Absolutely Not in Love (Sweater Weather, #7; Appies, #2)

by Jenny Proctor

Hockey has a very distinct smell. Or at least, hockey gear. I would recognize the stench anywhere, but why am I smelling it in my apartment building? I drop my bag onto the landing at the top of the stairs and survey the short hallway that leads to my front door. There isn’t a square inch of available walking space. The entire hallway is covered with hockey gear. Skates, pads, hockey sticks. Helmets. Bags overflowing with jerseys. What is all this stuff? And why does it smell so terrible? My neighbor plays for the Appies, Harvest Hollow’s minor league hockey team, but the last time I checked, he didn’t bring his gear home. I’ve definitely never seen it in the hallway. Besides, there’s enough gear here to outfit an entire team. The more pressing concern: there’s no way I can get to my apartment—at least not carrying my cello. With a very annoyed sigh, I reach for the closest hockey stick and use it to bang on Felix’s wall. His apartment is the first of two on the same side of the hallway, mine being the second, but there’s so much stuff piled up, I can’t even get to his door so I can knock like a civilized human. But there’s nothing about this particular situation that feels civilized, so I’m okay with the compromise. “Felix!” I yell, hopefully loud enough for him to hear me. I bang a few more times for good measure. Is there truly no getting away from hockey in my life? It’s not enough that my brother played through our entire childhood, sucking up all our parents’ time an...

“So, hating hockey. Is that why you haven’t agreed to go out with Eli?” I roll my eyes. “I don’t want to go out with Eli because he’s too cocky for his own good, though the hockey doesn’t help. It’s a pretty firm policy for me.” “You don’t date hockey players?” There’s a hint of something in his voice that almost sounds like disappointment, and I half-wonder if I’m imagining it. Maybe he’s just disappointed for Eli’s sake? “Nope,” I say, pushing the thought aside. Either way, it doesn’t matter. “I spent enough time in a hockey rink the first eighteen years of my life to last a lifetime.” “Watching your brother,” Felix says, and I nod. More like resenting my brother while I pretended to watch. But that’s more family drama than I care to discuss with my neighbor. “I’m glad to learn this about you,” Felix says. “Everything makes so much more sense now.” I slide my door open and put my cello inside, then mirror his posture, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “What does that mean? What makes more sense?” He shrugs. “How hard you work to avoid me. Or how much you frown and roll your eyes whenever my teammates come over.” “Your teammates are loud,” I say. “Loud and cocky and…big.” He smirks. “I’ll give you loud and cocky, but big?” “Humongous,” I say. “And…” I struggle to find the right word, but then it pops into my head and makes so much sense, I can’t believe I’ve never used it before. “Wild.” Felix smiles, revealing a dimple I’ve never seen before. “Wild?” I purse my lips,...

Then there’s teacher tired. This tired doesn’t compare to anything else on the planet. Because it isn’t just my muscles or my mind that are worn out. It’s my muscles…and my brain and my emotions and my nerves. Not to mention my ego. Middle schoolers are sweet most of the time, but when they aren’t? They are literal demon spawn.

“Has Maddox given any more thought to the cello?” I ask. I’ve been trying to convince my nephew to play—he’ll be at Harvest Hollow Middle next year, and I’d love to have him in class—but so far, he’s been about as enthusiastic as I am about hockey. “Nah. He says he’s okay learning an instrument, but he wants it to be something cool like the drums,” Josh says. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t give him my old cello as a birthday present.” “I’m not saying you can’t,” Josh says. “I’m just saying…he might not like it.” “Fine,” I say as I slide the pizza into the oven. “I give up. No more cello talk. What should I get him instead?” “He’s on a huge Felix Jamison kick right now,” Josh says. “Maybe pick up one of his jerseys?” I jerk when he mentions Felix’s name, and my hand bangs against the top of the oven, burning my knuckle. “Ouch!” I say, followed by a couple of expletives that make me hope Josh doesn’t have me on speakerphone. Though, with the way he’s talking about Maddox’s birthday present, it’s unlikely my nephew is within hearing range. “You okay?” Josh asks. “What did you do?” “I just burned my hand. I’m okay.” I turn on the sink and run cold water over my knuckles. “So, a jersey?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “An Appies jersey?” “Yeah. Jamison. He’s the goaltender, and that’s the position Maddox wants to play, so he’s totally obsessed right now. He’s got his poster on his wall and everything.” I close my eyes. Of course my nephew has my neighbor’s poster on his wall. And of...

speaking of Jadah, she’s teaching tomorrow morning, and she’s making me go with her. Want to come? Please don’t make me hot yoga by myself.” I roll my eyes. “You’re such a wimp.” “I’m not a wimp. I’m going, aren’t I? I just don’t like to suffer in solitude.” I pull a Coke Zero out of the fridge, pressing the cold can against the burned spot on my knuckle. “What time is she teaching? If you say anything before nine a.m., I’m out. It’s the weekend. I’m not getting up before school hours on the weekend.” He’s silent for a beat before he says, “It’s at six-thirty. But I promise I’ll buy you breakfast after. Maddox is staying with Mom and Dad tonight, so we can go by and pick him up after class, then he can come eat with us. You can talk to him about books yourself.” I groan. Josh knows exactly what to say to make me cave. Breakfast with just him I’d skip in a minute. But breakfast with Maddox? Even if it means stopping by Mom and Dad’s, which isn’t nearly as much fun for me as it is for Josh, I’m a sucker for my nephew, and Josh knows it. “Ugh. Fine. But it better not be fast food breakfast. And not Waffle House, either. I want something good.” “Deal. I’ll pick you up at 6:15.” “I can just meet you there if that’s easier.” “Nah. I’ll be driving past your scary apartment anyway. But don’t make me come up for you. I don’t want to get mugged on my way in.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not scary. I’m perfectly safe here.” Not that I have any intention of ever letting Josh come inside. He...

