Page 1 of The Home Game

CHAPTER ONE

Matt Carlson pulled through the gates into his driveway, confused by the unfamiliar minivan parked next to his real estate agent’s Lexus.

The minivan was a little older, a little beat-up. It reminded Matty of the kind of thing he’d driven when he was playing in the East Coast Hockey League and making peanuts.

Weird for a guy buying a multi-million-dollar house.

Maybe it didn’t belong to the man who was supposed to be touring the place today though?

Maybe it belonged to a contractor or something. There weren’t many repair jobs left to tackle before Matty sold the house but at some point, the gutter guy was supposed to be stopping by to replace a section along the eaves and somebody had to deal with the broken-down tennis court.

God, it was going to be weird leaving.

Matty had been so excited when he bought the house. He’d held Courtney’s hand as they strolled through it, happy and excited about their future. He’d imagined the home filled with children’s laughter, with a wife he loved and the big family he always wanted.

But Courtney had left with some scathing remarks about his masculinity, taking a giant chunk of his NHL salary and all of his plans for the future with her.

Matty didn’t know why he’d been paying to live in this giant house and its big echoing rooms. He should have sold the place years ago.

He still didn’t know where he’d live once the sale went through, but at this point, he didn’t fucking care, just wanted to be rid of it and the lingering embarrassment at the way his marriage to Courtney Quinn had ended.

Maybe he’d just start sleeping on his yacht.

Matty had paid enough for that fucking thing too. It had been a dumb purchase after the divorce when he’d been trying to convince himself he could be a rich, single guy who enjoyed a lifestyle of casual sex on yachts.

Yeah, that was so not him.

Matty had kept the yacht because he liked being out on the water and liked having a place his teammates could hang out, but otherwise? It was a giant waste of money.

And he had plenty of dough but sometimes he felt like he had no idea what to do with all of it so he just bought random shit to feel like he was doing something.

Matty got out of his Jeep with a shake of his head. He knew he wasn’t the smartest guy on the Toronto Fisher Cats team, but wow he’d made some really, really stupid mistakes over the years.

Now, it was only eleven a.m. but the air felt oppressive as Matty reached for his golf bag. It had been hot on the course this morning, the mid-August sun beating down as he played eighteen holes with a few of his teammates to celebrate turning thirty-three yesterday.

Matty tossed the golf bag over his shoulder, then ambled toward the minivan, curious to see if it held tools. There was no logo on the side or anything.

He peered inside, expecting to find it empty, and jerked in surprise when he saw a man with his head in his hands. His shoulders shook and he looked … God, was he crying?

Oh no.

Matty rapped on the window, calling out, “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

The guy startled, eyes wide and terrified as he glanced over, and Matty realized he probably looked scary as hell standing here all big and hulking and holding golf clubs.

Like some kind of brute who was going to smash in the van window or something.

Matty set down the bag and held out his hands, smiling, palms forward in a universal gesture of, ‘see, I’m harmless.’

The window rolled down, the glare from the bright sun disappearing and giving him a better look at the man inside.

“God, sorry!” he gasped, his chest heaving, eyes a little red and lashes wet with tears. “I am so sorry. I’ll get out of here!”

He fumbled for the ignition and the van started with a reluctant rumble.

Matty frowned. “Seriously, man. Are you okay?”

A fresh wave of tears spilled over the guy’s cheeks but he hastily wiped them away with the back of his hand. “You’re here to look at the house, yeah? Sharon’s inside. I’ll get out of your hair. I won’t be buying this place anyway so it’s all yours and—”

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