Chapter Eighteen

The flight to Portland was about two and a half hours. Brett was a good sport, signing autographs for the crew, taking selfies with any fans who asked. Chelsea admired his ease. He treated fans with a lot of respect, even though he kept his ball cap pulled low and tried to stay under the radar as best he could.

It wasn’t quite what she’d expected of him, or at least, not what she’d expected from his reputation as tabloid fodder.

And if she thought he’d been recognized a lot at the Billings airport, Portland was twice as bad. Luckily, his job had made him an expert at maneuvering airports and crowds of hockey fans. They were tucked in the back of a town car within a relatively short period of time, all things considered.

About forty minutes later, their driver pulled up in front of a beautiful, sprawling stone house, and Chelsea was blown away by how gorgeous it was.

Brett tipped the driver, handing their small overnight bags to Chelsea, before wrestling the rest of the bags stuffed with gifts for Olivia from the trunk.

Chelsea couldn’t help her fond smile. She’d give Brett one thing—when properly motivated, the man knew how to shop.

“This house is absolutely stunning.”

He glanced at her as they walked up to the door. “You like it?”

“Are you kidding? What’s not to like?”

He grinned as he juggled the bags into one hand so he could shove a key in the door, then stepped inside and punched the correct code into the security system.

It disarmed with a beep, but Chelsea’s attention was on him rather than the impressive interior. “Wait a minute. Is this your house?”

Brett nodded. “This is it.”

“I assumed we’d be going straight to your sister’s place.” She set their overnight bags on the floor. The truth was, she hadn’t really thought about him having a life here. A home here.

“I considered it, but my car really misses me when I’m away too long.”

She laughed as she followed him into the attached garage.

“A Lamborghini?”

He nodded as he popped the back and managed to jam two bags of toys and presents into the miniscule trunk before he walked around to the passenger side, pulled open the scissor door and balanced the final bag on the console between the seats.

He looked a little bit embarrassed by the cherry-red luxury vehicle as she crawled inside. “Yeah. I…it was…I have no excuse, really.”

She waited for him to slide into the driver’s seat. “Do you need an excuse to rock a Lambo?”

He laughed as he reached over and pressed the start button. The car purred to life, even as the garage door lifted out of the way.

“Well, young Brett agrees with you wholeheartedly. Which is why eighteen-year-old me bought this.” He revved the engine a few times before pulling smoothly onto the driveway. “I probably should have gotten rid of it a while ago, but I don’t get to drive much during the season anyway, and at this point, it’s kind of a reminder that the stuff you think is gonna be great, isn’t always.”

“Oh?” How was it that every time she wrote him off as a superficial bad boy, he ended up surprising her?

Once the garage door had shut behind them, they were off, zipping along roads that Brett obviously knew like the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I’d wanted a Lamborghini since I was twelve. So I thought I was hot shit when I bought one, but the payments were substantial. I got it when I was still on my entrance salary, before I could really afford it, because I thought it would make me look cool. It ended up getting repossessed once because I couldn’t afford it, and I spent the next two years doing everything in my power to get it back and keep it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s cool as hell. But it’s also a good reminder that even cool shit can be a pain in the ass. It’s not worth taking out unless the conditions are perfect, which is rare, the upkeep is costly, and even if it gets you the girl, it’s not gonna make her stay.”

Chelsea didn’t even have a chance to fully absorb this fascinating, philosophical side of Brett before he’d pulled into a parking lot and cut the engine.

“Okay, let’s grab some takeout and go meet my niece.”

…

It turned out good taste in houses ran in Brett’s family.

Chelsea was still taking in the beautiful ranch-style house when a big, handsome, raven-haired man who had a couple of inches on Brett’s six feet answered the door. His grin was a slash of blinding white against his black stubble as he pulled Brett in for a hug, despite the bags in his arms.

“Hey, man. Glad you could make it back.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this. Coop, this is Chelsea. Chelsea, this is my brother-in-law, hockey legend Cooper Mead.”

“Nice to meet you.” Cooper extended a big hand, and she shook it.

