Page 5 of Off the Post

“We can’t die or break our necks playing golf. Next question.”

The reporter appeared put off by my statement, grumbling something under their breath that sounded like dick. But they should have known better than to ask me something inane like that.

In fact, the interview was shortly after I’d returned from my brother’s funeral, and I probably should’ve been removed off the list for any media time. Yet there I was, front and center, after being credited for a shutout game against the Pittsburgh Playmakers.

After that, the team’s PR coordinator, Nat Stinson, suggested I speak with a therapist to deal with the grief.

What a fucking racket. A complete waste of my time and energy. Talking about my brother and the loss I felt after he died wasn’t going to bring him back.

I never went.

The only thing that alleviates my pain and dulls my grief is to let it all play out in front of the net. And why change what’s been working so well?

I’m at the top of my game and was in line for the annual Vezina Trophy this past season, the NHL’s yearly award for outstanding goalie. But once again, Connor Madsen received it for the third time in four seasons. And rightfully so—that man is a god.

Someday it will happen. And it will all be due to my late brother’s influence on my life.

All I can do now is to ensure I do what I promised in his absence.

3

Ali

Here I am, in the lobby of my brother’s very modern apartment building, dead on my feet after a two-drive from San Fran to BC and absolutely shook by the glitz of this place.

In fact, when I arrived just a few moments ago, I was greeted by a uniformed doorman—yes, this place has a doorman named Burton.

And there’s even a concierge. A gorgeous woman wearing a green hijab that flows down over the tops of her shoulders, who greets me upon arrival.

“Welcome to The Concord, Miss St. Francis. My name is Basma, and all of us here are so pleased to have you staying with us. Mr. Rossco mentioned you’d be arriving today while he is away,” she says warmly, kindly reminding me that Tanner is out on the golf course with his buddies today. He told me that he’d likely not be here right when I arrived, but that the staff would help me out.

Basma provides me with a key to the condo and even presents me with a welcome basket with cat treats. I accept it and awkwardly shift the bag on my shoulder and set down my cat, carrier.

“Thank you so much, Basma.” I extract the pouch of treats from the basket, examining them as I open the bag.

She smiles and peers down into the crate, where Ernest Hemingway sniffs the air, knowing the salmon snacks await him.

“Your brother was truly excited for your arrival and told us we were to make sure both you and your cat had everything you need.”

“Yep, that sounds like Tanner.” I glance around the lobby and then back to the front entrance, where I am parked out on the street. “If it’s not too much trouble, I sure could use some help unloading my boxes and bringing them up to his apartment.”

I’ve never seen such a lavish building before, and it fills me with pride to see how far my brother has come in his life, so far from his humble beginnings—although I’d never choose the word humble to describe my brother. He’s made a name for himself in the world of hockey as a great D-man and is deserving of all this success, but he’s always let people know about it.

Basma lays a well-manicured hand on my forearm. “By all means. That is exactly what we’re here for. Let me call our team up and they’ll handle it all from here. You two just head up to your new home and get yourselves settled.”

“Thank you. Which floor is he on again?” I look down to see if there’s any indication on the key fob. “He didn’t mention…”

Basma tips her chin down and offers a charming smile. “The penthouse.”

I chuckle. “Of course. I should’ve known.”

I am freaking exhausted.

After leaving San Francisco yesterday, driving nine hundred and fifty miles through several mountain passes that unnerved me to no end and then unpacking it all, I can barely see straight.

Not to mention that Ernie doesn’t like to be secured for long in his cat carrier. A chorus of angry purrs and ticked-off whines serenaded me from the backseat every twenty minutes or so during the long drive. On a good day, Ernie is a crabby passenger, so I was prepared with salmon treats and catnip to keep him occupied and somewhat agreeable. It did not work as well as I’d hoped. But here we are, and he is quietly exploring his new home.

Moving into Tanner’s apartment in Vancouver temporarily will be a challenge. I’m not sure how I feel about living with my brother. But I had no other choice for now, so I took him up on his offer, although I told him I don’t want to mooch off him for too long or put a damper on his lifestyle.