“As a kid, did you have a picture in your head of what your life would look like?”

“Yeah, to an extent,” he says. “I daydreamed of The Show, like we all did. As I got older, I imagined a wife, lots of kids, family.”

“Me too. Exactly that,” I say. “It shifted as my real life changed. I mean, as a shithead kid, I imagined a new woman in every city for my first few years as a pro.”

“Most of us did. I thought the same until I met Isla,” he says, a brow raised pointedly.

“Again, me too.”

“Murphy, you are dangerously fucking close to being taken to the floor,” he says, jaw tight. “I’ve spent days dreaming about beating the shit out of you for calling Kit my wife’s name.”

“I know, I know,” I say, raising my hands in peace. “I’m not in love with your wife, Cillian. I thought I was, once. Now, I know better.”

“Because you love Kit?”

“More than fucking life itself,” I say, dropping my head into my hands, rubbing them through my hair that’s getting too long. “I’d give everything up for her—no regrets.”

“That doesn’t explain how you ended up calling her my wife’s name.” He sounds calmer, but the threat is still evident.

“The night of the gala, when I heard you were going to have another kid, it all shifted for me again. I don’t know if Kit will ever want kids.

She’s said she’s never even entertained the idea.

With the path her life has taken, it’s understandable,” I say.

“I came to Seattle wanting what you have. Now, I want something else, but I didn’t fully realize that until I heard about the pregnancy.

My head was full of this realization—sorting through it all, trying to be certain.

I couldn’t make declarations to Kit without being sure, you know? ”

“So, what? You were so in your head that you didn’t know who you were talking to?”

“No, of course I knew who I was with. But yes, I was so in my head that my mouth moved faster than my dumbass brain. I was thinking about how clear it was that I hadn’t ever been in love with Isla.

I care about her, of course, I do. It’s not the same, though.

And I was thinking that I don’t want what you have.

Not Isla, not a floating house full of kids, not a hockey empire family. Just Kit—and whatever that looks like.”

“I’m not sure I buy that,” he says.

“Really, dude? I was confused about a fork in the road I didn’t expect to be at. You, of all people, know what that’s like,” I say. Because he had his own crossroads when he got to the NHL, and he fucked his path up, too. It cost him years with the love of his life, and his daughter.

“You’re getting an extra fist to the jaw for that,” he says, eyes narrowed.

“But you have a fucking point, asshole. When I ended up in Boston, my dream didn’t change.

I still wanted Isla, and a family with her.

My circumstances got in the way, and I couldn’t see it as clearly.

I’ll regret my bullshit for the rest of my life. ”

“We’re human, dude. We fuck up sometimes. I wish I hadn’t—I never want to hurt her, and I did,” I say, looking up to the ceiling and sighing again.

“Is she still upset? Or did you work it out in Maine?”

“We haven’t discussed it yet, at all. Not with everything else that happened. Maine was heavy,” I tell him. “You can’t even guess how heavy. It might be a while before she gives me another chance.”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“The same thing I’ve been doing. I’ll be supportive of her, I’ll work my ass off for the team, and I’ll wait until she’s ready.”

He stares at me, contemplating something I can’t guess, exactly. A few moments pass before he speaks again, quieter this time.

“The boys expect a fight. I think they’re amped about it. Let’s make it good—get the blood flowing for everybody before we hit the ice.”

“Get your shots in,” I say, suppressing a smirk as I stand up. “Make them good, Wylder. You’ve been waiting for this for a long fucking time.”

“You bet your pretty face I have,” he says before he takes his first swing. Moving into it, I take the hit on my jaw. Shoving him off, I brace for his next. It lands on my side.

The guys crowd in, all talking some level of shit. Letty whoops the loudest, but it’s Hugo’s comments that have me laughing. He thinks Wylder bloodying me up will finally give him a chance at “his Kit Kat.”

“In your fucking dreams, Blom,” I say. “You next, man? I’d love to see your little goalie arms try to bruise a real hockey player.”

“Ooh, them’s some fighting words if I ever heard them,” Letty says.

