Conner grabs his toiletry bag, zips it, and shoves it into the duffle bag. Then he stops and stares at me. “Also, for the record, this place looks barely lived in. How was I supposed to know someone was staying here?”
“I left a light on.”
"Thought that was Theo last time he took a hook-up here," Conner replies with a shrug. "I didn't open the closet and you don't have, like, one single personal effect lying around. Except the textbooks, which I figured might be Aunt Jessie's old schoolbooks."
Right. His Aunt Jessie used to be a physiotherapist.
“Okay yeah, I guess I can see that,” I admit. “I moved out of my last place rather quickly and left almost everything. Look,you don’t have to go tonight. You should stay until the storm clears.”
“No point,” Conner replies and keeps shoving clothes back into his bag. “You tell your dad I’m here and my parents will know seconds later anyway.”
“It’s the middle of the night so I’m not talking to anyone,” I promise. “Besides, my dad used to coach you on the Barons, remember? He’s still got friends in the back office. I’m guessing whatever has you here instead of with the team, he may already know about it.”
“Do former coaches get told when it’s the end of someone’s career? I would ask my dad but no one has ever dumped him from an NHL team. I could ask my uncles but they’ve never spent five seconds on a farm team. They’re not failures.”
“What the hell are you spiraling on about?” I demand because I’m confused as hell and too tired to process what sounds like pure and simple lunacy. “You’re getting traded?”
He huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “I wish!”
"Look, my dad might have been a player, but I know very little about the business side of hockey," I tell him. “However I do know you were a number one draft pick. You're the Captain of the Barons, which your father was captain of, right? If hockey had a royal family, you’d be the crown prince. The sign entering town even says so. You can’t just have your career taken away.”
“Waivers,” he says like I’m supposed to know what that word means.
“Wafers? What?” I blink and he heaves out a very aggravated sigh.
“Waiversis a process by which a player—any player regardless of contract—can be dismissed from their team and sent to the minors,” Conner explains and when he steals a glance at me, his hazel eyes are filled with humility. “And my coach told me that they’re doingthat to me.”
“Right now?” I’m confused. Conner is a great player. I remember everyone talking about how gifted he is.
“No one can waive a player between December eighteenth and December twenty-sixth. Guess they don’t want players to go through that kind of upheaval around the holidays.” Conner zips his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. "But my coach, being the prime-time asshole he is, decided to let me know that as of December twenty-seventh, I'm waived.”
“What a dick move,” I whisper because, as a mental health professional, I can see how this coach just defeated the purpose of the waiver freeze for Conner. He purposely told Conner to create emotional havoc. I really do want to call my dad now and discuss this with him. How can the league even allow that?
“Yep. So I pulled a dick move too and left," Conner explains. "They have a game tomorrow, the last one before the break, but fuck them. They can get used to playing without me."
“Can you do that?” I ask.
He shrugs his broad shoulders. "No. But I did. And my agent is handling it. I doubt the team will make a fuss publicly because if they make me look bad, no one will pick me up off waivers and they're stuck paying me. Not that anyone will want me anyway."
Okay, now I don’t really understand what he’s talking about, but I don’t think it matters. He slips by me and shoves his feet into his boots, which are next to my bed. I realize he really is going to leave and now I feel guilty.
“Just… use the blow-up mattress or whatever. It’s cool.”
He looks over at me, his eyes scanning my face. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," I say even though I'm not. I'm honestly too tired to think about it anymore. I yawn, walk over, and pluck his duffle off his shoulder. I walk to the tiny, barren guest room and drop it on the floor in the middle of the room as he comes upbehind me. "I'd love to talk about this more with you in the morning. If you want someone to vent to. But right now I need sleep. I'm exhausted. So see you tomorrow?"
He nods, but it’s slow and hesitant. “Yeah. Thanks, Mac.”
“Sure,” I say simply as I cross the small distance back to my room. I close my bedroom door without another word. I manage to get off my scrubs and then drop into bed in just my underwear and sports bra. Yanking the covers up to my neck, I’m hit with a waft of a delicious smell. It’s woodsy and warm, yet crisp… he must have lied on my bed. It has to be his cologne or deodorant or something. And boy, it smellsamazing…
That’s my last thought as I fall into a deep sleep.
Chapter 3
Conner
Idon't sleep most of the night because my brain keeps bouncing between feeling humiliated and feeling guilty. Humiliated because I dropped my towel and screamed like a petrified child in front of Mac Larue, and guilty because I invaded her space and used up her fancy bubble bath. And she wasn't kidding about it being pricy. That shit is like sixty bucks for the smallest bottle I could find online. Plus fourteen bucks for international shipping. I ordered her some in the middle of the night as the air mattress deflated for the second time. The bubble bath won't get here until the day after Christmas, though, so her day of self-care is officially ruined thanks to me.