21. Fallon

Fallon

I stand completely still, staring at this strange man—Bryson. He has the same jaw and chin as Brett, the same dark hair, but there's something meaner in his disposition. A glint to his eye, the way his mouth is slightly curled up at the edge. Like his default expression is disdain.

They must be family of some sort, but this guy is way too young to be Devon's father. Brothers? Cousins? I look to Brett to find an answer, but he's staring down the stranger, his jaw ticking.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that though Devon and Lola are long gone, Grey and Ellie have stopped at the end of the hallway, and are watching this interaction.

"We have nothing to talk about," Brett says, jerking his head toward the man, his voice—which is normally so smooth and jovial—sharp. Clipped. "Now, get out of my way."

"I'm not going anywhere," Bryson declares, voice just as vicious. "You can't pick up the fucking phone, so here I am! Coming to clean up your fucking mess, just like always."

"There's no mess," Brett says, body perfectly still.

"Yeah, tell that to the family lawyers." Bryson's eyes skip to me. I freeze under his gaze, arms empty. Suddenly, I feel a protective urge for June, and I wish I had her in my arms, that if I turned and ran right now, I could take her away from this.

"Just—"

"They're losing their shit , Brett," Bryson says, eyes narrowed. "Mom and Dad are going ballistic. All because you didn't bother to have your mail-order bride sign a fucking pre-nup!"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Brett growls, his voice dropping to an octave I've never heard from him before. He steps forward, holding his hand up, hardly threatening, but bone-chilling all the same. I realize something in this moment: Brett is a big man. When he's standing next to the other hockey players, he looks normal, maybe even a little short, but here, towering over the man I can only assume is his brother, he looks massive.

But the brother doesn't back down, he just juts his chin up, daring.

"Hey, man," Grey says, from down the hallway, starting to walk in our direction.

"You're in no position to be giving out orders," Bryson snaps, clearly seething. "You need to start taking them, Brett. There's a shit load of paperwork that needs to be done now, and we need you back in Minneapolis to do it."

"I'm not leaving," Brett laughs coldly. "I'm never coming back."

"That's really mature."

"You know why I'm not coming back, Bryson. So why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because someone has to be responsible!" Bryson says, and I notice the bags under his eyes, the slight rumple to his Ralph Lauren sweater vest. "You're not the one who had to get on a red-eye flight to track down your shitty little brother in this shitty little town, only to find him gallivanting with this who—"

Bryson doesn't finish his sentence, because Brett punches him square in the nose. Grey arrives beside me, shouting and stepping between the two men before Bryson can fight back.

"You," Grey barks at Bryson, who's gasping, holding his hand to his bloodied nose. "I know security didn't let you back here. Get the fuck out of my arena."

Bryson stands for a moment, glancing between the two of us, before spitting a bloody gob on the floor and turning on his heel, stalking out and slamming the door behind him.

"And you ," Grey says, turning to Brett now. He looks tired and disappointed. "Right when I thought you were pulling your shit together."

"He was going to call Fallon a whore," Brett says, eyes hard and still focused on the door at the end of the hallway. Grey still has his hand on the center of Brett's chest, the older man strong enough to restrain Brett. Finally, Brett's eyes skip to Grey, and he says, "Tell me you wouldn't have done the same if it was Ellie."

Grey's eyes move to me, and I can see the question there: Who am I to Brett? That I'm worth punching someone—his brother—for?

Clearly, they know we're married. But the details are unclear, the whole thing seems rushed. My mouth opens, and I think about telling him the truth—that the whole arrangement is just a way for me to get access to my money.

Then I glance at Brett, think about dancing with him at Byte-Sized, him laughing with my friends, him sitting on the floor of his living room, assembling all those baby contraptions.

Who am I to him?

I don't have an answer. My heart is skipping, my mouth dry.

Maybe Brett was just trying to continue our act—behave like he assumes a husband would. But, based on the way his jaw is still ticking, his fist balled at his sides, that might not be the truth. Maybe he's been waiting to punch his brother for a long time, and that was finally his shot.

Or maybe, I think when Grey says something quietly to him, patting him on the shoulder and telling him to exit the other way, maybe the feelings between Brett and I aren't as fake as I thought.

***

I close the door, leaving it just a crack open and tiptoeing out into the hallway. June is finally asleep, and I have the baby monitor in my pocket. I hold it up to my ear, and relax when I can hear the faintest whoosh of her breathing.

When I walk into the kitchen, Brett is sitting at the island, staring straight ahead, a bag of frozen peas resting on his knuckles. I stand still for a moment, watching him, wondering what's going on inside his head.

"Well," I start, walking into the kitchen. "Tonight was certainly…entertaining."

