“Need help?” Logan calls out.
“No,” Weston grunts, shoving the mattressanother inch. The word comes out clipped and irritated, as if the question itself were an insult.
“He’s been at that for ten minutes,” Logan whispers to me. “Too stubborn to ask for backup.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Who?”
I don’t answer. I’m not ready to think about Banks right now.
“Come on,” Logan says, oblivious to my deflection. “I’ll give you the tour and introduce you to Rhys. He’s the other roommate.”
We head toward the townhouse, weaving through an obstacle course of boxes and furniture.
Rhys is sitting on the top step, icing his knee with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel. He’s leaner than Weston—still obviously an athlete, but built more for speed than brute strength, with long limbs and a slimmer build. Sandy brown hair falls across his forehead, and when he looks up at us, his hazel eyes are guarded.
There’s a fading bruise on his cheekbone, yellow-green at the edges. Old, but not that old.
“This is Rhys,” Logan says. “Rhys, this is Winnie. She’s the team’s yoga instructor and Banks’s girlfriend.”
Something flickers in Rhys’s expression at the mention of Banks—recognition, maybe, or something more complicated—but he just nods. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I gesture at his knee. “What happened?”
“Tweaked it carrying boxes.” His voice is quiet and measured, like someone who has learned to choose his words carefully. “Nothing serious.”
“Let me know if you need stretches. I can show you some thathelp with inflammation.”
“Thanks.” He goes back to adjusting the frozen peas, effectively ending the conversation. Okay then…
I raise an eyebrow at Logan as we step past Rhys and into the townhouse.
“He’s working through some stuff,” Logan murmurs once we’re inside. “Got traded from Tampa a few weeks ago. There was some drama with his old team.”
“What kind of drama?”
“The kind he doesn’t talk about.” Logan shrugs, but there’s something careful in his expression—protective, almost. “But he’s a good guy. Solid. Just… needs time to trust people.”
Great. Another hockey player with walls. Just what I need.
The inside of the townhouse is surprisingly spacious—high ceilings, hardwood floors that need refinishing but have good bones, and an open concept living area that flows into a decent-sized kitchen. Big windows let in the afternoon light, making the space feel airy despite the boxes stacked everywhere. The walls are a neutral beige that could use some color, and there’s a fireplace on one wall that looks like it actually works.
The décor is currently nonexistent unless you count the couch that’s been shoved haphazardly into the middle of the room, a stack of pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, and what appears to be a life-sized cardboard cutout of… is that Baby Yoda?
“That’s Weston’s,” Logan says, following my gaze. “He’s weirdly attached to it. Don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. Because he gets defensive.”
I walk through the space, taking it in. The kitchen has decent appliances—nothing fancy, but functional. There’s a half-bath off the main area and a set of stairs leading up to what I assume are the bedrooms. Through the back window, I can see a small patio with a grill that has seen better days.
“So,” Logan says, spreading his arms wide like a real estate agent presenting a mansion. “Thoughts? Ideas? Please tell me you have ideas because my plan was literally ‘buy stuff that looks cool,’ and apparently that’s not a strategy.”
“What’s your budget?”
“Uh… flexible?”
