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“He’s thirty-three.”
“How many years are left on his contract?” I ask.
“Two,” Flip replies.
“So maybe they want to make the most of whatever time he has left? Especially since he’s pulling six million a year.” Flip has three more years on his current contract with Toronto, but I don’t know about Tristan. They’re peaking in their careers while Hendrix is on his way out. He’s played for the league since he was nineteen, which is a solid run.
Tristan’s brows are pulled together, and he’s staring at me with an unreadable expression.
“What?” I ask.
His phone buzzes, dragging his attention away. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He slides out of the booth, his phone already at his ear. “Hey, Brody, everything okay?”
Brody is Tristan’s youngest brother. I think he’s still in high school.
He’s gone so long we have the remains of his lunch boxed up, and I offer to pay as a thank you. But Flip refuses and covers it.
Tristan is quiet on the ride home, and as soon as we arrive, he hops in his flashy sports car and says he needs to take care of something.
“Is he okay?” I ask. Not that I care about his feelings.
“Yeah. He’ll be fine. Brody has hockey competitions coming up, and Tristan gets on the ice with him when he can.”
“What about his dad?”
“He’s not a pro hockey player, and Brody’s on track to be drafted this year.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
I try to fit that piece somewhere into the puzzle. I don’t know how to take Tristan. He’s still a jerk, but he stood up for me today. And then there was whatever happened in the car.
Flip pops the trunk. “Come on, let’s get you settled in the loft.”
“I promise it won’t be for long.”
CHAPTER 3
TRISTAN
The first thing I notice the following morning is that the bathroom is clean. Totally spotless. No toothpaste dots on the mirror on Flip’s side. No towels on the floor. But then I see all the bottles and jars on the counter that weren’t there yesterday. And the pink fucking toothbrush. The third is the smell. It’s sweet, like vanilla and citrus—lemon maybe. It pisses me off, because it smells good, and it reminds me of Beat.
Fucking Beatrix.
Everything about having her here irritates me.
Living with Flip has been a reprieve from my normal life. I don’t answer to anyone. I don’t have to take care of anyone other than myself. Growing up in a house without a mom, a dad who had to work long hours to support us, and two younger brothers means I’ve always shouldered a lot of responsibility. I made sure they got to and from school when my dad had early or late meetings, which was often. I attended practices, drove them to lessons, helped with their homework. And playing for Toronto has kept me close enough to home to take some of the pressure off my dad when I’m not on the road.
But with Flip, I’ve been able to indulge, let go of some of the responsibilities, and lose myself in feeling good instead of always worrying. Now Beat has moved in. I don’t need someone else to take care of. I don’t want to be responsible for her, to worry about her, to hold her fucking hand and get her out of bad situations. And when we were younger, Beat always needed taking care of. I mean, she was a kid. But it seems like maybe that hasn’t changed, even though she’s definitely not a little girl anymore.
I can’t tell Flip she’s not welcome, though. He’ll feel compelled to set her up in her own apartment, and then it’ll be even more drama since those two are super paranoid about money. At least Flip is, and based on where Beat was living, she’s the same. Doesn’t matter that Flip’s been playing for the league for the past five years, or that he makes five million a season. He’s always worried it will disappear. Like one day he’ll wake up and instead of being a multimillionaire, he’ll be broke as fuck. That’s how he grew up.
Whatever. It’s temporary. And we start season training next week. I can deal with Beat in my space for a week or two.
I flip up the toilet seat and awkwardly angle my half-hard cock toward the bowl, but as my thumb grazes the sensitive spot under the crown, I harden further. There’s no way I can pee like this. I turn on the shower instead. Might as well take care of all my needs at once.
The water warms quickly, and I step under the hot spray. I grab the closest bottle and squirt some body wash or shampoo into my palm and fist my erection. But instead of sandalwood and sage, I’m hit with vanilla and citrus. I stroke aggressively, frustrated that I can’t escape Beat even when I’m in the goddamn shower. My nostrils flare, and I splay a hand against the tile wall as I find a steady rhythm.