When Brett looks up at me, the expression on his face is so hurt, so guilty, that I step forward, gently pulling the frozen peas from his knuckles and assessing the damage.

"It's so crazy," I say, voice breathy, "you were thrown around all night, and this is what you're icing."

"Hurts like a motherfucker," Brett mutters, finally, and something inside me is relieved to hear him say something . He was quiet the whole way home, and I'd sat there, occasionally glancing back at June, but silent.

A moment passes, and we both start to speak at the same time.

"Fallon—"

"Brett, I—"

"Shit," Brett laughs, hanging his head. "You go first."

I clear my throat. "Well…I guess we should start with the first thing, which is: Holy shit, you're in the NHL?"

"Yeah," he says, looking up at me through his lashes. "And I'm sorry. For keeping it from you. I—"

"Hey." I hold up my hands. "It's your life, you don't owe me anything. I don't expect you to share everything with me."

"But that's the thing," he says, swallowing and avoiding my eyes. "I want to share everything with you."

I stand there quietly for a second, heart hammering in my ears, wondering what that means. Wishing he would keep going—what constitutes everything ?

And that word— want— it's echoing in my head.

"Okay…Okay, so—yeah. Let's do that, then." My entire face is flushed, and I can't stop looking at him.

The soft curve of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut when he tips his head back, the dark stubble scattering down his neck. I want to rub my cheek against it.

"But," I add, pressing my palm to the counter top to try and cool it off. "You don't have to apologize. I was—I mean, it was definitely surprising." I stop, laughing a bit, keeping my gaze firmly on my hand. "But cool. Very cool."

"Yeah?" Brett asks, his voice rough.

" Yes , " I promise, laughing again and meeting his eyes. "Not only is my friend—and husband—a professional athlete, but also—I take credit for that leg! It was working hard out there! Although, I was worried one of those asshat Rangers was going to undo all my hard work."

"I think they saw the stuff online," he says, and I watch his throat bob in his neck. "Which is probably why they decided to target me tonight. They thought that they could get me going by beating me up. Normally, it would have worked.

"What was different tonight?"

"I don't know," he chuckles and looking away from me. But from the expression on his face, I have a guess.

It's because I was there. Because June was there.

"Speaking of the online stuff," he says, tapping his knuckles on the counter. "I'm sorry about that—"

I shake my head. "It's fine. I mean, if anything, it will probably help our case with the lawyer, to show that I'm here with you. They might be confused about June, but I don't think there's anything in the legal jargon that says I can't have a kid, so it doesn't matter."

Brett nods, and we sit in silence for another long moment. Looking to the ceiling, I take a deep breath, knowing I won't be able to sleep tonight if I don't ask.

"Was that your brother?"

"…Yeah," Brett says, after a long pause, and the word comes out so strained and tortured that I almost regret asking. "Bryson. One of my brothers."

"You guys look a lot alike."

"You wound me," he murmurs, and I bite my bottom lip, internally willing him to open up to me about it.

"What was he saying?" I ask, finally, "About a pre-nup?"

"Yeah." Brett nods and gets to his feet. He stands for a moment, his hands braced on the counter, looking like he's stretching before a race. I watch him as he walks around to the fridge, opens it, and takes out two bottles of juice. Walking back toward me, he holds one out. I take it—more because it seems kind, rather than because I'm thirsty—and jump up onto the counter, popping the lid off.

"Okay," Brett says, after taking a long drink. "I guess it's time to tell you. You know how I said that stuff about my parents being rich?"

I nod, something heavy settling in the pit of my gut. I've always had a hard time connecting with rich people—growing up with everything you need at your fingertips is already a foreign concept, not to mention the thrill of having more. Weekends at the lake. Foreign trips. Christmas in Hawaii. I was lucky if my mom remembered Christmas at all.

"Well, it's like, rich-rich," Brett says. "My dad grew up on the East Coast, went to an Ivy League, all that stuff. Took his inheritance and moved to Minneapolis where he saw a hole in the real estate market. Bought up a bunch of properties. We own and rent more than 80% of the storefronts downtown. He's made huge money selling his commercial lots on the outskirts of the city to manufacturing firms."

"Okay," I say, nodding along as if this information doesn't make me sick to my stomach. My roommates and I are just lucky our landlord hasn't raised the rent in years.

"Anyway," Brett continues, glancing away, "when I was a kid, there was a lot of pressure on us to be perfect all the time. My dad was running for a seat in local government—which was a total conflict of interest, but whatever—so there was a ton of focus on us. Bryson and Bradley, they thrived under it. I…did not. But then, I found hockey."

I watch as his entire face lights up, his eyes going far away.