“You too. I hope I’m not intruding. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“You’re not intruding at all,” Brett assured her. “Now where’s my niece? I brought presents. And Chinese food.”

Brett shoved the bags he was hauling into Cooper’s arms.

“She’s in the living room,” he said, but Brett was already halfway down the hall, disappearing to the right.

She liked the loving exasperation all over Cooper’s expression as he shook his head. “Still has the attention span of a gnat, I see. Good to know Montana hasn’t changed him too much. Come on in.”

“Here. Let me take some of those,” she offered. He relinquished the takeout bags, and by the time she and Cooper made it down the hall, Brett was already going full uncle in the living room.

“Watch her head.”

“I know that. Everybody knows that,” he told the woman in the rocking chair as he stole her firstborn away. With her head carefully cradled in Brett’s hand, the baby fit on his forearm. It was absolutely heart-melting, if you were into watching a gorgeous, hard-bodied man make a fool of himself over a tiny, adorable baby.

“Hey Olivia. I’m your Uncle Brett,” he cooed. “Yes, I am. And when you’re old enough, I’m going to teach you how to play hockey, because I’m the best hockey player in the whole family, no matter what your mommy and daddy tell you.”

“I think he’s smitten,” Chelsea said, drawing the woman’s attention from her brother and her baby.

Brett’s sister stared at her for long enough that the back of Chelsea’s neck started to itch. “I think so, too.” The words hung uncomfortably between them as the woman pushed herself up out of the rocking chair. “I’m Lainey Mead.”

“Chelsea London.”

The woman’s eyebrow shot up at that, but she didn’t comment further. “That wouldn’t happen to be a bag of takeout from Frank’s Noodle House, would it?”

Chelsea held it up in confirmation. “Brett said it’s your favorite.”

“Huh. Guess the kid’s not as useless as I thought,” she said, but with enough gruffness that Chelsea knew she was touched. “Do you mind setting it on the table?” she asked.

Chelsea was happy to comply, following Lainey toward the dining area that had been set up between the gorgeous kitchen and the spacious living room. The open concept of the place made it perfect for gatherings, and Chelsea liked the flow of it.

“I’ll get us some plates.” Lainey’s progress toward the kitchen was halted, however, when she caught sight of her husband, his arms laden with packages. “You’re kidding me, Slick. Did you just get reverse mugged in the foyer or something?”

Coop shook his head. “I’m just the toy mule. Ask Santa Claus over there.”

“Seriously, Brett? What the hell is all this?”

“Uh, only the most awesome presents in the world for my best girl here,” Brett told his sister.

Cooper took a seat in the armchair in the corner of the room and started going through the bags. “Jeez. How many toy stores did you have to knock over for all this?”

He pulled out a plush Zamboni about three times bigger than his daughter, the entire Playmobil NHL toy line, and a gaming system with several hockey-themed video games.

Lainey frowned as she grabbed a stack of plates and cutlery from the kitchen. “She’s not even a day old.” She rounded the counter to set the dishes on the table. “The joys of opposable thumbs are a bit beyond her grasp right now.”

Cooper held up one of the games. “And this one is rated 14+.”

Brett made a dismissive face. “Cool uncles don’t care about rules.”

Cooper tossed the game on the growing pile of stuff accumulating on the ottoman and started unpacking the rest of the bag’s contents—a month’s worth of outfits emblazoned with the Wolfpack logo.

“Hey, none of this stuff says Mead.” He held up a little onesie that Chelsea and Brett had gotten screen-printed with Sillinger and 19 on the back.

“That’s because there aren’t any Meads in the NHL, right Olivia? And you don’t want a jersey with some washed-up ex-player’s name on it, do you? No, you don’t. Because you have good taste.”

Cooper shot him a dark frown. “Give me back my baby, asshole.”

“No chance. You get her until she’s eighteen. Chels, you wanna hold her?”

Chelsea joined Brett on the couch. “I’m not… I haven’t held one of these—oh!”

