Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Haydn

Three years ago . . .

The road stretches out ahead, bathed in the late afternoon glow filtering through the trees as I drive from Portland toward Lake Oswego. The Lotus Eletre glides beneath me, its electric motor purring quietly. The hum should be calming, but it barely takes the edge off the irritation simmering under my skin. Lang’s voice buzzes through the speakers, and as usual, he’s nagging.

“I don’t need a house,” I argue, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. The GPS chimes, announcing an upcoming turn, but I ignore it for now. My focus stays locked on Lang’s tone, equal parts exasperated and smug. “Why are we even having this conversation? I told you I’m fine with my current setup.”

“Your setup is renting four different apartments in the same building, Haydn,” Lang snaps. “That’s not fine. It’s insane. It was supposed to be temporary, remember? Temporary has an expiration date.”

“I need the space,” I counter, my voice sharpening. “And Portland works for me. It’s close to the arena, my gym, and?—”

“You can have space and a home base,” Lang interrupts, his words clipped, like he’s already tired of this argument. “A real home. Not a jigsaw puzzle of apartments. You’ve got one for your hockey gear, another for storage, and what—one just for your suits? It’s ridiculous. Just take a look at the damn house. Humor me.”

Okay, fine, maybe my setup isn’t perfect. Sure, I use one apartment for storage, but that’s practical . . . isn’t it? I glance at the GPS again, the little arrow nudging me toward the exit for Lake Oswego. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time,” Lang insists, his exasperation evident. “You can’t keep juggling multiple leases like this. It’s ridiculous.”

“If you say ‘ridiculous’ or ‘stupid’ one more time, I swear you’re fired,” I warn, my tone sharp.

“You wouldn’t fire me,” Lang replies smoothly, his confidence practically oozing through the line. “Firing me would be like throwing your lucky charm out the window.”

“Lucky charm?” I snort, rolling my eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, don’t you?”

“You’ve been with me for four years, haven’t you? Best four years of your career. I’m not saying it’s all me, but let’s be honest—you weren’t landing endorsement deals like this before I came along.”

He’s not wrong. Lang has been a constant in my whirlwind of a career. He’s the reason I went from dreaming about the Stanley Cup to actually lifting it over my head two years ago. He got me onto one of the best teams, secured endorsements I never thought I’d touch. High-end watches, sports drinks, a sneaker deal—even that cringeworthy cologne campaign we don’t speak of. Lang made it all happen.

But that doesn’t make him my lucky charm. He’s just . . . good at his fucking job.

“I don’t need a house, Lang,” I repeat, though the edge in my voice softens.

The idea of a big, empty place feels too permanent. Too exposed. My current setup might be unconventional, but it works for me. Detached. No strings.

“Just take a look,” he urges. “It’s fifteen minutes from the city, but it feels like another world. Quiet. Private. Perfect for you. There’s a pool, a sauna—you could even get a boat. And the garage fits six cars.” He knows exactly what buttons to push. “You’re a big deal, Haydn. It’s time to start living like it.”

I let out a low sigh, glancing at the GPS as it prompts me again to take the exit. My foot hovers over the pedal, hesitating.

“I even got permission for you to check it out alone before it goes on the market,” Lang adds, his tone smug. “No realtor, no owner—just you, the house, and your quirky habit of tapping things four times for luck.”

“Fine,” I mutter, cutting the wheel to follow the turnoff. “I’ll look. But if I hate it, you owe me dinner.”

Lang laughs, confident as ever. “You won’t hate it. Trust me—you’re going to love it.”

The line goes silent, but Lang’s words linger as I approach the winding streets of Lake Oswego, a place that feels like it belongs on a postcard. The kind of neighborhood where everything is pristine, quiet, and just a little too perfect.

“Big deal,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. “Right.”

I don’t need a house. I don’t need a home.

But as I pull into the driveway, something about the place makes me pause. The trees arch over the entrance like silent sentinels, their branches swaying gently with the wind, casting shifting patterns across the ground. It’s secluded but not unwelcoming, the kind of place that seems to exist in its own world. In the distance, the lake glimmers faintly under the fading sunlight, a quiet invitation, a secret tucked away just for those who know where to look.

I kill the engine and step out, letting the hum of the car fade into the stillness around me. The house rises in front of me, modern but not stark, its clean lines softened by the warmth of its design. Huge windows catch the golden light, reflecting back the world around it, as if it’s meant to belong rather than stand apart. It’s not cold like I’d expected. It’s . . . more.

