Coen’s not bad either. He’s still out partying—or most likely, with a woman—so I’ve had the room all to myself tonight. I enjoyed watching sports highlights, then caught Fight Club on TV. I surfed my phone, deleted emails and voicemails from my dad, and even thought a few times of reaching out to Harlow to check on the status of moving Brooks’s money and investment accounts into my name. I want to get my parents paid their share so I can be left in peace.

  I didn’t, though. She gave me her cell phone number before I left her St. Patrick’s Day get-together and told me to call if I needed anything while I was out of town. She even offered to get my mail for me, but I wasn’t ready to ask her for anything.

  In the last four days, I’ve been thinking a lot about her. She’s more than just a trustee, and she’s more than just a friendly neighbor. She’s probably the person who knew my brother best, and knowing that has all kinds of curiosities plaguing me.

  More than anything, I have a feeling she was someone my brother counted on. Perhaps the one person who gave him unconditional support. She knew he was gay… a very tightly held secret, apparently, and I can’t imagine how lonely he must have been holding on to it.

  There’s something special about Harlow Alston, and part of me wonders if I’m so lonely myself that maybe—

  Nope. I stop my thoughts right there. I don’t need a close friend or someone I can count on. My family alone has proven those things are built on glass bridges, ready to break at any moment. Brooks might have needed a Harlow Alston in his life, but I don’t. I’m fine just the way things are.

  Just like I’m fine leaving Brooks’s journals alone in his closet. I’m not ready to get to know my brother again. I’m afraid it’s going to make me feel even worse about stepping into his shoes and his life, all at the expense of his own. I know without a doubt it’s going to make me feel regretful for not attempting to patch things up with him, and I’m not sure I can handle one more negative emotion about my brother’s death without it consuming me.

  I start to turn back to the right, begging my body to let go of all my worries so I can sleep, but my phone rings. I’m so startled by the noise—no one should be calling me at four a.m.—I don’t automatically reach for it.

  Nothing good comes from a call at this hour.

  But I lift my head, glance at the screen, and frown at a number I don’t recognize. It’s a New York area code.

  Telemarketer?

  Maybe.

  Something more serious?

  More likely.

  I nab the phone and answer. “Hello?”

  “It’s Coen.”

  I blink into the dark. Did he lose his cell phone? Why is he calling me from an unknown number since he, along with the entire team, is programmed into my contacts? “What’s up?”

  “I’m in jail. I need you to bail me out.”

  “What the fuck?” I growl, sitting up in bed and reaching for the bedside lamp to switch it on.

  “I got drunk,” he says flatly with no remorse. “Might have started a fight in a bar.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, scrubbing my hand through my hair. Why in the hell is he calling me? I’m just his damn hotel roommate and nothing more.

  Well, I’m also his linemate, so maybe that’s why.

  “Stone,” Coen snaps irritably. “Will you come get me?”

  No need to think about it. Of course, I’ll go get him. “Yeah… let me grab a shower and I’ll head out. Where are you?”

  ♦

  It’s no fun trying to get an Uber and finding a police precinct in a completely different borough from where the team is staying in Manhattan. I arrive at the Brooklyn precinct just after five thirty a.m., but Coen didn’t bother to tell me he wasn’t exactly ready to be released.

  I guess the wheels of justice need a lube job, because I sit there for two hours before they’re ready to even start processing the paperwork and accept my payment for his bail. Turns out the charges are drunk and disorderly and assault, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he’s in deep shit with the team.

  It’s another hour until he’s brought up from wherever they were keeping him, and while he does offer a “thanks” as we go to an area to collect his belongings, he looks in no way repentant for either the actions that landed him here or the fact I’m on hour four of this fun trip to bail him out.

  I order an Uber from my app as we head for the lobby, but just as we’re approaching the doors, I see reporters with cameras outside. My first thought is there must be some big criminal case occurring, but then it hits me… they could be here for Coen. High-profile people in custody get tipped to the media all the time.

