Kitty Valentine Dates an Hockey Player

by Dodd, Jillian

  And the second the door opens, it’s like love explodes all around us.

  “There he is!” A petite woman who shares Luke’s coloring comes out from the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon. “I’m surprised I recognize you; it’s been so long!”

  “Mom, I was here three weeks ago.” He hugs her with laughter in his voice. “You always say that.”

  “Just like I always remind you of the years I spent seeing you every single day. Not to mention, the time we shared a body. You can’t expect a mother to adjust so easily.”

  She then turns to me with a beaming smile. “You must be Kitty. You’re so beautiful.”

  I’m so charmed to the point of forgetting how to speak that I thrust the bouquet her way. “For you. Just a little something.”

  “Oh, they’re gorgeous! You didn’t have to do that!”

  “Told you,” Luke murmurs with a grin.

  “Well, she didn’t. You are very rude.” She gives him a gentle elbow to the gut before turning back to me. “They really are gorgeous, but you didn’t have to go to the trouble. I’m Luke’s mother, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced.”

  “I have, Mrs. Costello.”

  “Please, call me Marie. I’d better get these into some water. Luke, help our guest make herself at home. Get her something to drink.” She’s out of the room, on her way to the kitchen, issuing orders.

  Luke mimes a salute before blowing out a deep sigh. “So, there she is. My mom. I told you she wouldn’t bite.”

  “She seems great. And like she doesn’t take any crap from you, which is exactly how you need to be treated.”

  “Ouch.” He pretends to be hurt, grimacing. “If I’d have known you’d gang up on me, I wouldn’t have offered to bring you to dinner.”

  “Too late now.” I spin in a slow circle, taking in the living room and dining room beyond that. “This is a nice house. Did you play a lot in the backyard?"

  “Sure. But we spent more time out front, on each other’s stoops and out in the street.”

  “Let me guess. You were playing hockey?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I was playing whatever was being played. Stickball, kickball, even basketball. And, yeah, hockey every once in a while, but moving the nets every time a car came by got to be a pain in the ass.”

  “Language!”

  I have to press my lips together tight to keep from laughing at Marie’s sharp rebuke from the kitchen. She’s completely out of sight and two rooms away, but somehow, she heard him. A mom’s superpower.

  “Sorry.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I swear, I spend two minutes here, and I might as well be ten years old again.”

  The wall above the overstuffed sectional sofa is covered in framed photos. Most of them involve boys in sports equipment.

  “Is this you or your brother?” I ask, pointing to one of a young boy with a gap-toothed smile, holding up a trophy almost as tall as he is.

  “That’s Liam. We were … eleven, I think, and our team won the state championship.”

  “Hockey?”

  “What else?” He points to the figure on top of the trophy, which is very obviously a player holding a hockey stick.

  “Duh,” I mutter at myself, moving on to the next photo and the next.

  It’s not only pictures either. There are news clippings mixed in, stories praising the twin brothers who seemed to read each other’s minds out on the ice.

  “Did you really?”

  “Did I what?” He stands behind me. I can see him in the reflection from the glass.

  “Read each other’s minds on the ice?”

  He turns his head away ever so slightly. “It wasn’t conscious. But maybe we did. You know what they say about twins. It’s a natural telepathy. Even now, sometimes, I get these feelings from out of nowhere. Like he’s in a jam and he needs a few bucks. And there’ve been times when I was hurt or in a tight spot, and he’d suddenly call to ask if everything was okay.”

  “I envy that.”

  The front door opens, turning us both away from the display on the wall. In comes Luke’s mirror image, except he’s clean-shaven and he wears his hair longer.

  But that smile is similar, and so are the eyes that size me up in no time. “Wow. Do you have a twin sister? If not, let me know when you get tired of this one.”

  “Kitty, this is my brother, Liam.” Luke leans down to hug him before standing back to give me space to shake Liam’s hand.

  “It’s uncanny. And now, I know what you’d look like without a beard.” I look from Liam to Luke, eyes narrowed. “I think I like no beard better.”

  “That’s not the only thing you’d like better.” Liam winks before continuing into the kitchen, where his mom gives him the same treatment she gave Luke when we arrived.

  I turn to Luke with a giggle. “He’s a charmer.”

  “Don’t go getting any ideas.” But he appears wistful as he looks back toward the articles and pictures on the wall.

  In the dining room, I now notice, there’s a credenza covered in trophies of all sizes. These are some proud parents.

  Mr. Costello joins us, coming up from the basement and looking bewildered. He’s a handsome man whose strong bone structure and big, rangy body got passed down to his sons. “I had no idea you all were here. Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything?”

  “He wears headphones while working in his wood shop,” Luke explains. “It drives Mom nuts when he can’t hear if she calls him.”

  Sure enough, I can hear her gentle scolding coming from the kitchen.

  I shiver and rub my arms.

  Luke notices. “You okay?”

  I have to swallow back the lump in my throat. “Missing my parents.” So, so much. More than I can say. If I tried to explain I would start crying. And If I stared crying, I might not be able to stop.

  He drapes an arm around my shoulders and squeezes in a comforting way. “I’m sorry. Is this too much?”