“Hey, Felix,” Eli calls from across the locker room. “You up for dinner?” With practice over, the locker room has mostly cleared out by now, though that’s typical. I tend to take my time showering. I don’t mind hanging out with the guys, so I’m not avoiding them on purpose. But let’s just say I don’t mind the quiet, either. Eli and our newest team member, Logan, who just dropped down from the NHL to work through some bad press after an altercation with a fan, are the only two guys still around. Eli’s company is tolerable enough, and I like Logan, but dinner? I pull on my hoodie, buying myself a few extra seconds to deliberate. I already had dinner with a few teammates once this week. That feels like a pretty solid effort. It’s a careful balance. If I yield to my first impulse, I’ll go home to my empty apartment, eat in silence, then spend the night reading and relaxing on my own. But I’m self-aware enough—read: I’ve been to enough therapy—to realize that if I ever want to have more in my life, I won’t find it living like a recluse. So I go out with my teammates. Have dinner with friends. Make a conscious effort to interact with my community. And I’m not doing half bad. I’ve been with the Appies going on two years, and my teammates feel like friends as much as they do fellow players. And Harvest Hollow has grown on me. I have favorite restaurants, a preferred place to grab coffee. I even know people who aren’t on my hockey team, which is saying something, considering how mu...

embarrassment washes over me at the memory. I’d just showered and was in the process of getting dressed when she yelled from the hallway. A shot of adrenaline fired through me at the sound, and I didn’t even think. I just ran. Not that I minded when her eyes roved over me. Gracie has never given me a second glance. I’d rather not date a woman who only wants me for my body, but if seeing me shirtless makes her notice me when she never has before? I’ll take it. I work hard enough to stay in shape. Might as well reap the benefits, however they come.

“Nah, not tonight,” I say, finally answering Eli. “I’m, uh, meeting Ivy.” Not exactly a lie. Ivy is what I call my library. It’s my favorite part of my apartment. It deserves a name. Logan scoffs, and I look over to meet his eye. He’s the only guy on the team who knows who Ivy really is. Or what Ivy really is, I guess. He’s also the only one who knows anything about my anxiety. Which is weird, since he’s the newest member of the team. We connected pretty fast, though. Plus, he’s dating Parker, the team’s social media manager. The nature of her job required me to be honest with her about what I can and can’t handle when it comes to team promo stuff, so telling Logan felt like a natural extension of that. “Seriously, when are we gonna meet this woman?” Eli asks. “Yeah, Felix,” Logan echoes. “When are we going to meet her?” I drop down onto the bench and pull on my shoes. “Ivy likes her privacy.” Logan rolls his eyes, then claps Eli on the back, saying something to him that I can’t hear. Eli nods and heads out the door, and Logan moves toward me. “Seriously?” he says, dropping onto the bench beside me. “You have to meet Ivy?” I lift my hands. “I swear it isn’t personal.” “You don’t owe me any explanations, man. You can spend your time however you want.” Logan pauses. “Just…you okay?” His expression is serious, like he’s really asking and would sit here as long as it took for me to give him a real answer. “I’m good,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on. “Just want to get home.” Lo...

I thought it was a recording. I didn’t realize it was her until she started and stopped a few times, going over the same measure multiple times. I ended up moving one of the armchairs in my living room up against the wall so I could sit and read and still be close enough to hear her.

“You know, maybe your neighbor needs to meet Ivy.” He grabs his bag from his locker a few paces away, then gives me a pointed look. “I saw her at Book Smart the other night. At least I think it was her. If she’s into books, your library might make her forget you play hockey.” “Book Smart?” I ask, and he nods. “The bookstore on Maple Street. You’ve never been there? Dude, come on. You? I thought it’d be your favorite place.” We head toward the door together. “Call it self-preservation. I’m out of shelf space.” “Yeah. And your apartment is so cramped, there’s definitely no room for a new shelf.” My lips twitch. The guys like to tease me about my spacious apartment—minor league hockey players aren’t exactly rolling in extra cash—but they’d never let me live it down if they knew the actual truth. I can afford my apartment because I own the entire building. I bought it a year ago using money from my grandmother’s trust fund. My original plan was to have my apartment fill the entire top floor, but Gracie’s apartment was already outfitted as living space, and I decided it might be nice to have a little rental income coming in to help with property taxes. Originally, the building was home to Sheffield Family Publishing. They printed elementary school textbooks, early readers, that sort of thing. Pretty sure the managing editor lived in what’s now Gracie’s apartment, right up until the company went under in the early 2000s. My apartment is much larger than hers, occupying the whole...

Gracie’s Honda is already parked in her spot when I pull in my Audi beside it. It’s ridiculous how happy this makes me. I was fine before last weekend. But now that I’ve admitted the possibility of actually liking her, it’s like my brain kicked into fifth gear and turned me into a sweating, nervous middle-schooler. What do I even plan to do? Knock on her door just to say hi? Unless she happens to be coming out when I’m going in, I probably won’t even see her. I consider my options as I lock my car and head toward the warehouse door, stopping on the sidewalk outside to check my mail. I could…make dinner and knock on her door, offering her the extra. Or I could ask to borrow an egg or a cup of milk or something. Maybe I could play my music too loud, hoping she’ll come over to ask me to turn it down? I open my mailbox and pull out several days’ worth of mail. Since there are only two of us who live here, we use traditional black mailboxes, lined up side by side just to the right of the heavy warehouse door. I riffle through the stack of letters, and—yes. Our mailman is my new favorite person. I’ve got two pieces of Gracie’s mail. It would only be neighborly to return them to her in person. I take the stairs two at a time, my heart already pounding.

It isn’t a big deal. I have her mail. She needs her mail. That’s all this is. The excitement rushing through me almost feels foreign for how long it’s been since I’ve felt something similar. I’ve dated a little since moving to Harvest Hollow. But I’ve never had a relationship last longer than a few dates. My semi-awkwardness makes it tough. Hockey makes it tougher. With the way we travel during the season, it’s hard to see anyone seriously, and I’m not really into the casual hookups a lot of the other guys look for when we’re on the road. It’s not lost on me that I’m only days away from our first pre-season home game. We’ll have a week of training after that, then a weekend tournament in Atlanta before we’re back in Harvest Hollow for our official season opener. After that, I’ll be on the road as much as I’m home. But if I use that as a reason not to try with a woman, I’ll never try. Not until I stop playing hockey, and that feels too lonely and depressing to consider. A few guys on the team maintain relationships, and some of them are even married. If I want this, I have to just go for it. I drop my bag onto the floor outside my door and take two more steps to Gracie’s. I lift my fist, knocking quickly before wiping my palm on the leg of my joggers. It’s only then that I realize I’m still holding all my mail along with hers, so I turn and toss mine toward my bag. Instead of landing in one place, the mail scatters like confetti in the wind, landing all over the narrow hall...

