There is no in between.
And it’s really a no-brainer.
It’s not like I have to really think this through. If I had a best friend, I wouldn’t be calling him or her up to ask their advice on what I should do. If I had parents I was close to, it’s not a situation where their wisdom and love would give me guidance.
But I have neither a best friend nor parents to turn to, so it’s kind of moot.
I make my way into the kitchen, but there’s nothing to do. The counters are spotless, the dishes are done, and I even mopped the floor two days ago.
I suppose I could go buy a table and chairs to go in here. Maybe even a couch and a coffee table for the living room? My furniture consists of a recliner and lamp there, and an air mattress in the bedroom. I’ve lived such a minimal existence since MJ died. I didn’t really need anything else. Mine and MJ’s house in Dallas was sold fully furnished. I’d only kept my clothes and a few things from the kitchen to cook with. I didn’t want anything to remind me of the home I’d shared with MJ.
But no one comes over—with the exception of Dax and Bishop storming my apartment the day before yesterday—when Bishop had told me to get my head out of my ass. I wish his words meant something to me, but they don’t.
Not really.
Okay, maybe a little bit. I mean… I live for hockey. It’s probably the only thing keeping me alive and when I commit to my team, I commit to them all. I want them to succeed, and, in that sense, I care about them deeply.
So yeah… it fucking hurts a bit to know I’ve let them down.
So maybe it does mean something worthwhile that they both took the time to come to see me after it was announced I’d be returning to the team.
A knock on my door startles me badly, mainly because I’d been steeped in thoughts of visitors to my apartment and no one ever comes over. The fact I’ve got someone here to see me is shocking.
But I’m also bored shitless, so I can’t say it bothers me. I move out of the kitchen, into my small dumpy living room, and then open the door without bothering to look through the peephole.
I can only stare at the blond man standing on my threshold in complete and utter fucking shock.
“Hey man,” he says with a grin, his green eyes flashing in the sunlight and crinkled at the edges.
Aaron Wylde.
Considered by some to be the wildest man in the league, both on and off the ice. It’s why most people just call him by his last name, Wylde, and why whenever we used to go out, he’d be swarmed by all the women.
But I never called him Wylde. Only Aaron.
He’s the man who, at one time, I considered my best friend when we both played for the Dallas Mustangs.
Of course, that relationship ended when MJ died. I cut him out like I did everyone else.
“Going to invite me in?” he asks, and it startles me.
“Yeah,” I mutter, taking a step back. “Sorry. Just caught me off guard.”
Aaron brushes past me, scanning my dump of an apartment. As I close the door, he says, “What a shithole.”
“It works for me,” I reply, not in any way defending my choices. Just being matter of fact.
He turns to face me, pushing his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know whether to hug you, shake your hand, or punch you in the face.”
“Take your pick,” I say flatly, but I move into the kitchen to pull a bottle of water out of the fridge to offer him.
He follows me in there, accepts the bottle, and just stares.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, leaning a hip against my counter and crossing my arms over my chest.
“You weren’t at the team meeting this morning, but I figured someone would have texted you at the least,” he replies with a smile. “I got traded here.”
“No shit,” I murmur, and there’s no hiding the happy tone in my voice that news brings. The trade deadline is at the end of next week, and I knew we’d be picking up some new blood.
Aaron, in addition to being my best friend, was one of the most talented defensemen in the league. He’ll be an amazing addition to the Vengeance. Since we’re making a legit run for the Cup this year, it’s a great move on management’s part.
“Let’s go get a beer and catch up,” he suggests.
I shake my head. Not interested in catching up because that would involve telling him how shitty my life has been the last fifteen months. But I can’t even say that. Instead, I fall back on a better excuse. “Not allowed to drink.”