Page 22 of Goaltender Interference

Well, that wasweird.

Jesse double checked the address. Yeah, number nine Monument Square. But the building definitely wasn’t painted white and there weren’t narrow alleys on either side like Connor described and none of this made any fucking sense!

“Okay, so Connor’s either pranking me or he’s lost his marbles,” Jesse muttered. Probably some kind of prank. Maybe he was trying to fuck with Jesse as payback for being forced to let him move in?

A little weird, but the dude was super tightly wound. Maybe Jesse moving in with him had totally tipped him over the edge.

Jesse jogged up the steps to the double doors and peered through the window.

Yeah, that totally looked like an entryway area in a small apartment building. There were like half a dozen little mail slots and everything.

Jesse tried the handle but it was locked and the doors rattled when he tugged at them.

He glanced down at his shoes.Hmm. And there was definitely no mat by the door where Connor could have hidden a key for Jesse to let himself in like he’d said he would.

“Welp, sorry, Connor. Guess I’m going to have to wake you up,” he muttered, dialing his number.

“The fuck do you want?” Connor snarled as he brought his phone to his face.

The loud ring had woken him out of a deep sleep. After a quick glance to make sure it wasn’t Viv calling about an emergency with the kids, he’d debated turning the damn thing off and ignoring Webber.

But he was supposed to keep the asshole in line so …

“Uhh, are you pranking me, O’Shea?” Webber asked. “I’m at your place but it doesn’t look like your place.”

Connor rubbed a hand across his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m in front of a brick building but you said it was white! And there’s no key and no doormat with the Irish welcome greeting on it like you said there would be …”

Connor let the words wash over him without hearing as he glanced at the clock. Four in the goddamn morning.

Fuck his captaincy. Fuck the Boston Harriers. Fuck his entire hockey career. He was gonna murder Jesse Webber and dump his body in the Charles River.

“I wasso fucking clearin the email I sent,” he pointed out. “White house. Key under the mat. How fucking hard is it?”

“I’m at number nine Monument Square!” Jesse protested. “But it’sbrick.”

Despite Connor’s sluggish brain, the pieces finally clicked into place. “I’m at number nine MonumentStreet,you toolbag,” he said with a sigh. “Can’t you fuckin’ read?”

“Uhh, there’s a difference?”

“Yes!”

“Well fuck! How do I get there?”

“It’s like a two-minute walk. Head north on Monument Square toward Tremont Street.”

“Which way is north?”

“Christ you’re useless.” Connor threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, shirtless in his pajama pants. “Do you see the tall white pointy thing sticking up over the buildings?”

“Uhh.” There was the sound of soft breathing for a few heartbeats. “Yes. I do now.”

“Is it on your left or right? You do know the difference between those, yeah?”

“Yes, you asshole. And it’s on the left.”

“Well, keep it on your left and walk forward.”

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