“Are you going somewhere?” The question comes out sounding almost like a judgment, so I quickly add, “I only ask because you look really nice. Not that you don’t always look nice. You do. But tonight, with all the black. You—good.” I close my eyes and wince. You good? I might as well beat my chest and grunt like a caveman. She looks down at her clothes. “Oh. Thanks. I have a gig tonight.” “Ah. Now all the black makes sense. With the symphony? What are you playing?” I’ve been meaning to look up the Harvest Hollow Symphony. See when their performances are. And not just because of Gracie. It’s something I wanted to do even before I knew she played the cello. “Not the symphony tonight,” she says. “It’s just a quartet. We’re the background music at some sort of business bureau dinner thing happening downtown.” “How does a gig like that rate compared to the symphony?” She purses her lips to the side. “Nowhere near as good as the symphony, though it does pay better. But not as bad as a wedding.” “What’s wrong with weddings?” She shoots me a droll look. “Have you ever noticed the cello part in Pachebel’s Canon?” I love that she’s talking to me like this—opening up a little. “I’m guessin...

there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I immediately perk up. “Sure.” “I was just wondering if you have a way to contact our landlord directly. There’s a thing happening with my stove, and I’ve tried to email the agent I worked with when I signed my lease, but she isn’t responding.” I frown. There’s something wrong with her stove? The agent should be responding and relaying all of Gracie’s concerns to me. Trouble is, I can’t exactly say that to Gracie because she doesn’t know that her landlord is actually me. It was something the leasing agent I worked with recommended—that I keep it on the down-low that I’m the one who owns the building. She said having tenants who know their landlord lives right next door is an easy way to have people bothering you all the time, complaining about things, making demands. It made sense at the time, but now that I know Gracie a little better, it seems like an unreasonable precaution. She’s been totally chill, hasn’t complained about a single thing in her apartment. Until now. But if there’s something wrong with her stove, that isn’t a complaint. That’s a legitimate need, and I should address it. “Um, yeah,” I answer. “I think I have his...

“Traffic was so much worse than I expected,” I say. “I swear, there must be a million tourists in town to look at the fall leaves.” Harvest Hollow is nestled in the Appalachian mountains between Asheville and Knoxville and has become somewhat of a destination for leaf-lookers in the fall. It’s great for the economy, so I can’t complain. And odds are good that a lot of the people in the audience tonight are the same people who are clogging up the roads. But the audience hardly matters if I lose my seat in the orchestra for missing our first fall performance. I hurriedly open my case and pull out my cello. “Can you blame them for coming? The colors are amazing this year,” Joyce says. “But there are probably people in town for the hockey game, too.” I look up. “There’s a hockey game tonight?” That would explain why Felix was wearing a suit—looking too good for words—when I saw him leaving earlier. “Tomorrow,” Joyce says. “At least according to my husband.” I suddenly wonder where Felix was going all dressed up if not to one of his games. A date, maybe? That thought makes me frown, so I shove it away. What do I care if Felix dates? I hope he dates. I hope he dates all the hockey-loving women in the whole wide world. “It’s supposed to be a big game,” Joyce continues. “They have a guy on the team now who was some sort of NHL hotshot, and when they played their first preseason game last week, he tore up the ice. He’s from here, too, I guess, so now people are going crazy about se...

The house lights are still up, and it’s nice to see the performance hall full. There is a lot of gray hair, something that always makes me a little sad—why don’t young people ever want to hear the symphony play?—but an audience is an audience, and I’m happy we have one. I’ll never get tired of the sound of an orchestra warming up, the cacophony of so many instruments tossing random notes into the air. It sounds like anticipation—like potential. I breathe out a happy sigh as the rest of my thoughts and worries fall away, and I revel in the peace that fills me every time I play. Moments later, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the room, the musicians quieting their instruments and the crowd silencing their chatter. The orchestra stands as our conductor makes her way onto the stage, and the audience fills the room with applause. And then we play.

I lose myself in the music just like I always do. I am grateful for the audience, but I don’t think about them when I’m playing. It’s just me, the music, the dips and swells of emotion. People argue classical music is boring, but if they truly listened, they’d hear the stories, the heartache, the celebration. In the moment of silence right at the end of a piece, when I’ve just lifted my bow off the strings and the vibrations are still echoing through my body, that’s when I feel the most wholly like myself. Applause fills the auditorium as the conductor bows, and the same satisfaction that comes after every performance pushes through me. But tonight, there’s an unexpected hollowness around the edges of my emotion that leaves me feeling slightly off-kilter. Maybe it’s the expression on Joyce’s face when her husband waves from his seat in the second row. Or the way the first chair violist moves to the back of the violin section to help his wife, who has a broken foot, get off the stage. I do love playing in the symphony. And for the past few years, it’s been enough. But it suddenly occurs to me that it might be nice if there were someone here to enjoy it with me—someone who was here for me.

I linger a little longer. I offer my students extra credit for coming to one of my concerts, and I tell them to come up and wave at me so I can see they’re here. I never want to disappear too quickly just in case. I look out into the auditorium, smiling when I see one of my students, Annabelle, standing with her mom, halfway down the aisle closest to me. She waves and smiles, and I wave back. She’s a cellist like me, an eighth grader, and one of my students who probably has the potential to play professionally one day. As Annabelle moves toward me down the aisle, someone else catches my eye. But it isn’t another student. It’s Felix, wearing the suit I saw him in earlier and looking good enough to eat. My heart pounds in my ears, and my breath catches in my throat. So that’s why he was all dressed up. Our eyes meet, and he lifts his head in acknowledgment. A flush creeps up my neck. What is he even doing here? Surely he didn’t just come for me. But he’s alone. Who goes to symphony concerts alone? I don’t have time to think about it because Annabelle has finally reached me, her smile wide and her arms open for a hug. I take the stairs at the edge of the stage and greet her, doing my best to give her my full attention as she chatters on about the concert, but I can’t ignore the handsome giant still hovering at the back of the auditorium. He’s still there, which means he has to be waiting for me. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But why? He has been making more of an effo...

Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older gentleman approach Felix. Felix shakes his hand, then ducks his head and nods. He briefly glances my way before taking the man’s symphony program, pulling a pen out of his pocket, and signing the back of it. A hockey fan at a symphony concert. Now I’ve seen everything.

I look to the back of the auditorium. Felix is gone. My heart sinks, which is a very, very bad sign. I may not want to have a crush on my hockey-playing neighbor, but if the way my thoughts are still spiraling is any indication, I definitely do. Honestly, it just makes me mad. I worked so freaking hard to put up the walls I needed to stay happy and healthy. That means no hockey. Still, once my cello is packed up and I’m making my way across the lobby of the performance hall, I can’t help but scan the crowd, looking for Felix’s tall, dark form. There’s no way I’d miss him in this sea of gray hair and polyester, but he’s nowhere to be found. “Gracie!” a voice calls from somewhere behind me. I spin around, all thoughts of Felix leaving my mind at the sight of my college roommate hurrying toward me. “Summer!” I hurry to close the distance between us and pull her into a hug. “What are you doing here?!” She squeezes me tightly, despite the enormous cello strapped to my back. “I came to see you. To surprise you!” “You were here? For the concert?” Summer only lives a few counties over in Silver Creek, but she’s an attorney—an assistant to the DA—with aspirations of world domination. Between her work life and my teaching schedule, we don’t get to see each other nearly as often as we’d like. She smiles wide. “You know I’m a sucker for Dvořák. Excellent job, by the way. The cellos sounded great. Are you any closer to bumping Joyce out of first chair?” “Joyce will be first chair until...

