26. Brett

Brett

When I wake up the next morning, Fallon is gone.

I get out of the bed, stumbling, still tired, to the door. My body continues waking up as I walk down the hallway, the details of the night before flooding back to me. As soon as they do, my morning wood becomes even more apparent, and I'm closing my eyes, trying to think about anything—old ladies, cold showers, losing the Stanley Cup—that might send it away.

Fallon is in the kitchen, staring off into space, holding a mug of coffee against her chest. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching the steam rise from her cup. I want to walk over to her, kiss her, set the mug on the counter and just hold her for a second, but that distance—that wall—feels like it's between us again.

Her hair is wet over her shoulders, and she's wearing a simple dress with a floral pattern, her feet bare against the kitchen floor.

I've never been the kind of man to notice what a woman is wearing. Hell—I never notice what anyone is wearing, unless it's a Maple Leafs jersey. And here I am, noting the way the flowers on her dress wrap around her, how the silver necklace settled just beneath her throat matches the earrings dangling near her hair.

"Good morning," I say, stepping into the kitchen. She startles, her hands tightening around the mug, and looks my way, laughing nervously and running a hand over her hair.

I want her back in my bed, want to skip practice today and just spend time with her. But I can't—reality has a really efficient way of crushing my hopes and dreams like that.

"Chloe is bringing June back this morning," Fallon says, taking a little sip of coffee.

"Oh." I nod and cross to the fridge so I'll have something to do with my arms. Once I have the fridge open, my brain is adamant with me: J ust tell her. Just tell her you want to be serious. That you want to take a solid shot at this thing.

Before I can, Fallon speaks up again, her voice slightly shaken.

"June is the most important thing to me, right now," she says, her voice drifting out through the kitchen. I close the fridge door and meet her eyes, trying to figure out what it is that she's saying to me.

June is important to me, too. I'd thought that was clear.

"Right," I say, clearing my throat and taking a step closer to her. "Me, too."

"And I just—well," she says, closing her eyes. "What happened last night—"

I study her, watching as she tries to come up with which words to say next, and it hits me all at once—she regrets it. The emotions bombard me one after the other: grief, shame, disappointment. A trifecta of shittiness.

"It was a mistake," I say, half question, half statement, but it comes out more as a statement, and she raises her head, eyes meeting mine, her face going carefully blank. My eyes skip over her features, looking for a clue to what she's thinking.

"Right," she says, but the word comes out choked. "That's—yeah."

I shake my head and step toward her. "Wait. Is that—?"

"Yeah," she says, and this time, it's a little too bright, a little too cheery. "No, yeah. I'm glad you feel the same way."

"But—" I start, panic starting to mount inside me. She's retreating, heading for the door to the kitchen, and I'm afraid that if I don't tell her what I want right now that she might slip through my fingers. I might never get the chance—or be able to work up the courage—to tell her what I'm starting to want.

Her. June. A life together.

"It's okay, Brett," she laughs, waving her hand, though I can see that her hands are shaking. I follow her to the foyer, watching as she puts her shoes on.

"Where are you going?" I ask, eyes wide.

"To get June," she says, lightly, like that's obvious even though she just said that Chloe was bringing her back. Like she's not running away because of this conversation. I've done something wrong, but I'm not sure what. I should just come out and tell her what I want, but what if I do, and it scares her away?

If I admit that I want her, and that I definitely want to keep having sex with her, would that make her feel like I don't care about June? Like I'm taking advantage of her?

But, if I don't tell her that I like her—that I want her around, she might keep pulling away from me, running away every time we get close.

For the first time—maybe in my entire life—I don't do something impulsive. I deliberate and debate until Fallon is calling a falsely cheery goodbye and darting out the front door, and I'm left standing there, breathing hard, still confused about what just happened.

***

"Did you try talking to her?" Devon asks, sounding annoyed. When I called him, he asked why the hell I wasn't calling Sammy or one of my other friends. I admitted, sheepishly, that I needed someone with wisdom, and Sammy definitely didn't have that. Complimenting him seemed to mollify him, but telling the story about what happened just annoyed him again.