“Goalie arms? My arms aren’t small,” he protests, holding them out in front of him and inspecting them.

“Does your mommy tell you you’re a big boy?” Letty asks him.

“Yeah,” Hugo answers before he catches himself. “Fuck off!”

The ribbing and shoving lasts until nearly every member of the team has insulted everyone else. It serves its purpose—Cillian got to relieve his aggression toward me, and the boys got out a bit of pre-playoff pent-up energy.

As a team player, I don’t mind being the brunt of it all. When we take the ice, it’s with renewed morale, which shows in our play. We’re faster, in sync, our passes landing more than not, and our shots on goal beat out our opponents almost by double digits.

Cillian and I won’t ever be anything more than friendly, but it’s nice to know he can put aside his annoyance with me for the sake of the team.

Per usual, the other team gets chippy in the third period. Everybody acts froggy when they’re down by three goals. I get it, but I’m tired of getting checked into the fucking boards every time my stick connects with the puck.

Mullins, their defenseman, who I’ve known since camp as a teenager, blows into me from behind within seconds of Wallin passing me the puck. It’s a shitty hit and he knows it. When I spin to face him, he’s ready for the fight.

Blame pent-up frustration from this past handful of days, or the shit between Wylder and me, earlier, or maybe just my love of how physical this game is.

Whatever the reason, I fly at Mullins—fists first. Despite being prepared for it, I surprise him with my enthusiasm.

My first hit takes him to his back. I go with him, because my coaches always told me to follow through.

Of course, we both end up in the box, and I get a few minutes for my blood rush to subside. The fucker got one good hit, which happened to be on top of where Cillian punched me earlier. It smarts, now, it’s going to be a bitch of a bruise, later.

It doesn’t matter, though. We win the game and the fans are all hyped as we head into the playoffs.

“As much as I’d love for you two to bury your bullshit, I’m going to advise against it until after we win that cup,” Coach Cole says to Cillian and me. He wears a wide grin as he walks to his usual place in the locker room for his post-game speech.

There’s a text from Lottie waiting for me after I’ve showered and changed.

Lottie:

OMG, great game, bro! I wish I’d been there. CALL ME!

“What’s up, sister?” I ask, calling her on my drive home from the arena.

“Dude, you got beat up tonight.”

“You should see the other guy,” I say.

“I love it when you fight,” she says almost wistfully. Lottie is a pacifist in her own life, but damn, that girl loves a good sporting rumble. “That’s not why I called, though. Or you called…whatever. How’s Kit?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess. She’s got a lot to work through.” I don’t hold secrets from my family. They know all about my fuck up the night of the gala, and I filled them in on some of the details from my trip to Maine. Kit’s full story isn’t mine to tell, but they know enough.

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot. Every time I do, I start to cry. She really doesn’t have any family, and I can’t imagine what that’s like,” she says, even now, getting a little choked up. “Would it be okay if I texted her?”

“Of course it would, Lot.”

“Okay. I just…I just want her to know she’s not alone. You know?”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” I tell her, holding back my own emotion. How lucky am I to have such a loving and supporting family, and what have I ever done to deserve them? When someone like Kit gets so little, it makes me painfully aware of how unfair life can be.

“Even if you can’t fix things with her, I’m going to be her friend. Okay?”

“Yes, and I fucking love you for it.”

“I love you, too, Tyson,” she says before she goes on a rant about how I need to ice my face. “In fact, you should probably ice bath. Did you do that at the arena tonight?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“That’s good. You need to be ready for the next game. Dad says we’ll try to get to as many games as we can. Mom’s already clearing the calendar of any other commitments. Whatever that means, it’s not like we’re the Kardashians or something.”

This then leads to a whole conversation about the latest celebrity gossip. Something about a book to movie controversy and lawsuit. I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. It never matters, though; I just like listening to her.

Kit calls her ADHD her squirrel brain. Lottie is the same, jumping from one topic to another faster than I can sometimes keep up with. I’ve never minded it. It keeps my life interesting, and who wants a boring life?