How long are you in town? Can you stay? Can we get food?” “I can stay until Sunday if you’ll have me,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “Would it be a terrible imposition for me to stay with you? I promise you can say no, and I’ll grab a hotel room.” I wave away her concern. “Don’t even think about a hotel. I don’t have a guest room, but I do have a very comfortable couch.” “I’ll take it,” Summer says. “I’d sleep in your bathtub if it meant a little more time with you.” We head toward the parking lot still arm in arm, my heart so full, I almost completely forget about Felix until I see his black Audi waiting to turn out of the parking lot. The windows are tinted, so if I didn’t recognize his car, I wouldn’t know it was him, but I’ve been parking next to him for six months. I’d know that car anywhere. I even recognize his license plate number. “Hey, you okay?” Summer asks, following my gaze. “Is that someone you know?” “Oh, no. I thought I recognized someone, but I…did we talk about food yet? Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” Summer eyes me curiously, her eyes darting back to Felix’s car as it finally turns onto the main road and disappears out of sight. “I’m hungry,” she finally says. “But don’t think I’m letting this go. You’re telling me who was driving that black Audi while we eat.” I scowl, and she lifts an eyebrow. “I bet people hate going up against you in court,” I say. She smirks. “A reputation I cherish, thank you.”

I take a sip, eyeing Summer across the table. “Are we celebrating something tonight?” I nod toward the bottle. She grins. “A tiny promotion? It isn’t a huge deal, but I’m possibly the youngest person in the office ever to be promoted so fast, so…maybe that’s worth celebrating?” “Shut up,” I say. “That’s amazing! Of course that’s worth celebrating.” Summer launches into the work dynamics that led to her promotion, thankfully forgetting about Felix’s black Audi. Once that topic is exhausted, she starts in about her older sister’s upcoming wedding, which gets us almost all the way through the garlic knots and halfway through our main course. Summer’s sister, Audrey, who is a wildlife biologist over in Silver Creek, just had a whirlwind romance with Flint Hawthorne—one of the biggest movie stars in Hollywood. Summer has kept me updated via text, but hearing her talk through the details in person feels way too trippy. The whole thing sounds like it came straight out of a romance novel or some over-the-top movie. “Seriously though,” Summer says. “You would flip if you saw the guest list. It’s supposed to just be their closest friends and family, but like, Flint Hawthorne’s closest friends are all A-list actors. Harry Styles is on the list. Harry freaking Styles.” “And you’re sure you can’t get me an invite?” I might listen to classical more than any other kind of music, but I was a diehard One Direction fan when I was a kid. So much so that I figured out cello covers of their bi...

I refill my wine glass, letting myself relax. Summer has clearly forgotten all about Felix and his fancy Audi. I offer her the bottle, but she declines. “I’m done for the night,” she says. “But you have more, because we’re going to talk about you now, and I think you might need it.” I pause mid-sip. Well, crap. I should have known better. “Do we have to? I promise there is nothing worth talking about.” Summer lifts an eyebrow. “Your life is that boring, huh?” “Totally boring,” I say. “Same old, same old.” Summer leans forward, her elbows propped on the table. “How’s your dating life?” she asks. “Nonexistent.” “Are you on any dating apps?” I scoff. “Are you on any dating apps?” “Several,” she says, without breaking my gaze. “And I’ve got a date almost every weekend.” “That’s fine for you,” I say. “But that doesn’t sound like very much fun to me.” “I’m not talking about casual hookups,” Summer says, though I know her well enough that I don’t need the clarification. She’s a social person who loves to be around people, but she’s never been one to sleep around. “I’m talking real first dates.” “Only first dates?” I ask. “Until I find the right guy,” she says, with a confidence that says she’s positive she will. I take a gulp of wine, my skin prickling under Summer’s intense stare. Summer is my closest friend and I trust that she’ll love me no matter what, but when she puts me in the hot seat like this, it’s impossible not to squirm. “Don’t knock them if you aren’t willing to try...

“What’s your opposition?” “I just don’t understand why people can’t meet the old-fashioned way anymore,” I say. “Browsing in a bookstore or picking out oranges at the grocery store. Why does it always have to start on the internet?” “Because it’s hard to meet people when everyone is so glued to their phones,” Summer says matter-of-factly. “Unless you want to spend every weekend trolling bars, and the older I get, the worse that sounds. At least on a dating app, I can filter out the ones who have no potential without wasting a good outfit or money on drinks I don’t want or need.” “Okay. Fair point” I say. “I still don’t want to do it.” “Fine,” Summer says, holding up her hands. “Suit yourself. But I’m just saying, it would probably be a lot easier to find your angsty musician if you were willing to try it.” She smiles, and I sense her interrogation finally losing steam. Her comment about an angsty musician is a throwback to the type of guy I dated in college. Tall, waify, achingly broody. The exact opposite of Gavin and every other hockey player I’ve ever known—something I ...

“Any new hunks in the Harvest Hollow Symphony?” Summer asks. “Not even one. There’s a new trombonist who keeps telling everyone—loudly—how single he is, but he also keeps emptying his spit valve on people’s shoes, so he’s a definite no.” “Sounds disgusting,” Summer says. “Trust me. It is.” “What about at the school?” she asks. “Any hot single teachers?” I drain the last of my wine. “Not one. I mean, the gym teacher isn’t bad to look at. He’s asked me out a few times, but I’ve never seen him in anything but gym clothes, even when I’ve run into him when we aren’t at school.” “Hmm. Yeah. I’d pass on that, too.” I fidget with my napkin, wondering if I should even bring Felix up. If anything, it might keep Summer from setting me up with an online dating profile, something she will absolutely do before the weekend is over if I don’t give her a reason not to. “I do have this neighbor,” I finally say. Summer’s expression brightens, like a puppy that’s just been offered its favorite treat. “Yeeeessss. Do tell.” “There’s nothing to tell,” I say. “I mean, he’s nice to look at, but he isn’t my type at all. He’s a hockey player, and you know how I feel about hockey players.” Her eyes go wide...