“It’s easy.” Brett placed the little girl in her arms, and the baby snuggled right in with a big yawn.

“Aren’t you just precious?” she asked.

“Hell yeah, she is.” Brett braced an arm across the back of the couch behind her and leaned in, nudging Olivia’s little hand with his finger until she tightened her tiny fist around it. Chelsea experienced a moment of longing so deep, it scared her.

Turned out Shanna was right about her. She did want this.

She’d always wanted this. A baby. A family.

Not yet. She wasn’t in a hurry. But one day.

But sitting there, she realized that it had always been an abstract assumption, something she’d think about when the time came. And when she’d realized that time was never coming with Dustin, she’d tucked it away. A lot deeper than she’d thought. She’d never really solidified the vision of the man who might unearth it again.

When Brett lifted his gaze from his niece and grinned at Chelsea, her stomach dropped.

“Good looks run in the family. But we were worried Coop’s ugly mug might mess up the gene pool.”

The giant stuffed Zamboni came flying across the room, but Brett fended it off with a forearm block, and Chelsea was grateful for the distraction.

“Okay, these noodles aren’t going to eat themselves. Let’s eat before this Zamboni war deteriorates into some kind of bro-showdown,” Lainey suggested before stage-whispering to Chelsea, “There were push-ups last time. It wasn’t pretty.”

“And I won!” Brett announced as he stood, arms aloft in victory as he headed for the table.

Cooper rolled his eyes as he joined Chelsea by the couch. “I let him win,” Coop told her as she relinquished the sleeping Olivia to him. “I was just buttering him up so he’d help me paint the nursery.”

“Lies. Don’t listen to him. He’s jealous of my youth and stamina.”

Brett pulled a chair out for her, and she took a seat at the table beside him.

Chelsea couldn’t remember a better family meal. Dinner memories from her childhood were so sterile. None of the teasing banter and genuine affection that she could feel around this table.

She liked the way Lainey would absently reach for her husband while she talked, rubbing an affectionate hand against his arm now and then. Or the secret looks they exchanged, as though the supper banter had reminded them of a shared memory or an inside joke. Cooper held his daughter cradled in his right arm, checking on her between every bite of his meal in case she needed something, even though she was sleeping contentedly, snuggled against his big chest. Olivia was a lucky little girl to be growing up around all this love.

And snark.

“…but the real point of this story is that I just want to make it clear that you’re eating dinner with a man who named his betta fish Brett Junior,” Lainey cautioned her.

Chelsea smiled at Brett. “Awwww. That’s kind of cute,” she decided, imagining a young Brett at the pet store, painstakingly selecting the perfect fish.

“He was nineteen,” his sister added drily.

The tips of Brett’s ears reddened, and Chelsea’s giggle earned her a bump from his leg under the table.

“What? It’s a good name!” he insisted, digging into the hand-pulled noodles with pork belly. He didn’t pull away, though, and the heat of his thigh against her knee made her feel the good kind of woozy.

Brett was so different here. More laid-back, more himself.

He’d obviously really missed his family, and they’d missed him, too.

He made dumb jokes and his smile came easier. He was comfortable, she reminded herself, trying not to read too much into his casual touches—the way he’d nudge her shoulder and lean in to fill her in on the back story of the boisterous dinner conversation, the way his arm ended up along the back of her chair and his fingers alternated between tugging on the end of one of her curls and skating along the hem of her sleeve, raising goose bumps along her arm.

Just because he dropped a kiss to her temple when he reached past her for the soy sauce, that didn’t mean anything was changing between them. Did it?

…

God, she had the best laugh.

Brett liked having her here, close enough to touch. Watching her joke around with his family. Hold his niece. Today was a good day, he decided as they finished up dinner.

“Brett? You want to help me with the dishes?”

He frowned at his sister. Well, it had been a good day.

“Not really.”

Lainey’s death glare said that his feelings were irrelevant.

“Duty calls.” He pressed a quick kiss to Chelsea’s cheek—he couldn’t stop touching her—before he got up from the table, grabbing her plate and his as he headed into the kitchen.

