Page 4 of Home for the Holidays

“Nothing. What’s wrong with your face?” I counter.

He frowns. “You look weird.”

“I need to get out of here.” I don’t know where I’m going to go, just that I can’t stay here.

Swiping my hotel key card off the nightstand, I slide on my sandals and go walking through the hallways. I’m not about to leave the property—management would have my head—and I don’t want to head to the bar. It’s no surprise when I end up in the rinky-dink little gym. There are two treadmills, two recumbent bikes, and a weight bench that’s seen better days.

I’m not properly warmed up, plus I’m scheduled to start in the game tomorrow evening, so I keep to a brisk pace as I walk and walk and walk.

Rachel Levine.

Do I want a roommate? Not really. When Jeremy needed a place to stay for a few months between jobs, I didn’t mind when he moved in. I’d just signed my big contract extension and was feeling the post-signing letdown. The crush of everyone’s expectations could have gotten me into a bad place.

Luckily, my brother was there to help pump me up on the bad nights, and now two years later, I’m a bona fide starting goaltender rather than part of an A/B tendy tandem. Henry, my backup goaltender, is a good guy, but he’s still green.

Jer stayed for longer than either of us expected. It was kind of nice having my brother around. Josh would have been a massive dick to live with, mainly because he’s a massive dick in all other aspects of his life. He’s still pissed our parents decided to have two more children after he was born. It’s like, dude, get over it. Jeremy is twenty-nine and I’m twenty-six. It’s not like they’re suddenly going to change their minds about having us as part of the family.

I wonder if this will make things more awkward with us, then immediately dismiss the thought. It’s not like I talk to my brother all that much to begin with. He dated Rachel for a hot minute in high school. He’s a grown ass adult now. If he’s still pining after his high school girlfriend more than fifteen years later, he has bigger problems than my lending her a spare room.

And if she’s my roommate, I can’t ask her out. Not that I know anything about her as an adult. She could be a heinous bitch who talks down to everyone.

No. The Rachel Levine I knew back then was kind and sweet—not to mention hot as fuck. I consider looking up her social media, but that feels like an invasion of privacy. I don’t post much on my “official” account, mainly using it to message with the boys and send memes to Jer.

Some guys use social media to hook up, but one, it’s hard to gauge chemistry online, and two, I don’t necessarily want a trail of evidence of all the women in my past. Most of the women I take home, I meet at the bar after a game. It might be boring and predictable, but it works for a reason.

And let me just say, there’s nothing to draw some attention like a crowd of hyped-up, post-game hockey players in suits. Thank goodness the league forces us to wear the suits pre- and post-game.

I wonder if Rachel would ever come to a game. Maybe I could even convince her to come to the bar after, too. And then we’d go home together, to the apartment that we’ll be sharing…

I shiver in anticipation. Yes. This. I like this.

I can’t sleep with her, I wouldn’t ever do anything to make her uncomfortable while she’s staying in my house, but even if it only lasts for a little while, it will be nice to have someone to go home with.

Someone to come home to.

three

. . .

Rachel

The guy who answers the door is not Jeremy Lewis. In an instant, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Hey, Rachel,” the big, strong, broad guy says in a surprisingly deep voice.

“Jake. Hi. I didn’t recognize you.”

Last I saw him, Jake Lewis was fifteen years old, pimply and wearing braces, a lanky string bean in oversized hockey sweaters.

This guy…

Jake Lewis is hot.

He’s tall, well over six foot, and nearly as wide across the chest. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The fabric stretches taut across his biceps, like the seams can barely contain his muscles. His nose looks like it’s been broken more than once, and his short beard adds definition to his strong jawline. He smells like Irish Spring soap and that little humanizing fact makes me lose my nerve.

I can’t do this.

“I didn’t realize you lived in Boston,” I say casually as I follow him into the apartment. It’s on the twentieth floor of a ritzy, fifty-floor building. There’s no way I’ll be able to afford the rent here. Even splitting the rent with another person—or five—it has got to be way out of my budget.