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“You guys will recover. You always do.”
“Yeah,” I say. And we do. We have. A lot, but not always.
“Okay, I’m on it. I’ll get you your house.”
“Thanks, Sophia. I really appreciate it.”
“I’d say you can show me how much after we close on it…but I’m thinking I’m no longer your type.”
I smile, annoyed at the comment, but I know Sophia and she means nothing by it and we have fucked frequently. But that was long ago and something I mostly forget these days because these days I seem to have forgotten every woman I’ve ever been with.
“Right now, my only type is a bunch of sweaty men with skates on their feet until we bring home the Cup.”
I end the call with her and am calling Fynn barely before I realize it. It’s instant to call him. To want to call him. Nandy is shutting us both out and although I know he is hurting right now…I cannot help and that’s frustrating beyond belief.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I told you I would, and I wanted to, so stop it.”
“Yes, sir,” Fynn says, and it makes me smile and want to touch him, want to ravage him.
“Tease,” I growl.
“What was the weird text? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, it was my realtor.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes, she knows my schedule, and she’s a hockey fan.”
“And a TJ fan?”
“She was, long ago, though.”
“Hmmm.”
“Jealous?”
“What if I am?”
I want to tell him he doesn’t need to be, because he doesn’t. But then I’m hit with the reminder of the reason he is up at this hour. It isn’t just the hockey game. His job is to be with other people. Late at night.
“Were you at the club tonight?”
He exhales. “I was.”
“Hmmm.”
“It’s my job.”
“Uh-huh.”
“TJ…”
“Stop, I will not go down this road over the phone and exhausted.”
“Was your realtor contacting you about a house? I don’t even know where you live now.”