"Yes," I say, biting my lip. "That's what—well, I was trying to. I just didn't know what to say."

"Your problem is that you're trying to figure out what she's thinking, instead of just telling her how you feel. You can't control her, man—and trust me, it's a mistake to even try—but you can be honest. You can be upfront, and just tell her the truth. Tell her you're in love with her."

"Whoa—I'm not, I never—"

"Sure, whatever," Devon says, sounding like he's at the end of his rope. "Just tell her what you want, then. Tell her what you want from her."

"But what if she doesn't want it, too?"

"That's her decision to make. Doesn't seem that way, based on the way the two of you look at each other, but whatever. You can't live your life trying to mold yourself to other people. Just be yourself, communicate, and deal with the problems as they come. Don't try to figure out what you can say to get a certain response. Don't not tell her the truth because you're afraid. Be honest. Be a man."

"Okay, harsh."

"You're cutting into my family time, here, man," Devon grumbles. "I have to leave for practice in fifteen minutes and I'm trying to say goodbye to my baby."

"Right," I say, wincing. "Sorry. Thanks, man."

When I get off the phone with Devon, I go back to pacing, tapping the phone against my chin. I need to be honest with Fallon—sure. But how do I show her that when I say I can be there for June, that's the truth? How do I prove that this isn't just another one of my impulsive schemes?

And then, it comes to me. Ten minutes later, I have my lawyer on the phone, and ten minutes after that, I'm panicking on the freeway, desperately trying to make it to practice on time.

"Come on, man," Devon says, rolling his eyes when I burst into the locker room. "We just talked. How can you be late?"

"I'm not late," I huff, my conversation with the lawyer still playing through my head. "Not yet."

As I hurry to get my gear on, I'm thinking about the lawyer's confidence that we could get custody for Fallon.

"Should be fairly simple," she'd said, not asking any questions about why I cared, or what created this situation in the first place. "Seems like the mother was neglectful. Just set up a meeting with me and we can start the process."

So I did. And then I texted Fallon the meeting information.

She's pulling away because she's not used to someone being there for her. I think about her life—no mom, no dad, just her found family, and realize that maybe we've both been pretty lonely. Maybe there's something to having that one person you can count on. A partner in life.

Practice whizzes past, and I melt into it, body warm and loose. I'm stealing the puck, picking up on subtle clues from my teammates, and hitting amazing shots against Eddie, the goalie.

"Holy s hit , man," Sammy says, clapping me on the shoulder pads.

"Maybe we all really should get married," Eddie grumbles, pulling himself up off the ice.

"Will you shit heads shut up?" Devon says, skating around and taking the puck from me. "You're going to inflate his ego even bigger than it already is."

"Alright, everyone!" Grey calls, and we all skate over. Four hours later, and my body feels exhausted in the best kind of way. "We're watching footage tomorrow before the game on Thursday. Don't be late."

He looks pointedly at me, and I nod, biting my tongue to keep from pointing out that I wasn't technically late today.

"Hey, man," Sammy says, skating up beside me. "I was thinking, when we get to the bar, you want to split a basket of fried pickles? I want—"

"Oh, no, man." I shake my head as we step off the ice, sliding protectors onto our skates and making our way to the locker rooms. "I'm not going tonight."

Eddie looks back at us, raising an eyebrow.

"Not going?" Sammy echoes, like he can't comprehend it.

"Nah," I say, clearing my throat. "Probably just head home."

"Oh, shit !" Eddie laughs, his voice echoing off the walls when we walk into the locker room. "Brett is whipped!"

"Shut the fuck up," Devon says, rolling his eyes. "You guys are always giving me a headache."

"What do you say, Brett?" Eddie coos. "Want to invite us over for a dinner party ?"

"You don't even have two brain cells to rub together," Devon grumbles. "Doubt you know how to hold a wine glass."

"Oh, shut up."

"Real clever, Eddie."

I'm laughing as I change, happy that someone else is dealing with Eddie's shit so I don't have to. As soon as I'm in a pair of sweats and a jacket, I'm out the door and hurrying home.