Page 23 of Whirlwind
Letty laughs and they trade a few more jabs at each other. While I ruminate on what Hugo Blom has just said.
I wish it was my time.
It hits my heart, because I wish the same. Growing up, family was as big as hockey for me. I thought I’d have what my parents do. They fell in love young, had me not too long after, followed by Lottie. My childhood was good, active, and healthy, thanks to my parents. My mom is a natural nurturer, my dad is the type of guy who wants to teach everyone everything he knows. If he doesn’t know it, he’ll learn it along with you.
They’re who I wanted to be. I still want that. A partnership where we support each other through life. A wife that will help me grow as much as she’ll let me help her. That’s what I pictured my life would be.
Then, I met Isla. For a while, my dreams were on track. Before we both realized she wasn’t over Cillian. After he came back into her life, I spiraled into the man-whore people expect professional athletes to be. Shamelessly, even. After my issues one night in Montreal ended up in the tabloids, I settled down some. My mother had a lot to do with that, she put me through the wringer for days. She can lecture like no other.
Now, being in Seattle, with the constant reminders of Isla, I can see myself falling into old habits. Bad habits. Habits best left behind.
I’m reminded of something Mom said to me.
“You’ll never find the love of your life while you’re distracted by one-night stands.”
“Say that again,” Blom says, and I realize I said it aloud.
“My mother told me that, once. You’ll never find the love of your life while you’re distracted by one-night stands.”
“Well, fuck my life.”
“Right?”
“Does that mean we have to be celibate until we find our person?” he asks, aghast.
“Probably. Though, I haven’t cut those off yet.”
“What if she’s right?”
“Then all we’re doing is prolonging our own misery.”
“Sure feels good, though,” he mumbles, balling up his hoodie to use as a pillow against the window. “Be careful with her.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“That Kit Kat has something fragile about her,” Blom says. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve caught a faraway look on her face a couple of times. She’s special, but something haunts her. I’d bet my Stanley Cup ring on it.”
It shouldn’t, but that information only makes her more intriguing. Who is Kit Ashcroft?
6
Kit
Nightmare growls from his crate just outside my open bedroom door. The soft glow of light leaking in around my window blinds tells me it’s morning, which is good. I’d rather deal with an intruder in daylight than in the pitch-black middle of the night.
Not that I’m keen on having an intruder at any time of day. It’s likely nothing more than a passing neighbor walking their own dog.
Despite how tough I pretend to be to Willa, living alone in a house is an adjustment. Every weird sound late at night makes me a tiny bit anxious. I’m sure it will pass as I get used to it all.
Rolling out of bed, I grab a pair of sweats, pulling them on quickly. Nightmare spins in circles, wanting outside to investigate, his growls getting louder.
“I’m coming, buddy. Hang on.” He’s in such a rush to run for the door, I barely get ahold of him to latch the leash onto his collar. “Damn, son, chill out.”
Nightmare jumps at the door as I unbolt the lock, and as soon as I have it open a crack, he’s pulling on his lead and barking.
“Good morning, Nightmare,” Tyson says, kneeling to pet him.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s weird to be creeping around a woman’s yard early in the morning?”