  “Shit,” I grumble as I hold out an arm to stop Coen from reaching for the door. “Reporters outside.”

  He glances through the glass curiously but doesn’t appear to care.

  “Let’s wait until the Uber arrives,” I say, and we move off to the side.

  I watch the driver’s car on the app and as it’s pulling up, I say, “Let’s go.”

  The minute we step through the doors and Coen is recognized, they swarm in on us. Questions are hurled at Coen, and then I’m recognized and my name is yelled too.

  Lowering my head, I push through the small mob toward the Uber, and Coen follows. We slide into the vehicle as the cameras roll, and I know there’s going to be hell to pay.

  Fifteen minutes into our drive back to Manhattan, my phone dings. It’s Gage. Heads up. You were both on the news.

  I grimace, hating how fast word travels.

  Coen’s phone starts chiming, clearly a flurry of texts. He looks at them, shrugs, and tucks his phone back in his pocket.

  “Keller?” I guess, figuring he would be the one most likely to contact him at this point.

  “And Derringer,” he says, leaning his head against the seat. He looks terrible, now that I have a chance to study him. Face is pale, eyes bloodshot, and clothes rumpled. He has an abrasion high on his cheekbone near the temple and cuts along his right knuckles.

  “What happened?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

  “Some guy’s face connected with my fist,” he drawls nonchalantly. “He was a bitch about it and insisted the police get involved.”

  I don’t even know what to say. I’m getting the vibe he was looking for trouble. I’d bet a hundred bucks Coen probably instigated it—I’ve heard he’s been quite the dick when he’s drinking. Such a dick that no one wants to go out with him, and I know for a fact he was specifically not invited tonight.

  When he didn’t show up in our room, I knew he’d gone out on his own, and I didn’t think twice about it. Now I’m thinking the guy needs a damn babysitter.

  “You’re going to face some consequences, you know.” An ass-chewing, for sure. I’d guess a hefty fine, too, most likely by the league, but I wouldn’t put it past Derringer to fine him as well. Suspension is just as likely.

  “I have no fucks to give.” Coen’s tone is one of absolute disregard. He truly doesn’t care what they do to him. Doesn’t even attempt to justify his behavior, and there is no brash claim that he’s too valuable to the team to suffer a consequence.

  It’s almost as if he wants to be punished, and it doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out he’s probably grappling with some survivor’s guilt. I wonder if they’ll take that into consideration when dealing with him.

  I settle back into my seat and look out the passenger window. Nothing left to discuss with Coen, and whatever happens to him isn’t my problem. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want any commiseration, so I, too, have no fucks to give about the guy.

  What happens, happens.

  It’s silent the rest of the ride back to the hotel, and when we arrive, more reporters are camped on the sidewalk. Coen walks in with his head held high—not that I think he’s proud of what he did, but because I don’t think he really cares.

  Inside the lobby, a few of the guys mill about. Coen walks without breaking stride to the elevator. I have no clue if he’s heading to our room or straight to a meeting with Keller and Derringer. Regardless, I’m not going up with him.

  I see Gage by the small coffee kiosk across the lobby talking to Baden, and I head their way.

  Their conversation halts when I approach.

  Gage attempts some levity by playfully backhanding me in the stomach. “In case you were wondering, the camera really does add fifteen pounds.”

  “Christ, what a nightmare,” I growl, stepping up to the counter and ordering a large black coffee.

  “Did he say what happened?” Baden asks.

  I shake my head. “Not true details. Just that his fist connected with a guy’s face. Completely flippant about it all.”

  “Keller’s about ready to explode,” Baden says quietly, and I can tell he’s worried about Coen. Good thing someone has some fucks to give.

  I grab my coffee, handing over my credit card. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  Gage shrugs and Baden shakes his head. “Nothing good. Probably just a fine if Coen is appropriately apologetic, but somehow, I don’t think Keller’s going to get the good little boy routine from him.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Coen takes a swing at him,” Gage muses.