“Felix, Gracie,” Summer says, gesturing with her fork. “Let me hear it.” I quickly summarize the last few interactions I’ve had with Felix. The underwear encounter. The thing with the mail. The increased frequency with which we’ve been running into each other in the hall. “Then there’s other stuff too,” I say. “Like, my brother just randomly called me last weekend and told me Felix is Maddox’s favorite player. And while I was at the grocery store the other day, I saw Felix in the parking lot, loading this old lady’s groceries into her car like he was an actual bagboy. Suddenly, it feels like he’s everywhere. Coming up in conversations even when I’m not running into him.” “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” Summer says. “And then there’s the fact that he…” I pause, knowing if I finish this sentence, Summer will know exactly who was leaving the symphony concert in a black Audi. “The fact that he what?” Summer asks. I pour myself another glass of wine and take a slow slip. “He was at my symphony concert tonight,” I finally say. “I knew it!” Summer says, her expression triumphant. “I knew there was someone important driving that car.” “I just don’t know what he’s trying to do,” I say. “I’ve told him I don’t date hockey players. Why would he come to my concert if he knows I’m not interested?” Summer taps her lip. “Good point. So, was everyone at the concert tonight only there to see you?” “Summer. You were there, and you saw the crowd. There might have been te...

“Hockey players are all the same,” I say with a huff. “You just have to trust me on that.” She purses her lips, judgment clear in her expression. It’s one of the reasons I love Summer so much. She is fiercely loyal and supportive to a fault, but she won’t hide her feelings to spare someone else’s, especially if she senses any degree of injustice. “How does it make your brother feel to know you regard him so highly?” “My brother is different,” I shoot back. “He got out. Jadah saved him from himself when she got pregnant with Maddox.” Summer shakes her head. “You aren’t being fair, Gracie. Josh is a good guy. He would have stayed a good guy even if he’d kept playing hockey. I think this is a lot more about Gavin, which is stupid because your high school boyfriend was an idiot boy, and you were only seventeen years old. This isn’t the same scenario at all.” My jaw clenches at the thought of Gavin, the first and only hockey player I ever dated. He was Josh’s age, a senior when I was a junior, and he was one of the most popular guys at school. I thought I was immune to the lure of popularity. I was the nerdy, bookish musician. I didn’t care about pep rallies or homecoming or anything else regular high schoolers cared about. But then Gavin looked at me, he saw me, and suddenly, other people saw me too. The attention was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. And then a switch flipped, and I couldn’t remember why I hated hockey so much. For the next six months, I was actually excited...

some things are the same. He’s an Appie, Summer. That means he’s traveling. It means in every single city, there are women who find out where the players are sleeping and proposition them just because they play hockey. It means he has the same wild ambition, the same death wish, they all have. Why is it so wrong for me to disqualify someone who has dedicated his life to a sport I don’t like? Aren’t we allowed to have deal breakers?” She shrugs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “My sister had a thousand misgivings about dating someone like Flint Hawthorne. Things she might have even called dealbreakers. And look at them now. He’s the greatest thing that ever happened to her.” “And I’m happy for her,” I say. “But that isn’t what this is. It isn’t the same.” She holds up her hands like she’s finally ready to concede. “Okay. I won’t say anything else about it. But I still think you’re being stubborn. And it might mean missing out on something really great.” Maybe I am being stubborn. But Summer doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand what hockey does to me. The sight of the sticks, the bags, the sound of the blades cutting the ice, it stirs up this feeling, this discomfort, that I can’t quite shake. Somehow, I just know. If I go down this road, I’ll wind up getting hurt. I fold my arms across my chest. “I’d rather take my chances with gym shorts Jim.” She presses her lips together. “The gym teacher at your school is actually named Jim?” “James,” I say. “But everyone ca...

wait, we’re splitting the check,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “We aren’t,” Summer says, waving the waiter away. “My treat tonight. My promotion came with a raise, and I ordered two different appetizers and dessert. That’s double what you would have ordered.” I swallow my pride with a huff. “Fine. But this is the only time. We’re splitting everything else for the rest of the weekend.” “Deal,” Summer says. I study my best friend, a wave of gratitude washing over me. Maybe I should introduce her to Felix. She’s gorgeous. Successful. Funny and easy to be around. She could distract him away from me. Which is what I want, right? For him to leave me alone? The same jealousy that reared up before fills me up, claws at me, making my throat feel tight and my stomach feel queasy. I sigh and let my shoulders drop. I am in so much more trouble than I thought.

“I’m just saying, darling,” Mom says, “he’s the perfect person to ask if you have questions about renovating an old building. I don’t know why you wouldn’t ask him.” I can think of a lot of reasons why I wouldn’t ask my father for his opinions, but as late as it is, I’m not in the mood to hash it out with Mom now. We’ve had a nice night. Great dinner, a great symphony concert. I don’t want to ruin it by talking about Dad. Especially not when I’ve got a game tomorrow. I’d rather not do anything to mess with my headspace. My mother leans over my kitchen table, eyes scanning over the four different plumbing estimates I’ve gotten regarding the very old pipes in my building. Well, in half my building. I knew the pipes were old when I first renovated, but the plumber who did the original work claimed they still had years of life left and there was no reason to replace what was still fully functional. Only the pipes in my apartment are new; the ones that lead from the main water line into the building, and then everything in Gracie’s apartment, are all still original. That decision came back to bite me pretty quickly. The old pipes are copper, giving our water a terrible, bitter taste, so I had to install a filter at the main line that cost more than replacing the plumbing would have. By the time I realized it, Gracie’s apartment was already fully renovated and finished, so the filter was the easiest solution. But now, there are a couple of places on the first floor where the pip...

a knock sounds on my apartment door, and I backtrack, heading toward the kitchen. I glance at my watch, my gut tightening as I near the door. It’s almost ten p.m. which means it’s probably one of my teammates—no one else would show up at my place so late—but I’m not particularly in the mood to hang out with the guys while my mom is around. Not that she would be anything but gracious. Mom has always been supportive of my career, but it’s only because she’s supportive of me. It’s definitely not because she has any particular affinity for the sport or even thought it was the wisest course of action when I signed on to play in the AHL. The majors probably would have been slightly easier to swallow, but minor league hockey? I know she didn’t understand. Maybe still doesn’t. Which is why it’s such a big deal that she’s here. The whole point of her coming to visit is so she can watch me play in our first official game of the season. It should be a great game. Last week’s pre-season matchup was awesome, and it got us all fired up. But good game or not, Mom is still married to my father. And his opinions about hockey are about as nuanced as his opinions about me not going into business with him. That is to say—not nuanced at all. If there’s any chance Friday-night antics with my team might reflect poorly on me and then get back to Dad, I’d rather avoid them, no matter how supportive my mother claims to be. Fortunately, it isn’t an Appie on the other side of my door.

