My keys rattle down on the kitchen island as I stare blankly across the wide expanse of my apartment. It’s raining outside. Pouring. Sheets of icy sleet pelt sideways against my wall of windows making a rhythmic rata-tat-tat sound. Thunder rolls far in the distance, a deep rumble I feel in my chest.
I lift a hand slowly, pressing it against my wet cheek. The sleet burns so cold, my skin almost feels hot. I’m drenched. I could have ordered an Uber, but there was something poetic about walking home in the freezing rain in utter disgrace, dismissed from my job for daring to dance with a cute hockey player at my best friend’s not-so-private wedding.
The only light in my apartment comes from my Christmas tree set up in the corner. The multi-colored lights twinkle on a timer. I love those stupid fucking lights. Troy only ever wanted white lights on our tree. It was my little act of rebellion the first Christmas I lived with Rachel to buy colored lights.
Slipping out of my heels, I kick them aside. My toes are wet inside my black stockings, chilled to the bone. Slowly, I lower my hand from my face to my double-wrapped scarf. Stripping it off, I drop it to the floor with a wet plop. Then I undo the buttons of my cream Antonio Melani belted wrap coat, shrugging it from my shoulders.
I become more frantic as I go, tugging at the bottom of the silky blouse tucked into my pencil skirt. My breath comes in sharp pants as I jerk the buttons, popping one clean off. It rattles onto the counter. I need it off. All of it. Now. I can’t breathe.
I unzip my skirt and shimmy it down my hips, stepping out of it. Then I stretch my arms behind my back, chilled fingers fumbling for the strap of my bra. The clasp releases and I gasp, dropping it from my shoulders. I stand there in my kitchen in nothing but my stockings and underwear. Arms wrapped tightly around my middle, I sob. I’m so angry I could scream. I do scream. Loud. It’s feral and raw and not nearly enough of a release. The sound is sharp in my throat, stinging in its intensity.
“Fuck,” I shout. “Fucking fuck!”
Inside the pocket of my coat, my phone dings. I stand there, chest heaving as I catch my breath.
Ding.
Ding.
I snatch up my coat and dig in the pocket for my phone. Swiping the screen with my thumb, I unlock it. My messenger app glows bright.
RACHEL (11:03 a.m.): Well, the cat’s out of the bag.
The messages below that include a few links to some of the news articles about her surprise secret wedding.
RACHEL (11:04 a.m.): It was one of the caterers. Apparently, the little weasel took photos all night and sold them to TMZ. Bitch. I hope she gets hit by lightning.
Honestly, I’m not surprised. They weren’t going to keep this quiet for long. Knowing it was a caterer who snapped photos of Ryan and me doesn’t do anything to fix my current predicament. I’m on leave, effective immediately.
My phone dings again, and I glance down at the screen.
RACHEL (11:07 a.m.): I let Poppy take a few photos too. Much better quality than the weasel’s sneaky, zoomed-in shots. Thought you might like this one.
A picture pops up in the feed. I tap it with my thumb, and it fills the screen. It’s a candid shot taken of several of us sitting on one of the living room couches. Ilmari is on the end looking every inch the Finnish bear. What has me pausing is that he’s clearly laughing, his mouth open, eyes creased in the corners. His arm is around Rachel who is leaning into him but turned away. I’m next to her, leaning in, also mid-laugh. My hand is slightly raised, like I’m trying to catch my smile before it runs away.
Next to me are two of the Rays, Morrow and Novikov. I think they both play defense. Jake is leaning over the back of the couch, his head down between theirs, as they share a laugh too. The captain, Sully, is perched on the end of the couch, saying something with a smile.
I don’t even remember what we were all laughing about. We look so natural, so perfectly at ease. I don’t know why, but tears spring to my eyes. I turn my phone upright and minimize the photo to see another message from Rachel.
RACHEL (11:09 a.m.): It’s good to see you looking so happy. The boys are ready to make you an honorary Ray.
I tap the photo again, zooming in on each of our faces. I do look happy. I was happy.
