Page 8 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

For the first time in years, it’s not Isla’s face that immediately illuminates behind my closed eyes as I lie down to sleep.

It starts with my pretty neighbor, instead.

My curiosity about her is what lulls me.

Mentally, I tally a list of questions I want to ask her.

I’ll never remember them all. Besides, it’s not like I can show up on her door and bombard her with them just to slake my wonder.

The more I know of her, the more I want to know. What was her life like in Maine? Why doesn’t she have people there? What heritage does she have that makes her skin the perfect shade of sun-kissed bronze, even in the depths of the PNW’s cloudy season?

She comes across as a carefree spirit. Smart, but playful and funny. I can’t imagine her being awkward. What triggers her?

Is that why she’s single? Fuck, is she even single? I have no idea; it hasn’t come up in conversation. I just assumed.

I fall asleep imagining the answers to all my questions.

When I wake, it’s from a familiar dream of the woman I once loved and the family I thought I might have. The mind is a devious cunt.

On the plane to the next city, I avoid Wylder. It’s not hard, and probably even expected. Instead, I take a spot several aisles away, with our goalie, Blom.

“How you settling in, Murphy?” he asks after we take off.

“Eh, you know how it is. Mid-season trades are messy. Especially for us singles who don’t have a partner to handle the logistical shit.”

“I hear that. When I went from Anaheim to Toronto, it was a nightmare. You don’t have a home. Which, I guess we should be used to since we’re in hotels so much, but you need that base to reset at.”

“Yeah, I’m crashing at a friend’s house while he’s not using it. But it’s not the same. Nice place, though, and I have a friendly neighbor,” I say.

“Hot and friendly? Or, like, a nice grandma who will bake you cookies kind of friendly?”

“Definitely hot. Fucking gorgeous, really. And funny. But it’s not like that.”

“Why the fuck not? I’ve seen you leaving the arena with women. Having someone next door would be convenient as hell,” Blom says.

“Or more complicated,” I argue. “I don’t know that much about her. I mean, I met her before I moved down, but I didn’t know her, you know? I’m not even sure she’s single. Maybe Zander knows.”

“Zander? Why would he know?”

“She’s a friend of Willa’s. That’s how I met her before, when I was…” I trail off.

“Ah, right. Wait a fucking minute,” he says, turning in his seat to look at me. His eyes narrow into small slits, a frown forming on his bearded face. “Are you talking about Kit Kat?”

“Kit Ashcroft?”

“Motherfucker.” He plops back in his seat with a long, drawn-out sigh.

“What am I missing? Is she not single?” I ask.

“Oh, she’s single,” he grumbles. “I’ve been trying to get her to let me take her out for months. With no damn success, and now I have you, the Pretty Boy, to contend with. What hope does the weirdo goalie have?”

“Come on, man. You’re selling yourself short. I heard you had a hot and heavy affair with that actress.”

“I did, but Britton Macy is hung up on one of her old co-stars. Again, how do I contend with that?” He crosses his arms over his chest, pouting like a toddler. It’s almost adorable. “I’m doomed to be second choice.”

“I’m probably not the right one to ask about that,” I say glumly. “I’m pretty good at being the runner-up, too.”

“Yeah, I guess you would be,” he says. “I look at Wylder, Zan, and Gavin and think there’s someone out there for everyone. Fuck, just wish it was my time.”

“You lonely, big guy?” Letty asks from the seat behind Blom.

“Yes,” Blom answers. “And also, fuck you.”

Letty laughs and they trade a few more jabs at each other. While I ruminate on what Hugo Blom has just said.

I wish it was my time.

It hits my heart, because I wish the same.

Growing up, family was as big as hockey for me.

I thought I’d have what my parents do. They fell in love young, had me not too long after, followed by Lottie.

My childhood was good, active, and healthy, thanks to my parents.

My mom is a natural nurturer, my dad is the type of guy who wants to teach everyone everything he knows.

If he doesn’t know it, he’ll learn it along with you.

They’re who I wanted to be. I still want that. A partnership where we support each other through life. A wife that will help me grow as much as she’ll let me help her. That’s what I pictured my life would be.

Then, I met Isla. For a while, my dreams were on track.

Before we both realized she wasn’t over Cillian.

After he came back into her life, I spiraled into the man-whore people expect professional athletes to be.

Shamelessly, even. After my issues one night in Montreal ended up in the tabloids, I settled down some.

My mother had a lot to do with that, she put me through the wringer for days. She can lecture like no other.

Now, being in Seattle, with the constant reminders of Isla, I can see myself falling into old habits. Bad habits. Habits best left behind.

I’m reminded of something Mom said to me.

“You’ll never find the love of your life while you’re distracted by one-night stands.”

“Say that again,” Blom says, and I realize I said it aloud.

“My mother told me that, once. You’ll never find the love of your life while you’re distracted by one-night stands.”

“Well, fuck my life.”

“Right?”

“Does that mean we have to be celibate until we find our person?” he asks, aghast.

“Probably. Though, I haven’t cut those off yet.”

“What if she’s right?”

“Then all we’re doing is prolonging our own misery.”

“Sure feels good, though,” he mumbles, balling up his hoodie to use as a pillow against the window. “Be careful with her.”

“How do you mean?” I ask.

“That Kit Kat has something fragile about her,” Blom says. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve caught a faraway look on her face a couple of times. She’s special, but something haunts her. I’d bet my Stanley Cup ring on it.”

It shouldn’t, but that information only makes her more intriguing. Who is Kit Ashcroft?