Gracie follows my gaze, motioning the woman forward. “This is my best friend, Summer. She wanted to meet you,” she says pointedly. “Oh. Okay, cool,” I say, though the look on Summer’s face says this isn’t entirely the truth. “Um, are you a hockey fan?” She smiles politely. “Not really. Just keeping an eye on Gracie. Since you’re her only neighbor, I thought it important to get a read on you.” She levels me with a serious look. I hold her gaze, recognizing immediately that this is more than just a friendly greeting. It feels like some sort of test. I have no idea what it’s for or why, but if it has anything to do with Gracie, I definitely want to pass. “Summer is a defense attorney,” Gracie says, and suddenly her friend’s scrutiny makes a little more sense. I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Summer. Any friend of Gracie’s is a friend of mine.” Gracie wobbles on her feet the slightest bit, and she grabs the door frame to steady herself. “She came all the way from Silver Creek to see my symphony concert tonight,” she says. “Wasn’t that so nice of her?” There’s a looseness to Gracie’s demeanor that I’ve never noticed before, and I wonder if she’s had something to drink. My eyes dart to Summer, who is standing just behind Gracie, and she makes a motion with her hands, miming taking a drink, then holds up her finger and thumb a few inches apart from each other, confirming that Gracie has at least had enough that Summer feels like she needs to warn me. I’m torn between wan...

It was a great concert.” “It was,” Gracie says. “Something you know because you were there.” She leans a little closer and taps her finger into my chest. “Why did I see you there, Felix?” Her tone drops when she says my name, and a bolt of heat shoots through me. I shouldn’t love the way my name sounds on her lips. “I was there,” I say slowly. “Excellent job.” She frowns. “Thank you. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why were you there? And why did you bring me my mail, and why do you always look so sexy and stuff?” Behind Gracie, Summer covers her mouth with her hand, but her laughter is clear in her eyes. I press my lips together. “And stuff?” She waves a hand up and down, motioning to my body. “Don’t pretend like you don’t realize you have all that going on.” Huh. So she’s been checking me out. I like the idea of this way too much, and I fight to push down my smirk. Gracie breathes out a huff, wobbling the slightest bit on her heels. She’s wearing the same black pants she had on when I saw her last week when she was on her way to play a gig with her quartet. “I just want you to be honest with me,” she says. “Are you trying to impress me? To change my mind about hockey players?” She shoots a look over her shoulder at Summer, who has a hand pressed to her mouth like she’s trying to stifle a laugh. “Because it’s not. going. to. work.” Gracie emphasizes these last words with four more finger pokes into my chest. I can’t resist flexing against the last poke, and she draws...

“Felix?” Mom calls from the living room. “Who’s at the door? If it’s someone you know, you should invite them in. It’s rude to make someone talk to you from the hallway.” It’s a very Emily Jamison thing to say, but I barely take notice because in front of me, the color is leaching out of Gracie’s face. Her eyes dart around, landing on the pair of heels Mom discarded just inside the front door. “Oh. You—you’re on a date,” Gracie says softly. She swears and takes a step backward, wobbling again, this time enough that I reach out a hand to steady her. She’s still carrying her cello on her back, and I’d hate to see her go down, taking her very expensive instrument with her. She steps out of my grasp and my fingers only graze her shoulder, but Summer is right there, looping an arm around Gracie’s waist. “Okay. Time for you to say goodnight.” “He wasn’t trying to impress me at all,” Gracie says to Summer, like she’s already forgotten I’m standing here. “He’s on a date!” she whisper yells. “He took a date to my concert.” My brain fires off a dozen different thoughts in the two seconds it takes Summer to start leading Gracie away. Why would it matter even if I was on a date when Gracie has made it clear she has no interest in dating hockey players? Why does she seem so flustered, so bothered by the idea? Why am I so happy about the possibility of her being bothered? The truth is, I did hope she would see me at her concert, that it might mean something to her that I was there. The ...

“Are the two of you dating?” I run a hand through my hair. “No. But I—” Do I want to say more? I’m not necessarily opposed to talking to Mom about women. I’m just not sure I want to do it right now. Before I can decide how to finish my sentence, Mom finishes my sentence for me. “But you wish you were?” I breathe out a sigh. “Something like that. But she isn’t really into hockey.” Mom turns and heads across the living room. “Then it’s a good thing you’re more than a hockey player.” Her words resonate deep in my gut. I am more. And if there’s ever been a time to remind Gracie of that, it’s right now.

soon as Mom is safely ensconced in my guest bedroom, I hurry through my still-open front door, fueled by adrenaline and a recklessness that feels foreign and exhilarating and nauseating all at the same time. I move to Gracie’s door, lift my fist, and give it three swift knocks. She opens it almost immediately, but she doesn’t say hello. Just stares, her big brown eyes wide and luminous. “What do you want?” she asks. I brace both hands above the door jamb and lean close, close enough to catch the scent of her hair and see the freckles dotting her cheeks. “I just wanted to make a couple of things clear.” She lifts her brows, her lips parting as she leans forward the slightest bit. “Number one,” I say. “I would have gone to the symphony concert tonight regardless of whether you were playing. It’s something my mom and I like to do together.” Color climbs up her cheeks, like she’s embarrassed she even considered I was there for her. But she has nothing to be embarrassed about. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t think about seeing you.” I lick my lips and lean even closer. “That doesn’t mean my eyes weren’t on you the entire night.” Gracie sucks in a breath, but she still doesn’t say anything. I drop one hand from the door jamb and slip it around her waist, my fingers pressing lightly against her back as I whisper, “You might as well have been the only one on stage, Gracie.” She closes her eyes, and I see the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. “As for changing your mind ...

“You absolutely have to go out with him,” Summer says from behind me. I lean against my front door, my back pressed flat, my elbow still tingling with the lingering heat of Felix’s touch. “Seriously, Gracie. He looked at you like he wants to eat you.” Summer steps up right in front of me, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Yo. You in there? Speak, or I’m going to get Felix so he can come over and kiss you out of your trance.” I roll my eyes and shove her hands away. “I’m not in a trance. I’m fine.” “Are you sure? Because the kissing thing sounds like it could be really fun.” I pull off my heels and toss them toward my bedroom door. “I’m not going to kiss Felix.” “You are going to go out with him though. Please tell me you are.” I spin to face her, hands on my hips, but I’m too wobbly to hold the pose before I collapse against the wall behind me. My brain is muddled and cloudy, totally consumed with how it felt when he leaned in close, his scent wrapping around me like some sort of pheromone-infused cozy blanket. Or maybe it’s just the wine. Please just be the wine. (I don’t want to admit it, but it’s not the wine.) “This doesn’t change anything,” I say, pushing off the wall and heading toward the living room couch. “You’re right,” Summer says, following behind me. “He was sexy before, and now he’s still sexy. Plus, it’s really cute that he went to the concert with his mom. I also love that he put the ball in your court. Or, in this case, maybe the puck on your ice?...