For the first time, I feel a flicker of something I can’t quite name. A sense of possibility, maybe, or the quiet pull of something I hadn’t realized I was looking for.

I start toward the house, my steps unhurried as I take it all in. But just as I approach the door, movement catches my eye to the left. A figure crouches near the front door, half-hidden by the curve of the entrance.

She straightens suddenly, turning toward me, and for a moment, the rest of the world narrows to just her. Her dark hair is swept into a loose braid, a few strands escaping to frame her face—a face that’s equal parts striking and familiar, though I can’t place why. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the fabric swallowing her frame, paired with leggings and scuffed sneakers.

A camera hangs around her neck, and at her feet, there’s a mess of equipment—a tripod, lenses, a well-worn backpack.

“Good, you’re here,” she says, her voice breaking the quiet. There’s something casual in her tone, but I don’t miss the flicker of relief in her expression, like she wasn’t entirely sure I’d show. What the fuck happened to having the house to myself? “For a moment, I thought you weren’t coming.”

I blink, caught off guard. “They told you I’d be here?”

She touches the camera absently, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Duh, obviously. They promised me an intern.”

“An intern,” I repeat, my brow furrowing. Does she not recognize me? That’s rare in Portland, even when I’m off the ice. People always seem to know who I am. Wes ‘the Wall’, the Portland Orcas’ star goalie.

She nods, entirely unfazed. “And I promise, if you stay the entire session, I’ll even share some of my check. None of that free-labor bullshit because you’re learning.”

I gape at her, not bothering to hide my confusion. “The entire session?”

“Yep.” She nods again, more animated this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to capture the moon over the lake. The light here is perfect.” Lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a secret, her smile turns mischievous. “I might even keep a few shots for my portfolio. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the house isn’t in them so I don’t get in trouble.”

I stare at her, my brain scrambling to keep up. She’s clearly a photographer—that much is obvious from the equipment scattered around her—but why she thinks I’m her intern is beyond me.

“How long are you planning on staying?” I ask, crossing my arms.

She tilts her head, studying me with a mix of amusement and exasperation, like she’s wondering how I could be so clueless. “Obviously until I’ve scouted the house properly and found the best angles to shoot. Gotta make sure it sells, right? And then I’m waiting for the moon to be just right. You know how it is—you wait for the perfect light, the perfect moment, and then—click—you’ve got magic.”

Her words tumble out so effortlessly that I can’t help but stare at her in disbelief. “That’s, like, six hours at least.”

“Yep,” she says cheerfully, holding up a bag like it’s proof of her commitment. “I even brought us dinner. Gluten-free PB almond sandwich.”

“Yum. Gluten-free. Wow, you really know me so well,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm as I arch a brow.

“It’s more for my benefit,” she replies with a grin, completely unbothered. “But it’s good bread, I promise.”

She steps past me and punches in the code, the lock beeping softly before the door clicks open. The house welcomes us with quiet, its open spaces bathed in the golden remnants of daylight.

“So,” I say, stepping inside, my curiosity tugging at me despite myself. “Why did you decide to become a photographer of houses?”

She pauses mid-step, turning her head to glance at me. “I don’t photograph houses,” she says, almost offended. “That’s just a side gig.”

I blink, caught off guard by the flash of conviction in her voice. “Then what’s the main gig?”

Her fingers graze the strap of her camera, her expression softening into something almost wistful. “Art,” she says simply. Then, after a beat: “I do it for the art. To show people how I see the world—through my lens. The beauty. The flaws. The quiet pain tucked into places people overlook. The way light finds its way in, slipping through cracks and crevices, illuminating spaces no one thought to look.”

Her voice dips, like she’s letting me in on a secret, her words flowing like the rhythm of a song you don’t realize you already know. “There’s something about catching an exact moment, something no one else would have noticed, and preserving it. Like giving it a heartbeat it didn’t have before. That’s what I love. That’s why I do it.”

I watch her, the way her eyes seem to glow when she speaks, the way her hand cradles the camera like it’s part of her. There’s something hypnotic about it—the way she talks, the way she moves, the way she looks at the world like it’s both too much and not enough.

“And houses?” I ask, my voice softer now.

She laughs, shaking her head as she moves toward the windows. “Houses pay the bills. But even they have stories. They hold the imprint of everyone who’s walked through them, who’s loved in them, who’s left them behind. If you know how to look, you can see it—layers of life, overlapping, breaking apart, coming together again.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, her words hanging between us, deeper than I’d expected. I follow her gaze to the sprawling view outside, where the lake reflects the fading light like liquid gold, rippling gently with the breeze. For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath, caught in the softness of this shared silence.

