Page 76 of On the Breakaway

Sloane grins. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“I don’t even like the hockey team.”

“Good thing the party isn’t just for them.”

I open my mouth, but there’s no real explanation I can give as to why I can’t go.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

Because avoiding Grayson forever was never really an option, and considering the way my heart is racing at the prospect of seeing him again, I’m not sure I wanted it to be.

16

Grayson

Tank barrels through the kitchen like a freight train, almost taking out one of the barstools as he skids across the hardwood chasing a tennis ball.

“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt mutters from the island where he’s slouched with a beer. “One day that dog’s going to kill somebody.”

“He’s your dog.” I remind him, tossing the ball again.

“Because you fuckers put him in my locker as a puppy. I wasn’t going to drop him off at a damn shelter.”

“You love him,” Sloane says, breezing by with an armful of cleaning supplies.

She’s been in overdrive all day, cleaning every inch of this house in preparation for tonight. She’s no better than a damn drill sergeant, but at least I got put on kitchen duty. I’ll take cooking over cleaning every time.

Tank runs up to Wyatt and drops the ball into his lap.

Wyatt groans. “Why is it always so wet?”

“Because he’s a dog.” I push a tray of sliders into the oven.

Tank sprints after Sloane as soon as she appears in the kitchen, carrying another bag of groceries from the hall.

“No. Absolutely not.” She points at him while stepping around his paws. “You already stole half the cheese platter.”

I snort while dicing up the fruit. The entire house already smells like food and whatever candle Sloane lit to mask the smell of dog.

Wyatt watches me for a second before narrowing his eyes. “You know this is your fault, right?”

“How?”

“You encouraged her.” He gestures toward Sloane, who’s now arranging snack trays like the fate of the free world depends on it. “I didn’t need a housewarming party.”

“You’ve lived here for almost a year, and people still think you live downtown.”

When Wyatt renewed his contract last year, he moved out of his downtown apartment and into this house. Tank needed the yard space, and Wyatt was sick of having to use an elevator every time the dog needed to go out. It made sense, but living in a house alone in the middle of the woods just encourages him to isolate himself even more. Hence the party.

I start cutting the meat for the charcuterie board that Sloane is meticulously decorating.

“You’re just cranky because people are invading your cave,” Sloane says, tossing a dish towel at him.

“I like my cave.” Wyatt takes another drink. “It’s peaceful. Quiet. With no one touching my shit.”

“You play professional hockey,” I remind him. “You have fans screaming your name every night.”

“That’s different.”