Charming as Puck(21)

Aunt Hilda grabs her in a hug, and they’re like one big giant silk monster floating together in the kitchen. “And I’m the reason you can’t find a boyfriend or get a real job. I know, honey. I know. I also pay your therapy bills.”

“I don’t go to therapy.”

“Everyone should go to therapy. It’s good for you. Kami, you go to therapy, don’t you?”

“No, but I probably should.” Hypnosis therapy would be good.

Then I could forget Nick.

Because even while I was explaining the situation to the police at the oyster bar last night, I couldn’t help thinking about Nick.

He’ll be a dirty old man one day. Sneaking out of nursing homes to hit on women a third his age.

Unless the right woman finally snares him. The one who will finally mean more to him than hockey. Than pranks. Than everything.

And that one won’t be me.

“Cheer up, Kami.” Muffy hands me an egg white omelet with spinach and kale and mushrooms and I’m honestly afraid to ask what else. “I know last night wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but I have the best date lined up for you tonight.”

“Is he under seventy?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Single?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Average intelligence or better?”

“Yep.”

“Does he tell knock-knock jokes?”

Both Muffy and Aunt Hilda frown at me. “I…don’t think so,” Muffy finally says.

“Impotence problems?”

“Kami. Don’t you think you’re getting a little picky?”

“You set me up with a member of a senior citizen crime ring.”

“Oh, did you go out with William last night?” Aunt Hilda claps her hands. “I’d do him if he were ten years younger.”

“Mom.”

“Sorry, sweetie. It’s the hormones. Menopause is no joke.”

I eat my omelet quickly, because I’m actually at risk of being late to work. Again.

“Come through the front door next time, hon,” Aunt Hilda calls as I dash away.

I make it to the clinic with five minutes to spare before my first patient of the day. I rush in the back door and swing into the break room to toss my coat onto the rack and my bag in my cubby, except I can’t get more than a foot into the door.

Because the break room is piled with at least two dozen giant teddy bears with red ribbons around their necks, all of them holding helium balloons that read I’m sorry.

“Whaaa…?” I start.

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,” my mom replies dryly behind me.

“I don’t…” I trail off, because I think I do. “How many bears are there?” I ask weakly.

“Thirty.” Mom sips her coffee and gives me the look of all mothers suspicious of being denied a glimpse into their children’s dating lives.

You know the one.

The does this mean you’re going to give me grandchildren of the human variety soon too? look.

“Was there a card?”

“Was a card necessary?”

Nope.

Not at all.

I rub my chest, right over my fluttering heart.

I’ve never seen Nick Murphy apologize for anything, but I’ve seen him pull a prank or seventeen.

And if there’s one thing I know about Nick, it’s that he never does anything small.

I might be in trouble.

He loves himself first, I remind myself.

It doesn’t help.

Forget might.

I am most definitely in trouble.





Twelve





Nick



Since we don’t have another game until Wednesday, and since my agent is a worthless shit when it comes to solving my living problems—although he’s a god when it comes to endorsement deals and milking the hell out of things like that self-published book I wrote about one of Felicity’s dick ex-boyfriends a few years ago—half the team joins me Monday night to move my shit out of my condo.

Along with my parents.

Who are delighted—Mom’s words—to have me moving back into their basement.

I’d get a hotel room, except the last thing I need is to be blacklisted from all the hotels in town, which might be inevitable given that I fully intend to pay Zeus back for the cow.

“This is temporary,” I remind my mom. “One week. Tops. I’m meeting with a real estate agent before practice tomorrow.” Because apparently my reputation precedes me, and none of the building supervisors at my buddies’ places have returned my calls. One even hung up on me.

Mom smiles over a box of stuff she pulled out of my cabinets. “Of course you are. By the way, honey, butter goes in the fridge,” she says. “You’ll have to remember that when you use my kitchen.”

Fuck me. I knew I blacked out bad enough after the season opener last week that I put my popcorn in the fridge, but I didn’t know I put my butter in the cabinet.

“Here. You take this.” I shove a full bottle of Jameson at Klein, my backup on the team, because I need to not drink it. “Happy birthday.”

Happy birthday.

That hollow hurt in Kami’s eyes yesterday—she thinks somebody told me.