Page 18 of Cold Comeback
"Welcome to paradise," Linc announced, throwing open the front door with the enthusiasm of a game show host revealing a prize nobody wanted. "Casa de Reaper. Home sweet dysfunctional home."
I stepped inside, duffel bag over my shoulder, and immediately understood why the rent was suspiciously affordable. It had IKEA-style living room furniture assembled by someone who never read the manual. A coffee table sat at a drunken angle, propped up by a hockey puck. The team had decorated the walls with posters, pizza delivery menus, and a dartboard that had seen severe abuse.
I mustered my diplomatic charm. "It has character."
"It has structural damage," Pluto corrected. "But hey, character builds character, right?"
Linc clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, let's show you to your room. Fair warning—it's cursed."
"Cursed how?"
"Nothing too dramatic." Pluto bit into an overstuffed sandwich, and a slight mayo trail ran out the side of his mouth. "Just that every guy who's lived in that room has gotten traded, suffered a season-ending injury, or fallen in love with someone completely inappropriate."
I paused halfway up the stairs. "Define inappropriate."
"Coach's daughter. Opponent's sister. A sports reporter." Linc counted on his fingers. "Oh, and there was that one guy who fell for a figure skater. Very tragic. Very star-crossed."
"What happened to him?"
"Married her." Pluto wiped his mouth. "Lives in Minnesota now. Sells insurance. Very happy, by all accounts, but completely inappropriate for a hockey player."
"Right." I climbed the rest of the stairs. "Well, I've already been traded and nearly torched my career, so what's left? Bring on the curse."
Pluto and Linc exchanged a look.
"Famous last words," Pluto muttered.
The room was decent at first glance—bigger than I'd expected, with a window that faced the backyard and a bed that looked like it might support my weight without collapsing. The walls were painted a color that could generously be called "landlord beige," and there was a desk that only wobbled slightly when I tested it.
"Not bad."
Linc looked at me with a straight face. "Just wait until you meet the ghost."
"There's a ghost?"
"His name is Chad. Former tenant. Died of food poisoning from expired protein powder."
I stared at him. "You're messing with me."
"Probably, but just to be safe, don't eat anything that's been in the fridge longer than a week."
"Or anything that glows," Linc added helpfully.
An hour later, the entire team had somehow materialized in my new living space. What had started as "a few guys helping out" turned into a full-scale operation involving pizza, beer, and a disturbing amount of commentary on my personal belongings.
"Dude, how much hair product does one man need?" Knox held up a bottle.
"That's not even the expensive stuff," I said, snatching it back. "Wait until you see my leave-in conditioner."
"Leave-in conditioner?" Our rookie goalie—a kid named Bricks—stared at me with something approaching awe. "Does it really work?"
"Kid, this hair doesn't happen by accident."
Bricks nodded solemnly.
Pluto started unpacking a box. "Can we talk about the fact that Drake owns actual books? Not audiobooks. Not podcasts. Actual physical books with pages."
"Some of us are literate."