“Tell me more,” she says. “What else does his goalie status tell us?” She frowns. “Wait, does it annoy you that I’m asking? Wanting you to talk about hockey?” It’s an unfortunate conundrum that the sport I’ve sworn out of my life forever is actually the one I know the most about. After so many years watching my brother play, I can talk the talk as well as the most diehard fan. “It’s okay,” I say. “But if my eyes start to roll back in my head, turn on one of Bach’s cello suites until I seem like myself again.” Suddenly, music is playing through the living room wall I share with Felix, and Summer sits up a little taller. “You mean those cello suites?” She stands and walks to the wall where she leans her ear close. “Umm, that’s totally Bach.” Summer’s parents are both musicians, retired professors from the music department at UNC-Asheville, so she knows her classical music almost as well as I do. It’s one of the things we bonded over our freshman year of college. I groan and pull a pillow over my face. “He’s doing this on purpose.” She turns and props her hands on her hips. “I’d be pushing my luck if I said I wanted to go to a hockey game tomorrow, right?” I drop the pillow and scowl. “Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “Just checking.” “Why would you want to go to a game anyway? If you keep this up, I might start to think you’re interested in him.” “In Felix? Nah. That man only has eyes for you.” She drops back onto the couch. “I’m mostly just curious. The App...

“Your family didn’t come, did they?” “They were at Josh’s regional playoff game in Asheville. He was a senior, and if they’d lost, it would have been his last game on the team. That was the reason they gave me. I’d have lots of performances, but they couldn’t miss what might be Josh’s last game. Which I maybe understood, I guess. But…” I shake my head, hating that years later, I can still conjure up the loneliness that trailed me that weekend. “All I know is that I rode the activity bus back to Harvest Hollow alone,” I say. “Thirty kids from two high schools, and I was the only one with no one there. It was just me and two teachers. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so lonely.” “Gracie, it’s not cool they did that to you,” Summer says. “It’s not. Your stuff was important, too.” I let Summer’s words wash over me, and for once, I recognize the truth of them. For a long time, I thought maybe I was the problem. But Summer’s right. It wasn’t cool. All the times they made me feel less than, like my things weren’t as important simply because they didn’t understand them—that wasn’t good parenting. But there isn’t anything I can do about it now. As far as I see it, I can let my frustration and bitterness completely ruin the relationship I have with my parents, or I can accept it for what it is, set healthy boundaries where I need them, and move on. For the most part, it’s working. I’m even finding ways to focus on the positive and recognize that, in their own way, my parents did try. The...

Summer stops walking, her eyes locked on something just over my shoulder. I turn, tracing her gaze to a booth set up at the edge of the parking lot. It looks like the local radio station is broadcasting live, and several Appies hockey players are sitting at a table at the front of the booth, signing autographs and handing out team merchandise. Can I seriously never escape this freaking hockey team? Summer grips my arm. “Do you see that guy? The one at the end?” “End of what?” I ask, still not clear who she’s staring at. Maybe because the second I saw the Appies logo hanging above the booth, I immediately started looking for Felix. “The guy on the end with the man bun,” Summer says. “I feel like I know him. Could I have met him somewhere before?” “Are you talking about one of the hockey players?” Summer nods, biting her lip, and I’m finally able to pick out the guy in question. I’ve never seen him before, but Summer is transfixed. “You could probably look him up on the team’s website,” I suggest. “Maybe see if his name knocks something loose in your brain?” “Ohh, good idea,” she says, pulling out her phone. While she searches, my eyes scan the players one more time. I recognize Eli, the guy who has knocked on my door one too many times asking me if I’m ready to have dinner with him yet, but Felix is nowhere to be found—something that sends relief and disappointment pumping through me in equal measure. The relief, I understand. The disappointment is just silly. What would I ...

Once we’re far enough away that I can stop worrying about whether my neighbor will spot me with two of his biggest fans, I’m able to relax and actually enjoy wandering around the farmer’s market, especially now that Maddox is with us. He’s a funny kid—the funniest, really—and I genuinely love hanging out with him. He takes to Summer right away, who answers his questions with the same level of dedication she gave to the civil procedures class that was nearly her undoing her first year of law school. She listens intently, then answers like Maddox truly matters—like his reasons for asking are as important as anything else. My heart stretches the tiniest bit. My parents did a lot of things right, but they didn’t always talk to me like my thoughts were important, especially since they were so frequently different from their own. Josh got lucky. He loves hockey as much as they do, so his opinions always mattered. But mine? Not so much. When I have kids—if I ever have kids—I want to talk to them just like Summer is talking to Maddox. Like they matter. Like whatever they love is the most important thing. Whether it’s music or horseback riding or swimming or drawing. Or hockey, I think, a weight settling into my stomach. I’m a Mitchell, after all. If my own family is any indication, where seventy-five percent of us are diehard fans, the odds are pretty good I might have at least one kid who loves the sport. Especially if I live in Harvest Hollow. Hockey isn’t really big in North Ca...

“Hey, how’s your neighbor?” I pause, my gaze narrowing. “Gracie?” “Yeah, man. I think I’m starting to wear her down. She’ll be having dinner with me before the end of the month.” My jaw clenches, and I rub a hand across my beard. “I highly doubt that.” Eli’s eyes widen, then he grins. “Oh, I see how it is. You’re making a move yourself.” He holds his hands up and backs up a few steps. “I can respect that.” I don’t know if I’m making a move, exactly, but Gracie has been on my mind almost nonstop since last night. I was even distracted falling asleep because I couldn’t stop thinking about whether she had enough water to drink before she went to bed to avoid feeling hungover this morning. “Oh, by the way,” Eli adds, “Alec wanted me to tell you he volunteered you for two more skills clinics with the youth league next month.” “Two?” “Yeah, man. Captain’s orders. One just for goalies, then a second one next month for the younger kids. He knew you’d say yes.” “Because you’re a sucker,” Van says as he walks by, tape and hockey stick in hand. I wouldn’t say I’m a sucker, but Eli’s right about me saying yes. I usually do. My therapist tells me my desire to please is slightly hyperactive—something that probably traces back to wanting to impress a perpetually unimpressed father. Is it such a bad thing? That I’m always doing stuff to make other people’s lives easier? As far as I see it, there are worse ways to cope with family dysfunction. When it comes to the hockey team, saying yes t...

