"The main dig I keep getting is that the owners are the ones who pressured management to pick me up," I explain, and my eyes lock on Abbott's face, looking for some sort of sign that shows me if this rumor is true or not. "They just want local boys."
I don’t have to wait long for a sign. And it’s not a facial tick or the way he averts his eyes or any usual sign of bluffing, because Abbott doesn’t bluff. “Yeah, it’s probably true.”
“Oh.” Not what I was hoping for.
“Coach told me, flat-out when they scooped me up that they were forced to pick me by the owner because I was the hometown hero.” Abbott pauses to sip from his water. “Maxwell didn’t even want to make me captain, even after Briggs retired, but owners pushed him on it. Hometown angle is important to them. They’re local nerds who accidentally made a few hundred million on a chip that improves MRI imaging and could retire at forty and install a hockey franchise in their home state for shits and giggles. We are, quite literally, their Barbie Dolls and the Riptide is their Barbie Dream House.”
“So it doesn’t irk you?”
Abbott shakes his head, and his wheat-colored hair flops over his forehead. "Every now and then it tries to bug me. When I'm having a weak moment but I don't let it," Abbott says, his blue eyes flashing with exhaustion for a minute but then he shrugs. "I know I'm working my ass off. I know I'm trying to earn every opportunity. I know I'm not in control of other people's motivation or their opinions."
“I get pissed when they say he only got chosen as captain because he’s gay,” Declan adds and his angular jaw tightens. “First everyone said it would cost him his career, now those same trolls are screaming itgavehim his career.”
Abbott squeezes his hand momentarily. “It’s a win-win situation.”
"You mean lose-lose," I correct him because that's what I think he means when someone can't win no matter what they do.
Abbott grins. “Nah. I only win. They don’t have to give me credit for it, but I’ll do it anyway.”
I smile at his cocky attitude. It gives me a small jolt of confidence. I hope I can transfer that over to the ice.
“So any thoughts so far on where you might live?” Declan asks as he starts to clear the dishes.
“I’m still debating either around this area or the Old Port,” I tell him and take the plates from him and bring them over to their dishwasher.
"Two very different vibes between here and the Old Port," Abbott muses as he walks over to the coffee bar. I've realized he loves an after-dinner espresso. "I love the quieter life out here, and the ocean, but if you're single, the busy nightlife and restaurants of the Port are what you need. I never asked if you had a girlfriend."
“Or boyfriend,” Declan adds.
I smile. “I’m single. Mostly.”
Now they’re both staring at me with eyebrows raised so I swallow hard and try to explain. “I think I like this woman, an old family friend I recently got reacquainted with but she may have started dating someone else. I’m not sure.”
“Thank God my sister isn’t here to hear this,” Abbott says with a wry smile. “She was a private investigator. She’d take it upon herself to get to the bottom of not only thiswoman’s dating status but also her criminal history and credit score.”
Declan chuckles. "You don't need a P.I., just ask her. Do you know how much time Abbott and I wasted second-guessing each other or misinterpreting things that caused us to almost break up. Trust me, Conner, tell this woman you're interested."
I close the dishwasher door and decide I should take Declan’s advice and I might as well do it now before I talk myself out of it. "I have to make a call.."
“Smart man,” Declan replies.
I slip out into the hall and jog up the stairs to my room where my phone is still attached to the charger on the bedside table. I flop back on the king-sized mattress covered in a royal blue striped duvet. I don't know which one of these guys has the decorating sense, but this whole house is on point. The perfect mix of masculine and beachy. If I do end up with a place in Ocean Pines, or nearby Old Orchard Beach, which I've also been looking at, then I will have to ask them for decorating tips. Another thing I never gave a second thought to in Brooklyn.
I hit Mac’s number before I can let the negative thoughts get too loud.
“Hey,” she says, and I note immediately that something is off in her tone. She sounds flustered. Frazzled.
"Hey, do you have a minute?" I ask more tentatively than I'd expected to sound. There's a lot of noise coming through her phone, rumbling and zipping, like traffic. "Where are you?"
“About forty minutes from Portland. On the side of the turnpike.”
I sit up and my heart slips down into my gut. “What? Why? Are you okay?”
“Fine. My stupid car though… I think it’s finally bit it, once and for all,” she tells me.
“Get away from the shoulder, even if you have to go stand inthe snow, do it,” I command as I get off the bed and head toward the door. “When the road’s slippery, cars can and have plowed into people on the shoulder.”
“I’m being careful,” Mac says, and she sounds a little annoyed at getting instructions. “And I called a tow truck. They’ll be here in… like anywhere from twenty minutes to one hour from now. They couldn’t give me a better window.”