  “Derringer will keep things cool,” I say, and I hope that’s true.

  Baden claps me on the shoulder and nods at Gage. “I’d like to stay and discuss all the ways this can get worse, but I have a beautiful woman waiting for me in my room.”

  My eyebrows raise, completely shocked at this radical change in subject, and also, because Baden doesn’t seem the type to just hook up.

  When he leaves, Gage must see my confusion and laughs. “It’s Sophie. She came to see him because he was sick.”

  Dawning hits me, and I nod. “Got it.”

  I don’t know much about the relationship between Baden and Sophie. Gossip has made its way around, especially after Baden stayed behind in Phoenix to give his victim impact statement when one of his attackers took a plea deal. The team traveled on to Houston, and it was then I learned who Sophie was—the girl he saved—and heard rumblings they might have something more going.

  I wasn’t sure until now.

  The way Baden mentioned her waiting in his room—not in a lewd way, but in a manner that said he’s the luckiest son of a bitch to have someone.

  It’s a concept I have no experience with nor have I ever strove for such a thing. Relationships have never been a priority.

  I wonder if they were with Brooks. Did he ever find someone to love?

  And what about Harlow? Is she the type of woman who dreams of big white weddings, or is she more of a one-night stand type?

  And why the fuck am I even wondering about her in that light? I’m not interested in her in that way.

  I mean… unless she’s a one-night stand type, then maybe.

  Well, not maybe.

  That would be a hell yes.

  “I’m sure there’ll be a team meeting soon,” Gage says, and my head snaps his way.

  “About what?” I ask, my brain a bit fuzzy from thinking about Harlow and berating myself for the same.

  Gage shakes his head, amused. “About this thing with Coen. I’ll bet you ten dollars he won’t play tonight. I bet they move Rivers up to our line.”

  “That’s not a bet I’ll take,” I reply before sipping my coffee. “He’ll be out of tonight’s game at a minimum. And yeah… Rivers is the right call.”

  Our conversation delves deep into options regarding not only our line, but if Boone Rivers is moved up from the second line, who will take his place? The depth of the third line is weak at best.

  The entire time Gage and I volley scenarios, I can’t help but continue to wonder about Harlow and what type of woman she is.

  CHAPTER 13

  Harlow

  “No, you can’t go.” Odin looks at me with chocolate eyes drooping with sadness. His gaze shifts pointedly to his leash hanging by the door. “I’m sorry, but no. Dogs aren’t welcome, unfortunately.”

  I scrub behind his ear, vigorously enough his back leg shakes with delight. “We’ll cuddle when I get home, and there might be a treat involved.”

  He can’t understand the words, but he seems to accept my departure as he swivels his head and licks my palm.

  I smile as I grab my coat from the rack and shrug it on. “You’re the bestest boy. The keeper of my heart. My reason for living.”

  I swear the dog rolls his eyes and trots off toward the kitchen where I hear him slurping water from his bowl as I exit my condo.

  Locking the door, I head toward the staircase, surprised to see Stone coming down the hall with an empty recycle bin in hand. He must have been emptying it downstairs in the main receptacle as pickup is tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since St. Patrick’s Day, but he’s been in New York for two games.

  “There’s the hope and savior of the Titans,” I say with a cheeky smile as we approach each other.

  Stone snorts and shakes his head. “Couple of lucky breaks.”

  He’s being humble. He played fantastically in New York and is currently the leading scorer on the team since they took to the ice two weeks ago, with Gage Heyward only one point behind him.

  I could gush about his play, but I can tell Stone’s not the type to eat it up. His brother was, though. God, Brooks used to glory in the accolades and would strut around like the king of the world after a great game. I loved him for it, just as I admire Stone’s ability to exist without those affirmations. I have a feeling he’s built up that strength over the last few years as the Dumelin family fractured.