Glancing around my apartment, a feeling of deep longing settles in me. My gaze lands on the only source of light in the room: my Christmas tree. The Christmas tree I bought and decorated with Rachel. More happy memories—making eggnog on the stove and ruining it with too much nutmeg, dancing in our underwear to Christmas music, eating Chinese takeout on the couch.
I used to be happy all the time. I used to laugh and love out loud. I was wild once. I was free. I’ve been trying to find my way back to that girl who danced in her underwear. Rachel was helping me find her.
I miss her.
I miss me.
Tears slip down my cheeks as I watch the lights on my Christmas tree blink and twinkle—red and blue, green and pink. Blink. Blink. Blink.
“Fuck this,” I say, my resolve hardening in my chest.
I am that girl.
Slapping my phone down on the counter, I march across my apartment and into my bedroom, heading straight for the closet. Determination burns in my chest like a warming fire as I snatch up my suitcase and haul it into the bedroom, slinging it onto my bed. I drop the throw from around my shoulders and unzip the suitcase.
I’m free, I repeat to myself as I begin to pack. I’m wild and fun and fucking free.
“Is this the house, ma’am?” my Uber driver calls from the front seat. It’s hard to hear him over the sound of all this rain. It’s pounding the car in heavy sheets. His windshield wipers are working their hardest, but the visibility is almost nothing.
I peer out through my foggy window, wiping a circle in the chilled glass with the meat of my fist. “Two more down,” I call to the driver. “The tall one on the end with the lights on.”
He inches the car forward, rolling it along until he comes to a stop in front of a handsome house framed in dark shadows. Golden light shines out through the rain, illuminating the grass and a large truck parked in the drive.
“This it?” my driver calls.
“Yes,” I reply, thumb tapping on my phone to close out the ride.
“Let me just get your bags then.”
“Oh no,” I cry, patting his shoulder. “Just pop your trunk and I’ll get the bags. You just stay dry, okay?”
“Thanks, ma’am,” he says with obvious relief. “You know how to swim, right?”
“Sure do,” I reply, flinging open my door.
The rain pelts in, making me yelp as I hurry out of the backseat and around to the trunk. I work fast to drag all my bags out of the back. My computer bag is slung over my shoulder, the strap slicing between my breasts. I’ve got a backpack too, heavy with clothes and shoes. Not to mention my two massive roller bags. I’m soaked to the bone within moments as I wheel them up the driveway, the sound lost to the thunderstorm.
Puffing out a sharp breath, I press my thumb against the doorbell. Inside the house, a dog barks. I wait, my hands clutching to the handles of my bags. Water drips down my neck, between my breasts, off the tip of my nose.
The door swings open to reveal Jake standing there in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts, a bag of Garden Salsa Sun Chips in his hand. “Tess,” he cries.
“Hey, Jake,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
Poseidon darts outside, dancing around my legs, his body wiggling in excitement.
“Hey, puppy,” I coo, giving him some pats. I smile as he licks my hand.
“Where did you come from?” says Jake, peering behind me as if he’s looking for an alien spacecraft or a teleportation device.
“Umm, the airport,” I admit with a shrug.
“Did I know you were coming?” he says. Then he gasps, eyes wide. “Ohmygod, did I forget to pick you up?”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “No, this visit wasn’t planned.”
“Oh, thank God,” he says, his free hand splayed over his chest like he’s trying to keep his heart from jumping through his skin. “Rachel would’ve made me sleep on the couch for a week if I left her best friend high and dry at the airport…well, high and wet,” he adds, taking me in from head to toe. “Jeez, get in here.” Sticking his free hand out the doorway, he grabs one of my bags and reels it in over the threshold, stepping back to make room for me.
Poseidon dances around my feet as I wheel the other bag in. I step into the bright, spacious entry way, water dripping off every part of me.
“You look like you swam here,” Jake teases, tossing his bag of chips down on the entry table. “Seattle’s gonna be so psyched to see you.”
I go still, hand clutching to my bag. “Is she here?”
“Nah, she and Cay are out for dinner and a movie,” he replies. “He’s trying the whole ‘domestic wedded bliss’ thing. It’s adorable, like watching a chimp on roller-skates.”