Lainey flung a dishtowel at him as he joined her by the sink.

“Why are you washing these by hand? You’ve got a dishwasher.”

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

Brett accepted the wet plate she thrust in his direction. Exactly what he was worried about.

“So…Chelsea seems nice.”

Brett shoved the newly dried plate in the cupboard before accepting the next one.

“She is.”

“What’s her last name, again?”

His hand stilled in the middle of drying, and dread skittered down his spine. Oh, here we go.

“London, wasn’t it? As in Craig London?”

Brett sighed. One of the downfalls of sharing DNA with a woman who’d made the Olympic hockey team and married a titan of the sport was that she knew shit, like the last names of team owners.

Dishes forgotten, Lainey turned to face him. “The owner’s daughter? What are you thinking?”

“He doesn’t know, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He suspects. And he hates my guts. But he doesn’t know.

It didn’t bother him if the team owner didn’t like him. He could change that by keeping his mouth shut and working hard out on the ice. Big hits. Penalty kills. A couple of goals.

It did bother him that Chelsea’s dad didn’t like him. Because that wasn’t so easy to fix.

“It’s not serious.”

Lainey’s concerned frown deepened, and this time she abandoned the pretense of doing the dishes and crossed her arms. “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Brett tossed the dish towel on the counter. “What? We’re hanging out, okay? Neither of us is looking for a relationship right now. And stop looking at me like that. Although props on the concerned frown of disappointment. Your mom face is on point.”

He thought he’d done a pretty decent job of sounding off-hand about it all, but Lainey had always been good at cutting right through his bullshit.

“And are you okay with that?”

Brett scrubbed a hand down his face. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?” he asked a little desperately.

“You brought her here from Montana to meet your family.” Lainey let the reality of that sink in. “From Montana,” she repeated.

“So?” It was false bravado, though. He knew what she was getting at. He was worried about the same thing himself.

“So, the only other woman you’ve ever brought over here was Janelle, and the only reason you did that was because you two were already married!”

Brett glanced over his shoulder. “Keep your voice down, wouldja?”

“I know you want to find someone special, and I know all this divorce bullshit Janelle dragged you through was really hard on you, especially since it lasted longer than your actual marriage. I don’t want you to get hurt again. You have a tendency to rush in without thinking things through sometimes. You’re like an adorable, overly enthusiastic puppy.”

“Uh, I’m like a really strong, super suave, manly puppy, is what I think you meant to say.”

“Either way, I don’t want you to get hit by a car, you know?”

Brett leaned a hip against the counter. “This metaphor just got really dark.”

His sister nodded. “It did. But I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Elaine, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not that stupid twenty-year-old kid anymore. And Chelsea isn’t Janelle. I know what I’m doing. I won’t get in too deep.”

Liar. His heart kicked in his chest.

“Just be careful, okay? I can tell you like this girl. But you know as well as I do that if the Wolfpack hadn’t picked you up…”

Yeah. He did.

“And you’re playing so well right now. I don’t want anything personal to jeopardize your career. Not when there are so many hockey-related things that could. Look what happened to Cooper.”

His brother-in-law had suffered a couple of concussions, and ended up retiring two years ago, because he’d had to, not because he’d wanted to. And Brett didn’t miss the way his sister’s eyes dropped to the scar on her right wrist, a remnant of three-hours’ worth of surgery on the break that had ended her own hockey dreams. It was the reality of professional sports. Your career could end in an instant, without so much as a warning shot.

Craig London’s threat rang in his head.

And I hate to think what your prospects of getting picked up next season would be if the Wolfpack decided not to renew your contract.

“Are we finishing these dishes or what?”

Lainey surveyed the stack of plates in the sink. “No. They can wait. That’s why I have a dishwasher.”

Brett laughed despite the tension in the kitchen.

With a sigh, his sister pulled him close, and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Always,” she vowed, her words muffled by his shoulder. “I’m really glad you came to meet Olivia. Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

He nodded against her hair. “She’s incredible. You done good, sis.”