Page 118 of Triple Pucked
Shay appears dazed, being muscled out of position almost like he’s forgotten what he’s meant to be doing.
He crashes to his knees, catching himself awkwardly on his gloved hands. He drops his stick.
Immediately, D’Angelo skates to Shay’s side, crouching over him to see that he’s okay.
The rival center skates toward Zach with the puck.
I close my eyes. “We’ve lost.”
Shay and I have lost.
I don’t want to witness it, even as the home crowd wildly cheer, as the Caps score.
I’m going to find out what is going on with my brother.
Who is sending him those messages.
Then I’m going to burn down their fucking world for making him fall.
My brother only deserves to fly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Freedom Mansion
Shay
I stumbleover the rock song “Werewolves of London” that I am mangling on the piano in my Wednesday evening lesson with D’Angelo. My movements are jerky with anxiety.
My shoulders hunch. I wince at the dissonant wrong notes.
“Stop.” D’Angelo is sitting next to me on the leather stool in front of the grand white Steinway piano. He rests his hand lightly over mine.
I’m stripped to nothing but jeans, and D’Angelo is relaxed in only trousers and shirtsleeves.
The lounge has fast become my favorite place in Freedom Mansion, even over the games room. A circular chandelier hangs above the piano like a halo.
We find ourselves gathering together here most evenings.
The room is like nowhere I’ve imagined but it suits D’Angelo. It is his luxurious throne room.
I try to picture him in the tiny front room of my house in Guildford with the sagging couch and faded school photographs of Eden and me on the walls and I just can’t.
Strangely, I really want to.
A gorgeous fallen angel with ash like feathers, which reminds me of my brother’s phoenix tattoo, has been painted on the back wall. The floor is a dramatic black with gilt golden feathers. A fire roars and crackles on the opposite wall under a black marble fireplace like a portal to hell.
A massive television hangs above the fireplace.
The fragile, pure white angel wing shell that Eden collected for me on our first vacation together at D’Angelo’s beach house is placed on the fireplace in pride of place. It makes me blush that Robyn has propped next to it the oil painting of the four of us at the beach house, which I made for her.
The other walls, in between the windows, have inbuilt bookcases reaching to the cathedral like vaulted ceilings. I can see why Eden loves this room as much as I do, pacing up and down the bookcases and running his fingers over the spines of the books.
Right now, while I ruin song after song that I am meant to be learning, Eden is resting on the black couch in front of the fireplace, reading a book. He is dressed in soft joggers and is taking sips of his favorite Earl Grey.
Robyn is resting in her favorite place sprawled on his chest. She is relaxed, wearing hisKIT-TEAt-shirt and reading the same book. When she comes to the end of the page, she taps it for him to turn over.
I’ve felt Eden silently watching since I came back from practice.