once I’m in the net and the puck drops, all background noise fades away. It’s just me and the game and my determination to stop every single shot. My pregame mantra runs through my head and settles me into the zone. I’m steady. I’m focused. No one controls me but me. I make eye contact with Logan as he skates by to take his position, and he grins. Then we’re on. The guys are good to me, playing killer defense, but by the end of the second period, the other team still hasn’t scored, and I’ve got a near-record number of saves for one game. Logan is on fire tonight, the rest of the guys, too, and their energy makes it easy for me to keep up the pace for one more period. The last shot I block, I catch with my glove, and it hits hard. I’ll probably have a bruise, but when the game-ending buzzer sounds seconds later, I don’t give my hand a second thought. We won. And it was a total shutout. We’re all cheering and celebrating the win when I see Logan a few yards away, looking into the stands, his eyes trained on Parker. Nathan skates by and pats me on the back in a gesture of support, but I can’t take my eyes off Logan’s lovestruck face. He looks like a man who knows what he wants—who has what he wants. My eyes drift over the crowd—Mom is out there somewhere—but it doesn’t feel the same. I want something more. Someone more. The feeling stays with me the entire time I’m showering and getting dressed. The guys are all going out, and I’d generally join them—I’ll easily give up a nig...

Mom pulls out her cell phone. “Here. I want to show you something.” She scrolls through a few screens, then holds it up so I can see a text exchange she had with my father. Emily Game is over, and the Appies won in front of a sold-out crowd. So proud of Felix. Derrick How did Felix play? Emily He was perfect. Total shutout. Derrick Good. I’m not sure what Dad means by good. If it hadn’t been a shutout, would he have said something like better luck next time or that’s too bad? But the hope in Mom’s eyes says she wants this to make me happy. And it is nice that Dad asked. “That’s great, Mom. Really great.” “I promise he cares, Felix. He’s proud of you.” I force a smile. “I know. I’m glad you were here tonight, Mom.” Beside me, another teammate, Ryan, greets his girlfriend, who practically bowls him over when she launches herself into his arms. Ryan barely got any playing time, but she’s still here, kissing him like he just scored the final goal for a Stanley Cup win. Mom follows my gaze. “I thought that neighbor of yours might come to watch you play.” If only. Even if Gracie does, eventually, agree to go out with me, I doubt she’ll ever come to a hockey game, which, considering my present mood, has me reconsidering my newfound crush. Will it matter if the person I’m with isn’t here to support me at my games? Any other day, I might have said no, but watching Ryan with his girlfriend and Logan, earlier, when he was looking at Parker, it’s hard not to want what they have. I kno...

Parker has her arms folded across her chest and her lips pursed. If I didn’t know Parker so well, I might cower under that gaze, but for all her intensity, she’s got a good heart. She’ll make her point, but she’ll make it gently. “Just say whatever it is, Parker. I can tell you want to.” I hold out the water, and she takes both glasses, handing one to Logan. She takes a long drink before setting her glass on the counter. “I know you don’t do as much of the social media stuff as the other guys, but you’re doing more than enough to make up for it. I promise there isn’t some invisible scoresheet here. You know I won’t push you to do stuff that’s outside of your comfort zone.” I push my hands into my pockets. “I know that. I do.” She shrugs. “Then relax a little. You don’t have anything to prove, Felix. You’re an asset to this team, and you’re doing enough.” Her words strike an uncomfortable chord deep in my gut. You don’t have anything to prove. I know I’m a solid hockey player. My stats are great, I’m responsible, reliable, and I don’t get into any trouble. Two years ago, I was even offered a contract with the NHL. Ultimately, I turned it down because I would have been third goalie in line, which would have meant a lot more time riding the pine than I’m getting as an Appie and a lot more volatility in my career. Especially with my social anxiety, the idea of stability and less time in the spotlight, both things the Appies offered me, sounded a lot better. I know all this, so...

before I forget,” Parker says. She slides the stack of books toward me across the counter. “These are yours. Thanks for loaning them to me.” “No problem.” I pick up the books and carry them toward the bookshelf. I slow as I reach the far end of the living room—the end closest to Gracie’s apartment. Gracie is practicing, the sounds of her cello floating through the wall and wrapping around me like some kind of warm weighted blanket. After our game yesterday, I was halfway convinced that Gracie not liking hockey was a dealbreaker. The second I hear her playing, all that flies out the window. I listen to classical music all the time, but somehow, hearing her play it feels different. Like more. I lean forward, one hand pressed against the bookshelf, and listen for another moment, the music filling the emptiness I’ve been carrying around since last night. “Hey man, we’re going to get out of your hair,” Logan says from behind me. I spin around, embarrassed to realize I’d briefly forgotten they were even here. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little distracted.” “We’ve got things to do anyway,” Parker says. “But think about what I said, all right?” I nod. “Thanks. I’ll see you guys later.” As soon as they’re gone, I drop into the chair nearest my wall and lean my head back. As long as Gracie is playing, I plan on sitting right here to listen.

“Tell me what to do here, Felix. I have no idea what to do.” I don’t know what to do either. My first impulse is to scoop her into my arms, carry her away from this mess, and never look back. But that’s neither practical nor logical. I have to fix this. I have to make this right for her. And even though I may not know where or how to start, I know someone who will. He’s the last person I want to call right now, but at this point, I’m not sure I have any other choice. I pull out my phone to call my dad, but before I can hit send, Gracie shivers beside me. I look over, immediately noticing the goosebumps all over her exposed shoulders and arms. She has to be getting cold wearing clothes that are soaking wet. I pocket my phone. At least this part of the problem, I can solve on my own. “Okay, first things first,” I say. “You need to get warm and dry.” She lifts her eyebrows. “In an apartment full of water, with no dry clothes?” “Come to my place. You can shower. I’ll lend you something to wear until we sort this out.” She looks me up and down, like the idea of wearing my clothes is laughable. But what other choice does she have? She wraps her arms around herself. “I should probably call the landlord first though, right?” “Yeah, about that.” I run a hand through my hair, nerves tightening my gut. “I actually am your landlord.” I look up and meet her gaze. “I own the building.” “You?” she says, her brow furrowed. “But you’re a hockey player.” “In the minor leagues, making a less...