“Your setup is renting four different apartments in the same building, Haydn,” Lang snaps. “That’s not fine. It’s insane. It was supposed to be temporary, remember? Temporary has an expiration date.”
“I need the space,” I counter, my voice sharpening. “And Portland works for me. It’s close to the arena, my gym, and?—”
“You can have space and a home base,” Lang interrupts, his words clipped, like he’s already tired of this argument. “A real home. Not a jigsaw puzzle of apartments. You’ve got one for your hockey gear, another for storage, and what—one just for your suits? It’s ridiculous. Just take a look at the damn house. Humor me.”
Okay, fine, maybe my setup isn’t perfect. Sure, I use one apartment for storage, but that’s practical . . . isn’t it? I glance at the GPS again, the little arrow nudging me toward the exit for Lake Oswego. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time,” Lang insists, his exasperation evident. “You can’t keep juggling multiple leases like this. It’s ridiculous.”
“If you say ‘ridiculous’ or ‘stupid’ one more time, I swear you’re fired,” I warn, my tone sharp.
“You wouldn’t fire me,” Lang replies smoothly, his confidence practically oozing through the line. “Firing me would be like throwing your lucky charm out the window.”
“Lucky charm?” I snort, rolling my eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, don’t you?”
“You’ve been with me for four years, haven’t you? Best four years of your career. I’m not saying it’s all me, but let’s be honest—you weren’t landing endorsement deals like this before I came along.”
He’s not wrong. Lang has been a constant in my whirlwind of a career. He’s the reason I went from dreaming about the Stanley Cup to actually lifting it over my head two years ago. He got me onto one of the best teams, secured endorsements I never thought I’d touch. High-end watches, sports drinks, a sneaker deal—even that cringeworthy cologne campaign we don’t speak of. Lang made it all happen.
But that doesn’t make him my lucky charm. He’s just . . . good at his fucking job.
“I don’t need a house, Lang,” I repeat, though the edge in my voice softens.
The idea of a big, empty place feels too permanent. Too exposed. My current setup might be unconventional, but it works for me. Detached. No strings.
“Just take a look,” he urges. “It’s fifteen minutes from the city, but it feels like another world. Quiet. Private. Perfect for you. There’s a pool, a sauna—you could even get a boat. And the garage fits six cars.” He knows exactly what buttons to push. “You’re a big deal, Haydn. It’s time to start living like it.”
I let out a low sigh, glancing at the GPS as it prompts me again to take the exit. My foot hovers over the pedal, hesitating.
“I even got permission for you to check it out alone before it goes on the market,” Lang adds, his tone smug. “No realtor, no owner—just you, the house, and your quirky habit of tapping things four times for luck.”
“Fine,” I mutter, cutting the wheel to follow the turnoff. “I’ll look. But if I hate it, you owe me dinner.”
Lang laughs, confident as ever. “You won’t hate it. Trust me—you’re going to love it.”
The line goes silent, but Lang’s words linger as I approach the winding streets of Lake Oswego, a place that feels like it belongs on a postcard. The kind of neighborhood where everything is pristine, quiet, and just a little too perfect.
“Big deal,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. “Right.”
I don’t need a house. I don’t need a home.
But as I pull into the driveway, something about the place makes me pause. The trees arch over the entrance like silent sentinels, their branches swaying gently with the wind, casting shifting patterns across the ground. It’s secluded but not unwelcoming, the kind of place that seems to exist in its own world. In the distance, the lake glimmers faintly under the fading sunlight, a quiet invitation, a secret tucked away just for those who know where to look.
I kill the engine and step out, letting the hum of the car fade into the stillness around me. The house rises in front of me, modern but not stark, its clean lines softened by the warmth of its design. Huge windows catch the golden light, reflecting back the world around it, as if it’s meant to belong rather than stand apart. It’s not cold like I’d expected. It’s . . . more.
For the first time, I feel a flicker of something I can’t quite name. A sense of possibility, maybe, or the quiet pull of something I hadn’t realized I was looking for.
I start toward the house, my steps unhurried as I take it all in. But just as I approach the door, movement catches my eye to the left. A figure crouches near the front door, half-hidden by the curve of the entrance.
She straightens suddenly, turning toward me, and for a moment, the rest of the world narrows to just her. Her dark hair is swept into a loose braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face—a face that’s equal parts striking and familiar, though I can’t place why. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, thefabric swallowing her frame, paired with leggings and scuffed sneakers.
A camera hangs around her neck, and at her feet, there’s a mess of equipment—a tripod, lenses, a well-worn backpack.
“Good, you’re here,” she says, her voice breaking the quiet. There’s something casual in her tone, but I don’t miss the flicker of relief in her expression, like she wasn’t entirely sure I’d show. What the fuck happened to having the house to myself? “For a moment, I thought you weren’t coming.”
I blink, caught off guard. “They told you I’d be here?”
She touches the camera absently, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Duh, obviously. They promised me an intern.”
