Page 35 of Second-Rate Superstar

They had a large family, so I made two trays of the casserole, added some ready-made sides to my cooler, and headed across town to the address Braxton had provided.

Following my phone’s GPS, I hit a roadblock in the form of a gatehouse.

I shouldn’t have been surprised; the house I grew up in was massive, making it all the more difficult when Mom refused to sell. It was beautiful, sure—and had sentimentality as the place where she brought me home from the hospital and where I took my first steps—but it ate up most of her meager paychecks with the sky-high utility bills. Not to mention, it was the only piece of him she had left.

That house was our only asset. Had we sold, we could have afforded a smaller place with money to spare, and Mom might not have worked through the pain until it was too late to save her.

The first thing I did after Mom’s passing was sell the godforsaken place. It was enough money to either cover my college tuition or start my writing career. I chose the latter and never looked back.

Pulling my car up to the manned gate, a portly man with glasses greeted me. “Name, and who are you here to see, miss?”

“Dakota Danielson for Natalie Slate.”

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. I didn’t know why I was nervous. She’d been so nice when we met, but that could have been the drugs talking. Braxton did mention she wasn’t herself that day.

Picking up a phone inside the booth, he spoke, “Afternoon, Mrs. Slate. I have a Dakota Danielson here to see you.”

Frowning, the gate attendant turned to me. “She says she doesn’t know you, Ms. Danielson.”

My face flamed. “Oh, um. We only met once. I’m friends with her brother-in-law, Braxton. I thought he let her know I was coming.”

Natalie must have heard my reply through the receiver because the attendant nodded, saying into the phone, “I’ll send her in.”

Relieved and a little embarrassed, I thanked him before pulling through the gate and following the rest of the directions until I pulled up before a giant house. Peering through the windshield, I double-checked my phone to ensure I had the correct address. This place was so big it could pass for a castle, easily the largest house I had passed in the neighborhood.

My research into hockey told me it was the lowest-paid of the four major sports in the United States—football, baseball, and basketball salaries were far larger. This house was easily in the eight-figure range, more than most hockey players made in a multi-year contract. So, my curiosity grew even more.

And yes, I’d looked into Braxton’s brother. Bristol hadn’t been lying when she said the Slates were hockey royalty. Jaxon Slate was, without adoubt, the biggest name in professional hockey. Number one overall pick in his draft year, future Hall of Famer, and now, league champion.

But what surprised me was that most of the results on my internet search were about his activities off the ice. He spent his time volunteering in the community, making hospital visits to sick kids, and actively participating in youth hockey in Hartford.

And that was before he became a family man. The images of him with his children were so heartwarming they made my heart ache. I would have given anything for a dad like that.

It was easy to see why the fans loved him. By all appearances, he was a stand-up guy.

Exiting my car, I pulled the soft-sided cooler from the passenger seat and walked to the double doors before ringing the bell. After a few minutes, one door opened, and Natalie smiled at me from the other side, dressed only in plaid pajama pants and white camisole, a printed burp cloth slung over one shoulder where she held the baby.

“Dakota!” she exclaimed. “Come in, come in. Gotta keep this little guy out of the chill.”

Jumping into action, I followed her inside, closing the door behind me.

Natalie bounced the baby as I removed my shoes. “Sorry about the gate. Sleep deprivation with a newborn is hell on your memory.”

I waved her off. “No worries. I spoke to Braxton about bringing you and your kids some food while the team is away.” I held up the cooler.

“Oh, well, aren’t you sweet!” She walked further into the house. “The kitchen is this way.”

Unable to stop myself, I took in the luxury of the home. A giant curved staircase stood out in the foyer, and I wondered what it might look like decorated for Christmas. I bet it was magical in this household during theholidays, like something out of those heartwarming movies. I could picture the love and laughter, and I barely knew these people.

Passing through the entryway, the living room featured a wall of windows overlooking a private backyard, the trees putting on a beautiful fall foliage display. Turning to where I could hear Natalie puttering about in the kitchen, I noticed every wall was filled with pictures of the happy family.

Stepping into the kitchen, which would rival some of the ones featured on home cooking shows, I placed the cooler atop the enormous marble island in the center of the room. Unzipping the top, I pulled out its contents.

“What do we have here?” Natalie asked.

The metal pans containing the casserole were covered in clear plastic wrap, and I knew they didn’t look like much now, but saliva filled my mouth with the memory of the delicious aroma when they baked.

“This was my favorite dish growing up. It’s like Thanksgiving in a casserole. Chicken, stuffing, Swiss cheese, and an amazing soup-based sauce pulling it all together. I also brought some microwave mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and cranberry jelly to pair with it.”

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