I can’t help but smile trying to picture Caleb Price being married and domestic. I’m also kind of relieved Rachel isn’t here. As soon as I face her, I know I’ll lose it. She reads me like a book. She’ll have me telling her everything, and I’m not ready for that quite yet.
“Do you want me to call her?” he asks, slipping his hand into the pocket of his shorts. “I’m sure they can cut their evening short—”
“No,” I say quickly. “I, umm…well, I didn’t actually come to see Rachel.”
Jake narrows his eyes at me. “Who did you come to see then?”
“Well…actually, I came to see Ilmari.”
If possible, Jake’s eyes go even wider. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Is he home?” I peer over his shoulder down the hall.
“Hey, Mars,” he shouts. “Get over here. Right fucking now!”
In moments, Mars steps around the corner from the living room. Like Jake, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts. His blond hair is down, falling to his shoulders. I’ve never seen him wear it down before. With the beard and his scarred brow, it definitely adds to the whole sporty Viking aesthetic.
Jake Price is fit, but Ilmari Price is literally carved from stone—eight-pack, a tight “V”, and pecs that could break boulders. He strides down the hallway, bag of open pistachios in hand. His eyes go wide as he takes me in.
“Did you order a spicy redhead?” says Jake, jabbing a thumb in my direction.
“No,” Ilmari replies.
I glance between them. This ball of emotion sitting in my throat might just choke the air right out of me. It’s been lodged there since I impulsively ordered an Uber and drove straight to the Cincinnati airport.
“Were we expecting you?” Ilmari says at me.
“No,” I reply, suddenly breathless.
Oh shit, here come the waterworks. I fucking hate crying. Before I can stop myself, I’m closing the distance between us. I let out a sob as I fling my arms around his neck and press myself against him, crying into his naked shoulder. His hand holding the bag of pistachios gets pinned between us with a soft crunch.
He goes stiff, muttering something in Finnish. I don’t know which he’s hating worse: the hug or the tears.
“What the fuck did you do?” Jake cries at his partner.
“Nothing,” says Ilmari, wholly indignant as he awkwardly pats my shoulder.
“Well, she was fine until you got here,” Jake challenges. He leans in closer to me, his hand on my other shoulder. “Tess? Are you injured?”
“No,” I sniffle, my hands gripping tighter to Ilmari’s shoulders.
“Are you on the run from the law? Is this like a hideout situation?”
“Christ, Jake,” Ilmari mutters.
“Well, I don’t fucking know,” he says. “Cay doesn’t call her Tornado for nothing. Maybe she spun some shit up, and now she’s on the lam. We can’t afford to hide a fugitive right now, Mars. We leave for the Winter Classic tomorrow. And I’m sure as fuck not going to prison as her accomplice. Are you kidding me?”
“No one’s going to jail,” Ilmari replies. “Just give her a moment to compose herself, and she’ll tell us why she’s here.”
“What the hell did I miss?” Jake gestures between us. “Since when are you two such good friends?”
“We’re not,” Mars and I say at the same time. “Go make yourself useful and get her a towel,” he adds, shoving his bag of pistachios at Jake’s chest.
Jake takes them with a huff. “Sure, I’ll go get a towel. Want me to go fuck myself while I’m at it?”
“Now, Jake,” Mars orders.
Jake wanders off with the dog chasing after him.
“Take your time,” Ilmari says at me, his body relaxing a little against mine.
His permission acts like the opening of a second set of flood gates. I’m a mess as I just cling to him and cry, letting go of everything I’ve been holding onto all day. One moment I was standing in my apartment, the next I was standing at the Delta ticket counter. I’ve always felt so safe in Rachel’s orbit, since that very first night we met. Her men make me feel safe too. An honorary Ray, she called me. Right now, that feels pretty fucking good.
The dog barks in excitement as Jake returns, beach towel in hand.
I’m a sniffling mess as I relax my hold on Ilmari. My hands drop from his shoulders to his elbows as I lean back, glancing up into his concerned face. His dark blue eyes are locked on me as he waits for me to speak.
Jake drapes the towel over my shoulders as I ask the question I’ve been practicing since I left my apartment. “Do you still have that job available?”
