18. Weston

I got fucking robbed. I sound remarkably calm for all the anger churning in my gut. “My coffee maker. My fucking shoes. My puck!” I point to each area and Hunter looks in every direction as I do.

His eyes are wide. “Who the hell would steal your shoes, man?”

The obvious answer springs to my lips. “The same kind of psycho woman who would squat in a ‘friend’s’ apartment to be close to me.”

I realize how it sounds when I say it, but it’s the truth. People do crazy shit and I will put nothing past a woman who moved into the building, threw her delectable little panties at me, then got a job where I work. It’s suspicious no matter how I look at it and ridiculous no matter how I say it out loud.

“Let me get this straight: you think the future Mrs. Scott stole your stinky shoes?”

“Yeah, and God knows what else. I haven’t looked that hard yet.”

“Better go inventory your underwear drawers, dude. If she’s that desperate, she’s probably knitting them into a quilt as we speak.” He cackles as he lies back on the sofa and kicks his feet up.

Shit ain’t funny to me, though.

Growling, I stomp to my room and start rifling through my closet. More vacancies leap out at me. I’m missing an Armani jacket, a Rolex, and about a thousand dollars cash I keep in an old wallet.

I call the cops. The dispatcher makes no promises, but a pair of them arrive an hour later.

“Mr. Scott?” The officer is about my age, tall, thin, with a Glock hanging conspicuously on his belt. “We got a report of a robbery.”

I nod. “Yeah. Somebody snuck in my fucking house and stole my coffee maker, my jacket, some cash…” I give him the full list, but I stop short of identifying my prime suspect.

I can’t just accuse Renee, but as soon as these guys leave, I’m heading to the rink and she and I are having it out. Once and for all.

“Anyone else in the apartment besides you and him?” The cop nods to Hunter, who’s lying on my sofa now, scrolling through his phone, munching on an apple.

“My housekeeper was here yesterday, but no one else.”

The other cop walks over to talk to Hunter now. “You do any drugs or have any in the apartment, Mr. Scott?”

I frown. Suddenly, the tone of things has changed. “No. I’m clean.” My body is my temple. My moneymaker.

“Hm. Alright.” The cop scribbles something on a business card and hands it to me. “This is your case number. I’ll head back, file the report, and you can get a copy for your insurance with that number.” He smiles thinly. “It’ll take a couple days, but you should go ahead and give them a call so they know it’s comin’.”

“Is that it? You aren’t going to check pawn shops or black market rings or whatever?”

“You know what? Probably not.” At least he’s honest. “Best to change the locks, chalk it up to bad luck, and let the suits at your insurance company figure it out. Chances are we won’t find your stuff.”

“I imagine it would be pretty hard to find something you’ll never bother looking for,” I snap.

“Mr. Scott?—”

“That puck was from the first goal I scored after I got called up to play pro.”

I know how stupid I sound. It’s a damn puck. You can get a bucket of the things for ten bucks at the Firebird shop inside the arena. But this one is special. Priceless to me.

I’ll never be able to get that back.

He shrugs. “That sucks. But there are no signs anyone broke in,” he continues. “The door is intact, as is the lock, and there are no pry marks. Anyone have a key card or key to your place?”

“My housekeeper and I are the only ones with keycards and maybe the super of the building has a key. No one else. Like I told you.”

“Well, then call a witch doctor,” the second cop cackles, chiming in for the first time. “‘Cause it looks like you got robbed by a ghost.”

I rub my wrist unconsciously until I realize what I’m doing and make myself stop. The watch is gone, Weston. It’s been gone for a long time. And, just like the rest of this shit, it ain’t ever coming back.

But the feeling of history repeating itself makes my skin itch nonetheless.

By the time the cops leave, I’m in dire need of a coffee. But practice is sneaking up on me and I need to go directly to the stadium, unless I want to deal with shit from Coach Hud on top of my godawful morning.

Hunter stands and follows me out. “You really think the chick next door broke into your place?”

I scowl. “I can’t be sure.” I flashback to her standing in my open doorway last night. Hands on her hips, tits perky, eyes burning while she chewed me out.

God. It was fucking hot.

And the stunned, open-mouthed look on her face when I answered—Such a dirty mouth… That’ll be fueling my fantasies for weeks.

“But,” I add, “I’m not ruling her out.”

Hunter laughs. “You’ve got it bad, dude.”

“Fuck off.” That’s the last I have to say on the subject.