“Layers of life,” I murmur, half-teasing but thoughtful. “Deep.”

“Don’t mock me,” she says, a sharpness in her voice that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. But then she smiles, soft and unguarded, and I feel the tension slip away.

“I’m not mocking,” I reply, surprised by the honesty in my tone. “I’m just . . . impressed.”

She glances at me, her expression unreadable, her fingers still resting on her camera, like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. The way she looks at me—like she’s assessing whether I mean it or not—it stirs something in me I wasn’t expecting.

Possibility.

Her gaze drifts back to the windows, to the breathtaking view of the lake framed by tall, ancient trees. It’s the kind of view that makes you pause, the kind that feels almost sacred. “This house,” she starts, her voice quiet, almost wistful, “it’s the kind of place that feels like it’s meant for more than just living. Like it’s meant for moments. Real ones.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Real moments?”

She steps away from the window, her movements slow and deliberate as she makes her way toward the kitchen. “Yeah, like here, for instance,” she says, gesturing at the sleek countertops and the open layout. Her eyes light up as she speaks, her words painting a picture so vivid I can almost see it. “Imagine a lazy Sunday morning. Little kids with flour smudged on their faces, standing on stools because they’re helping their dad make pancakes. Except he’s terrible at it, so there’s batter everywhere—on the counters, the floor, probably the ceiling too.”

She laughs softly, the sound warm and disarming, curling around the edges of the room.

“And the mom?” I ask, surprising myself with how much I want to hear the rest.

She smiles, her gaze turning inward as if she’s seeing the scene unfold right in front of her. “The mom’s upstairs, finally sleeping in because it’s her one morning to herself. And when she comes down, the whole family’s there—messy, sticky, and so damn proud of themselves.” She shrugs, her smile tinged with something shy and unguarded. “I don’t know. It’s just a kitchen, but I can see it.”

Her words settle in the air, weaving a picture so tangible I feel like I’m standing in the middle of it. Laughter, warmth, the kind of love that makes a place more than just walls and furniture.

She moves into the living room next, her camera swaying lightly against her chest as she gestures toward the open, airy space. “And here,” she continues, her voice softening, “this is where everyone would gather—friends, family, even the kind of strangers who somehow feel like they belong. Music playing, something upbeat, laughter spilling everywhere. Probably that one uncle who’s had a few too many beers, laughing louder than everyone else.”

“Sounds crowded,” I tease, though something inside me shifts at the picture she’s creating, filling the quiet with a kind of fullness I didn’t know I was missing.

“Crowded in the best way,” she counters, her eyes glinting with a quiet hope. “The kind of crowded that reminds you you’re never really alone.”

Her steps slow as she approaches the sliding doors leading to the deck. She stops, gazing out at the lake. The water glimmers in the fading sunlight, and for a second, it feels like even the trees are holding their breath.

“And then there’s this,” she says, almost to herself. “The lake, the pool . . . it’s so perfect it doesn’t even feel real.”

She pushes the door open and steps outside, the breeze catching a loose strand of her hair, lifting it like the moment wants to claim it for itself. “You could have the most romantic evenings out here,” she says, her voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. “Candles on the deck, the sound of the water lapping against the shore, stars so bright they look like they’re trying to outshine each other.”

I lean against the doorframe, unable to take my eyes off her. “You’ve got it all planned out, haven’t you?” My voice comes out lighter than I feel, masking the way her words seem to be digging into some long-buried part of me.

She turns back to me, her expression soft but serious, as if she’s weighing her words before offering them. “Not planned,” she says quietly. “This is the first time I’ve been in this house, but I feel it, you know?”

After taking a breath she says, “Close your eyes, feel the possibilities.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The way she sees this place, this life—it’s so vivid, so unapologetically full of hope—it makes me wonder if I’ve been looking at everything wrong.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Because,” she says simply, “I think this place deserves a story. A good one. And . . .” She hesitates, her words trailing off before she looks back at the lake. “Maybe I don’t know.”

Maybe I could be the one to write it. Maybe we could write it.

The thought comes out of nowhere, sudden and startling, and I push it aside just as quickly. I just met her. This is ridiculous.

I watch her as she lifts her camera to her eye, her focus shifting to the lake. The soft sound of the shutter clicks through the stillness, as if she’s already capturing something I can’t see. Something magical.