Page 12 of The Best Friend Power Play

My body is falling apart.

If injuries don't end my career, being one year shy of thirty probably will.

I have no idea what I want to do with my life post-hockey.

I've never had a serious relationship.

I'm under water financially because I'm an idiot who got conned by two of my now former friends into investing in their startup. I'm not broke, but I'm not rolling in it, either. There's no way I can afford to buy my girl a freaking hockey stadium, that's for sure.

And the cherry on top of this trainwreck sundae is that I'm starting to realize I may not be fully over the death of my twin brother, Trevor, even though he's been gone more than half my life.

Why would anyone want to be with me? I've got nothing to offer.

"Okay, okay. I believe there's nothing going on with you guys," Fraser relents, only half-convincingly. He points to the time on the console display. "You should probably get going if you want to get to the store before it closes."

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Thanks for the lift."

I hold my hand out for our bro handshake. Fraser hooks his thumb against mine and clasps our palms together one, two, three times. "No problem. We'll stay in touch, yeah?"

"Of course. Oh, and one more thing," I say before getting out of the car. "No more grand romantic gestures."

Fraser smirks, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "I make no promises. Now go get your gir—er, groceries."

After dropping off my luggage and exchanging a few quick words with Katie and Chester—along with a promise to return quickly to get started on my Bolognese—I hurry over to the store a few blocks away.

After a few hours cooped up in a car, it feels good to be moving. The pain in my hip tends to get worse when I'm not active, which is why it hurts first thing in the morning when I wake up or after sitting for prolonged stretches of time, but I also can't push it too hard and overdo things, either.

It's early June, on the cusp of summer, and the first heat of the new season permeates in the air. It seems like everyone is out and about, enjoying the good weather. I smile and wave to at least half a dozen people I know, but I don't stop to chat with anyone. I'm determined not to let anything get in the way of surprising Hannah.

Because that's something friends do—they surprise each other.

The bell above the door jangles as I enter the store.

Doyle, the store owner, is standing at the checkout in his customary moss-green apron. Before he can open his mouth, I bring my fingers to my lips to prevent him from yelling out my name. He's in his late fifties and has a deep, booming voice, which he used to great effect as a radio announcer in his younger years. You can hear him talking all the way from the dairy section.

I mouth "Where's Hannah?" to him.

He beams at me like I just told him he'd won the lottery as he clutches his chest with one hand and points to the third aisle with the other.

"Thanks," I whisper and head that way.

I smile the instant I see Hannah inspecting something on the shelf at the far end of the aisle.

She looks great as always.

Tall and slender, with a willowy build and shiny dark-blonde hair that flows in loose waves down past her shoulders. She's wearing a pastel-pink boho-style blouse, light-wash denim jeans, and sandals.

Even though I'm standing too far away to see her face clearly, I've seen it so many times I can picture it clearly in my mind's eye. Her large and expressive soft-blue eyes, her flawless complexion, her striking cheekbones, and her naturally full lips that, when she smiles, light up her whole face.

Talk about a dream girl.

She's nothing short of exquisite, and she'll make someone the luckiest guy in the world someday.

I look down.

When did I pick up a can of Campbell's Chicken Corn Chowder?

And why am I squeezing it so hard my fingers feel like they're about to break off?

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