"The first time I held a stick was in grade school," he says, taking a step back from the counter. Setting his juice down, he leans over, miming having a stick in his hands. "It was like—I don't know. If you're passionate about PT, maybe it felt like that. Like Arthur and that sword. Like, for the first time in my life, my body and my brain were doing something that made sense ."

"Yeah," I say, thinking to the patients I've helped in the past, how easily I can identify problems and walk people through the exercises. The satisfaction of watching the human body come to life again. "I do feel like that about PT. I get what you're saying."

"Right." He takes another sip of his drink. "So, I got into it. Started watching hockey all the time. My dad hated it—thought hockey was low brow. But my mom was thrilled that I was finally showing an interest in something , so she put me in lessons. On a team. I think she reasoned with my father that it would allow me to let off some steam, get that energy out of me, which would feed into my studies, or something?"

I nod, eyes locked on him. Brett has never spoken this much at once, and for some reason, I get the feeling that this is the first time he's really opening up to someone. I stay as quiet and still as possible so I won't startle him away from this moment.

"I got good," Brett says, a smug grin sliding over his face. "Really good—I mean, it feels arrogant to say it—"

"You're in the NHL," I laugh, kicking my feet a bit. "You're allowed to admit that you're good at hockey."

He smirks. "So, I was good. Got onto all the top teams in the area, and this was Minnesota—there were a lot of good teams. So much competition. That's probably part of what made me so great. I had lots of talented kids to go against. But, unlike what my mom wanted, I didn't grow out of hockey. I just kept growing into it. Bradley and Bryson were class presidents and members of the young business club and dating perfect blonde girls with prominent parents in the area—and I was on the ice. Sweaty. Slamming into other players. Coming home with fat lips and bruises littering my body."

I picture it—Brett coming home from practice to a large, empty house. Maybe something kind of like this one. I picture his parents in their bedroom at night, wearing matching cashmere pajamas, whispering about their failed son.

It's impossible to wrap my head around—that for his parents, becoming a professional athlete was a failure. For anyone I know, that would be the ultimate bragging rights.

"So, when I turned eighteen, and it was time to go into college," Brett says, voice getting thick as he looks into his juice, "my dad gave me an ultimatum. I had three offers for D-1 hockey scholarships, and an acceptance to Yale, which was my father's doing. Some huge bribe to the school, but no hockey there. That was his stipulation. And if I chose Yale, he would continue to support me. If I did hockey, well—basically, he didn't want me connected to the family any longer."

"You went for hockey," I say, chills running over my arms. The thought of being faced with that choice. To follow your dream, or lose your family.

His laugh is cold. "Of course." Brett drains the last of his juice and tosses the bottle in the recycling. "It's the only thing that's ever loved me back."

I resist the urge to say, Not the only thing, and instead ask, "Were you close with your brothers?"

"No," he says, laughing a bit, his eyes meeting mine. "I'm not sure if you gathered that from our little run-in earlier, but my brothers have always hated me. I think it's because I had the guts to do what I wanted, instead of just blindly following my father's orders, but maybe it was because they're just like him, and they think I'm stupid."

" They're stupid," I assure him, feeling juvenile, but proud when it makes Brett chuckle.

"But," he goes on, "I have a sister, Grace. She's quite a bit younger than us—she was only seven when I left for college. My parents call her a miracle baby, but she was unplanned. And, I'm pretty sure she doesn't belong to my dad—but that's a conversation for another time."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah, but her and I talk all the time. She's an amazing artist, and she wants to go to school for that."

"Following in your footsteps."

"Yeah," he says, chin strong, "and this time, she'll have someone there to support her when she's on the outs."

"You're a good brother," I say, softly, eyes drifting to the floor. A shiver runs over my neck when I feel his finger under my chin, lifting my face so I'm looking at him.

He's still standing with a full foot between us, but I swear I can feel his body heat. Somewhere in my brain, my logical self screams to put more distance between us, to stop staring at him like this, because I might give him the wrong idea.

I might let on about the truth—that the more time I spend with him, the more I struggle to tear my eyes from his lips. The more I find myself wondering what it would feel like to be braced under his powerful body—

" You're a good sister," he says, voice low and gravelly. "That's part of what made me want to go along with this. You could have taken June and dropped her on someone else. You could have put her in the system—but you didn't . You're doing what's right, even though it's changing your entire life. That's what it means to be a good sibling."

I feel a tear tracking down my cheek, my throat and eyes raw with emotion. Here he is, standing in front of me, his hair falling into his face, something so earnest and pure and genuine in his expression that it nearly kills me.

Before I know what I'm doing, I reach forward, loop my arms around his neck, haul him between my legs, and tip my chin up to his.