Page 8 of Double Puck

“And good morning to you, too.” Great. Now he's got his captain voice loaded. Already. "I was trying to protect you."

“Right.” I peel the pancake from my cheek and throw it at him. “Because I’m the delicate one. Meanwhile, you resolve conflict in full hockey gear, and somehow, the world still loves you for it.”

Before Declan can respond, Diego stalks into the kitchen holding a trash bag with yellow gloves on.

He spots me and crosses the room like a man approaching a crime scene.

"Good. You're awake. Take these painkillers." He drops two pills into my palm and shoves a green smoothie at me that looks like something scooped out of a pond. "Now tell me, Beck… why is there a shot glass in a piano?"

"Because I hid it there."

I say it the way you'd answer any obvious question. Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why is there a shot glass in the piano?

Diego folds his arms over his chest and pops a hip. "We don't own a piano, Beck."

The sentence takes a full three seconds to buffer. Yep. Apparently my brain is running on dial-up speed this morning.

"Run that by me again," I say slowly, "because either you just told me we don't own a piano, or the pond water is already talking to me."

"We don't own a piano," Declan confirms, in the flat tone of a man who stopped being surprised by me years ago.

"There is a piano," Diego says, with the patience of a man counting to ten in two languages, "in the east sitting room. Which I found this morning because someone—" he points a yellow-gloved finger at Biscuit, "—led me straight to it."

Biscuit's tail smacks the cabinet. He looks thrilled with himself.

"There's an east sitting room?" Declan asks.

"WE HAVE AN EAST WING?!" I ask.

We stare at each other. Two professional athletes. Two functional adults. Both of us apparently playing hide-and-seek with our own house.

"Oh, Lord have mercy." Diego presses a floppy hand to his chest. "Take the painkillers, and drink your smoothie."

I sniff it.

Cucumber. Pineapple. Mint. Possibly lawn clippings.

“What is it?”

“The consequences of your actions.”

“Does it come in bacon flavor?”

“No. Mason is in charge of cooking.”

At the stove, Mason slides a plate of chocolate chip pancakes onto the island without looking. The little chocolate chips have melted into the middle, and there's crispy bacon fanned out like a glistening sunset.

"Aw, Mase," I coo. "You made my favorite breakfast."

"They're just pancakes," Mason says, flipping another one. "Don't go all sentimental on me."

"Sure, Mase."

I push the plate away, because my stomach is currently staging a coup, and immediately Diego reaches over and doubles my bacon without a word.

And that right there is the problem with this family.

They love you in bacon and pancakes and secret pianos, but they lie to you in everything else.