  A change of subject is in order. “I’m going to send you an email tomorrow with some documents, but I have all the bank and investment accounts transferred into your name. It will be encrypted as I have log-on information and passwords attached. You can change them when you sign in for the first time.”

  “Awesome,” he murmurs. “Now I can get my dad paid so he’ll stop calling me wondering where his money is.”

  I don’t comment nor ask for added explanation. I would bet my britches, though, that those calls never come with genuine curiosity about how Stone is doing personally.

  Instead, I tell him the other good news. “I should have the deeds of trust finished to put the properties in your name later in the week. And I’ve requested a title transfer for the Ferrari.”

  “I really appreciate you getting all this done,” he says, but his eyes shift to his door, as if he’s eager to get inside and perhaps out of my presence.

  “It’s my job,” I reply with a quick smile, then start to move past him. “Have a great night.”

  “Yeah, you too,” he murmurs, but when I’m just a few paces down the hall, he asks, “So, where are you headed tonight?”

  I pivot to face him. Stone has one hand in his jeans pocket, his shoulders hunched slightly forward. He seems uncomfortable initiating conversation, yet he looks hopeful at the same time. Almost as if he’s trying to figure out how to be social. I find it endearing.

  My answer might set him back and send him scurrying, but honesty is always the best policy. “I’m going to an AA meeting.”

  He’s shocked. I figured he would be. Eyebrows shoot up, head pushes forward slightly as his mouth gapes. “AA?”

  “Alcoholics Anonymous,” I explain.

  Stone’s lips purse as if irritated. “Yes, I know what it means. I just… didn’t know you were a member.”

  “Well, it’s not like a social club I wanted to join,” I quip, trying to ease the awkwardness. “But I’ve been in AA for a little over two years now.”

  “Um…” Stone’s gaze shifts away, as if he’s horrified he brought this to light.

  “It’s okay.” I take a few steps toward him, and his eyes come to mine. “I’m not embarrassed by it. It’s not a secret. I’ve been sober two years, one month, and seventeen days today.”

  Stone lets out a long breath. “I’ve never known anyone in AA before. It just took me by surprise.”

  “It’s a lot to throw at someone as we’re passing in the hallway.”

  “It’s why you said you didn’t drink anymore… at your St. Patrick’s Day get-together,” he says. When I nod, he asks, “But it doesn’t bother you to be around others who drink?”

  “Sometimes,” I admit softly. “But those times are few and far between. I had some urges when Brooks died.”

  Something passes over Stone’s expression that I can’t identify. “You two were really close.”

  A statement.

  Not a guess.

  “Stone,” I say softly, garnering his attention. “I met Brooks in AA. That’s where our friendship started.”

  He takes a step back, as if I somehow slapped him with my words. Shaking his head, that thing in his eyes I couldn’t really identify a moment ago is clear now.

  It’s torture.

  “I knew nothing about him,” he mutters. Each syllable sounds agonizing.

  “You knew plenty,” I assure him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “And he always wanted you to know more, he just didn’t know how. It’s why he wanted you to read the journals.”

  “I can’t…” Stone’s gaze falls to the floor as he rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m not ready.”

  “You will be one day,” I promise.

  His eyes lift to mine, and his voice is hollow. “I can’t even fucking sleep in the master bedroom. Those goddamn journals in the closet scare the shit out of me.”

  It’s an admission I don’t think he intended to make, but it’s huge. Such an intensely private fear to share with a near stranger.

  “Listen.” My voice is gentle as I get the feeling he could bolt at any moment and shut down completely. But I think he needs a nudge forward. “Why don’t you come to the meeting with me? Tonight’s an open meeting so nonalcoholics can attend. On the way over, I’ll tell you a little about how Brooks and I met, and you can maybe get a sense of how the AA community works. It will give you perspective. And you can ask any questions you want, and I’ll be glad to answer.”