Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 12
Crosby
The last box in my kitchen is labeled MISC—DO NOT OPEN IF ANGRY, a well-aimed warning that I should heed. Inside is my grandmother’s tea service that was handed to me from my mother when she and my father downsized their home so they could “travel the world” after they retired. It didn’t go to Birdie because Birdie doesn’t have a house, only a suitcase she lives out of, so I was the recipient of a tea service I’ll never use.
I carefully slit the tape with my box cutter and eyeball a glass-door cabinet where they would admittedly look pretty upon display. I gently pull out each piece, remove the bubble wrap, and set it on the counter. From there, I’ll transfer them to a cabinet. If I break one, my mom will skin me alive, even though she handed them over to me for safekeeping.
Birdie sits on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by crumpled packing paper and a half-empty Chinese takeout container. We’ve often been mistaken for twins because we look so much alike. She has the Hale dark hair and the hazel eyes we inherited from our father, although hers lean more green than gold.
“You sure that should go there?” she asks, eyes cutting between the delicate china and the cupboard.
“Positive,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Unless you finally want to settle down, quit that ludicrous job of yours and buy a house where you can keep the teapot.”
She snorts. “Pass. I like my nomadic life very much, thank you.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. As much as I hate her work, I do enjoy that she can visit me for weeks at a time, meaning we spend far more time together than we’d be afforded if we both had normal jobs.
She’s been here a little less than three hours, and I put her right to work helping me unpack.
Birdie has never owned a home, and she’s barely rented an apartment. Between saturation jobs, she floats around either crashing with friends scattered across coastlines and continents or visiting either me or our parents. She lives lightly, leaving no permanent imprint anywhere except on the people who know and love her.
Birdie rises from the floor, stretching her arms overhead with a low groan, vertebrae popping audibly. She rolls her shoulders once, then lets her gaze roam the kitchen, taking inventory of a job well done. Cabinets closed. Counters clear. No boxes left except the one I’m still handling like a bomb that needs defusing.
“Look at you,” she says, satisfaction curling her mouth as she scoops up the last of the trash and drops it into the bin. “You’re officially domesticated.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I grumble. “Ruins my reputation.”
She bumps my hip with hers as she passes, playful but in a familiar way only Birdie manages. “So, tell me how training camp went.”
I slide open a cabinet. “Let’s say I’m glad it’s a wrap.”
“And you survived.” A statement of fact because she knows. I’ve been through enough camps that survival is assumed, especially with a solid contract and a starter’s net behind my name.
Nearly ten years in the league and it never gets easier. Camp always winds you tight, even when your spot’s secure and even when you know where you stand. It’s weeks of everything turned up to eleven—lungs burning, muscles screaming, bodies colliding.
Then come the cuts and starters are announced. That leads to quiet goodbyes in hallways and parking lots, men trying to hold it together as their lives shift sideways.
And tomorrow the season starts. We have the home opener against the New York Vipers. The first real test… the first game that counts.
“What about Arch?” she asks.
“He’s golden. Going to be our third-line center.”
The words feel good to say. I would have been more than bummed had he not made it.
“Sweet. Can’t wait to congratulate him and also collect that fifty bucks he owes me.”
I glance over at her, brow furrowing as I reach for a stack of delicate saucers, testing their balance before committing. “For what?”
She leans back against the counter, arms crossing like she’s savoring this. “Last time I visited you in Winnipeg, that party you had—Beezo’s birthday.”
“Yeah,” I say, the memory hazy. Teammates. Noise. Someone inevitably shirtless.
“He bet me fifty dollars he could hold his breath longer than me.”
I pause mid-stack, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before I can stop it. “What an idiot,” I chuckle, setting the saucers carefully onto the bottom shelf. “Why would you even dare to bet a saturation diver such a thing?”
“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” she says smugly, grabbing a bottle of water. “Tell me what’s going on with the documentary.”
I bobble one of the cups as I pull it out of the box, hating that the mention of that infernal film brings about thoughts of one distracting documentarian.