Page 4 of Game Misconduct

He frowned. “Dang, Parker. I should have been more thorough.”

“Why are you wearing your ring when you’re …” I looked over his clothing again. “Working on your car?”

Mitch laughed. “I was at the boxing gym. One of the guys asked to see the ring last week, and I remembered today.”

I shook my head. I’d heard stranger stories, and it wasn’t really my business. “Do you live here?”

His eyes widened. “No. No one does.”

I glanced around the dilapidated hallway. “That’s comforting.” But this was the address Omar sent me, so something wasn’t adding up.

“Come on. I’ll show you to the right place.” Mitch carried my bag and led the way down the alley half a block to a building that looked like it successfully passed its last inspection, to my relief.

“I don’t understand. My manager sent me––”

“Happens all the time with those map apps. For some reason, our address goes there. Someone guessed that the street was renumbered or something. Chloe texted me and said you would be arriving around eleven, and I tried to get here before you, but this worked out.” He laughed. “But I promise this is the right place.”

Through all of that only one word stuck out to me. “Our?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he led me through a clean, bright hall to a shining silver elevator door. “Yeah, you’re my new roommate.”

I blinked. Roommate? I hadn’t had a roommate since I was eighteen and playing in the major juniors, seven years ago. None of this was making sense. Was this still a part of the joke?

Mitch continued speaking as we took the elevator to the third floor. “Chloe called me and asked if I minded you moving into one of my spare rooms since it was all so last minute. Coach Romney and Rust thought you would like to live with one of us rather than staying in a hotel while you get settled. Things have been a little too quiet since Atkinson got traded, so I said yes.”

Huh. Another detail my manager forgot to tell me. I needed to start asking more questions on our calls.

He stopped at the door marked three-eleven, unlocked it, and held it open for me to walk in first. “I would have wanted to have a roommate when I first moved here. Someone to show me around, not just with the team and the area, but the city. Salt Lake is great. There are a ton of restaurants and shopping, if you’re into that.”

He had a good point. While I didn’t necessarily love the idea of living with a stranger, it would be nice to have someone close by for help. This was pretty common in the lower league, but not so much when you made it to the majors. Maybe our agents and managers were supposed to take over that role as guide, but since mine were located in Los Angeles, I wasn’t sure they would be of much use.

“Make yourself at home. We have a few hours before practice, so you can unpack or rest. If you need anything, just holler.” He stopped in front of the second door off the hall. “This one’s yours.”

I nodded, and he patted my shoulder as he walked back through the modern, clean living room where another door led to his bedroom. He kept the door open, and I stared for a second at the piles of clothes next to the unmade bed and stacks of jerseys and posters with his face in the back corner before turning back to my own. In the center of the room, a queen bed was covered with a dark red comforter with matching nightstands on either side, and a dresser stood against the wall. I pulled my bags over the gray hardwood and went to the sliding mirror doors to check out the closet. It wasn’t huge, but it was enough space for the few items that needed to be hung up. One of the perks of being a professional athlete was wearing t-shirts and sweats or training shorts most of the time. My game-day suits were the exception to my ultra-casual wardrobe.

Unpacking only took about twenty minutes since I kept my belongings in the contents of two suitcases most of my life. Even after three years in my last apartment in Anaheim, I never quite settled in. I spent too much time on the move to grow attached to material things. It was easy to only keep the essentials. All of my photos, books, and entertainment were on my iPad, and any memorabilia I wanted to keep was sent home to my parent’s house in Toronto. Mom and Dad loved filling the living room with my jerseys, team photos, and whatever else might be necessary to remind their friends that their son was, in fact, a hockey player.

Mitch walked by as I was searching for an outlet for my phone charger. “Where are your bags?”

“In the closet,” I replied and bent over to plug my charger in next to the right nightstand.

“You’re not going to unpack?” He leaned against the doorframe.

“I already did.” I straightened and followed his gaze around the room. The only sign I’d moved in was the pair of shoes I’d kicked off in the corner.

“Really?” he asked dubiously.

I moved to the drawers and opened a few, letting him see my stacks of folded t-shirts, socks, and sweats, then moved to the closet and opened it to show the rest of my clothes and suitcases stored on the high shelves.

“Huh.” He shrugged. “Is the rest of your stuff coming later?”

“No, this is it.” I was starting to get annoyed. Why wasn’t this enough? I had exactly what I needed.

“You don’t have a couch or a TV or”—he looked at the walls— “a poster?”

“Nope.” I sat down on the end of the bed.

I seemed to have broken his brain. He stared at the floors, silent, for several moments. “Was your last place furnished?”