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I cringe inwardly. I hate celebrating my birthday because I don’t like the fuss. It wasn’t something we did in my family and I’m not big on the spotlight being on me for an extended period. “What were you thinking?”
“Nothing fancy. Maybe we all go hang out at Stevie’s bar? We got almost a week off so why not party one night and your birthday is a great excuse.”
“As long as there aren’t balloons and cake, and I’ll kill anyone who sings me happy birthday.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I reply. “I don’t like that shit but I’m down to hang out. Who all would be there?”
“Whoever you want, dude. It’s your birthday.”
“Just invite the team and SOs.”
“Coaches?”
“Yeah, man. That’s cool.”
Bain punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Consider me your party coordinator. Any other requests other than no balloons, no cake and no singing?”
I snort at how grumpy and assholish that makes me sound. “Yeah, no puck bunnies.”
Bain blinks at me in wide-eyed astonishment. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head. “The older I get, the less tolerance I have for that. Plus… they make a fuss and I don’t feel like having them hanging all over me.”
“You are indeed,” Bain says with his lip curling upward, “sincerely… a weird dude. I know no single hockey players who don’t love that.”
“Now you’re stereotyping,” I say dismissively.
Truth is, for those first years in the league, I loved the perks of being a professional hockey player. I could have a different girl every night willing to give it up to me. My sex life was not hurting.
These days… it’s not something I enjoy.
Not that I don’t enjoy sex. Fucking love it. But I think since the crash, I’ve narrowed my world down to include only those people who I have a genuine connection with.
Like Danica.
My fingers curl and I clench my fists way too tightly at the bothersome thought. I am not interested in Danica in any way other than friendship. More specifically, in being the type of friend Mitch would have wanted me to be to her. I’m making up for a lot of months I could have been helping her.
I have purpose now.
A path forward.
There’s no clear answer as to why the path includes Danica but it’s the only one I’m seeing right now that doesn’t include airplanes dropping out of the sky to crush me.
CHAPTER 9
Danica
Opening the backdoor, I glance at my watch. “Shit.”
I’m pushing the time, so I drop my purse haphazardly on the counter and toss my keys beside it. A quick jog through the living room and I’m up the stairs, straight into my bedroom where I shed my clothes.
The blouse I wore to the office hits the floor as I kick off my heels, then I shimmy out of my dress pants. I give them a kick toward my laundry basket and start rifling through the clothes hanging in my small closet.
One of the downgrades I made when I sold the Edgeworth house was cutting down my wardrobe. I had five times as many clothes as I could fit in this tiny box of a closet and I donated most. Some had sentimental value, which I kept, while others were high-end labels, so I sold them on consignment. The majority of what’s left are outfits to wear into the office and jeans or leggings that I pair with T-shirts, blouses, flannels or sweatshirts.
For this afternoon’s agenda, I grab a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve, waffle-knit shirt and a puffer vest since it’s a little chilly outside. I throw the new outfit on and grab a pair of tennis shoes.