  “No, no.” I shake my head hard and force a smile I most definitely don’t feel. “No, it’s so nice to see. Your family is sweet. And your parents are obviously proud of you.”

  “Yeah, they’re the best.” He tucks a thumb under my chin and lifts it. “You’re okay? Really?”

  “Sure thing.” And I am. Sometimes, it hits me when I don’t expect it, is all. Sometimes, the pain is as fresh as it ever was, just as fresh as the days and weeks after the accident. Back when I was sure I would never get over it.

  And I never did. One doesn’t. The pain doesn’t go away. A person just learns to live with it.

  The banter around the dinner table has me laughing in no time. Mrs. Costello—Marie, she keeps reminding me to call her—made an absolute feast. Two kinds of pasta with meatballs, sausages, spare ribs, and a homemade sauce. It’s a good thing there are two fat loaves of bread on the table since the sauce is worthy of sopping up.

  “This is extraordinary.” I barely have time to say that before going for another bite of meatball, which has to be among the best I’ve ever tasted. My mom was a good cook, but this is on a whole other level.

  “Thank you. I don’t get much of an opportunity to cook like this anymore, what with the boys both off on their own and refusing to come home the way they should.”

  “Mom.” Liam rolls his eyes with a laugh. “You wouldn’t be happy unless we both moved back in.”

  “What can I say? I like to be able to keep an eye on my boys.” There’s a touching amount of fondness in her gaze as she looks at the two of them.

  “How’s the team looking?” Mr. Costello turns to Luke, eyes twinkling.

  “Can we get through one family meal without talking about sports?” Marie gives me an exasperated look.

  “As if you’re not interested.” Liam winks at me. “She’s just as big a fan as he is.”

  “That doesn’t mean my entire life has to revolve around it. I see you boys so seldom. When I do, I don’t want to talk about the same things we always discuss.”


  “Our son is on the cusp of moving up in the league.” Mr. Costello is clearly proud of his son.

  “Aw, thanks, Dad. You know I’m working hard, but it was a team effort. We just won our game at the buzzer.”

  “That’s the way to do it!” his dad cheers.

  I look around the table, and Marie is smiling from ear to ear, but I notice Liam is staring down at his plate. I think it must be hard for him not to be able to play. Especially after I saw those pictures and articles. He could’ve been the hockey star. He’s an athlete in his own right, but he might’ve dreamed of what Luke is so close to achieving.

  And that’s when I understand it isn’t only for himself that Luke works so hard. Not only for his dream. He’s also playing for both of them, training for both of them. It’s enough to make me want to cry all over again.

  “Luke took me skating, and I fell flat on my rear end after maybe five seconds on the ice,” I say to change the subject. “I mean, how is it even possible to stay upright when you’re balanced on tiny blades?”

  As we all share a laugh at my expense, I catch Luke’s appreciative look out of the corner of my eye, and I know it was the right thing to say.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Why am I a writer? How did I ever get the idea that I should do this for a living. I’m clearly the least talented, most terrible hack who was ever born and this book is shit.

  This feeling is nothing new. It just so happens I’m at the same point I always reach in every book—when it seems like the entire thing has been a waste of time and I might as well take up a new career. Happily, it’s usually short-lived.

  I mean, who would ever want to read this? How can my publisher even consider asking people to pay for this story. It’s utter crap.

  “Breathe, Kitty.” I do that—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again and again until the idea of burning my laptop and dancing naked around the flaming ashes fades from a very real solution to nothing more than a silly idea I could never get away with. I mean, there’s no way I’d ever get my security deposit back, for starters.

  Maggie’s champing at the bit, too, which isn’t helping matters. Nothing like knowing somebody’s waiting by their computer for your email to stir the creative juices.

  More like, it dries them up completely.

  There’s a noise at the door. I lift my head from my folded arms and wonder what time it is. It’s late afternoon, I see by the clock on my useless laptop. No wonder I’m hungry, though who can eat when it’s apparent their life’s work was a waste of time and they should be driving for Uber or something like that?

  Another noise. Okay, so I didn’t imagine it. But what is it? I go to the door and peer out the peephole, but I can’t see anybody. Though there’s still the sound of … is it breathing?

  I go down on all fours this time and look under the door. Now, it makes sense. There are four paws out there and one swinging tail, the tip of which I can see moving back and forth.

  “Phoebe?” Is Matt sick again?

  I open the door, ready to greet her, but the sight of a ribbon tied around her neck stops me before I can say a word. Not just a ribbon either. There’s also a card tied to it.

  “Come on in, girl.” After I untie the ribbon, she bounds into the living room and makes herself comfy on the couch. It’s been weeks since she’s paid a visit, so maybe she was missing me and my apartment.

  The card is what I’m more interested in right now. It’s blank on the outside, no picture or writing or anything. Inside are three words, scrawled in familiar handwriting: I’m a dick.

  I have to bite my lip to keep myself from laughing out loud. He’s not wrong.

  But it isn’t an apology either. Telling the truth is telling the truth. That doesn’t mean he’s sorry for who he is. And that’s what I’ve had the biggest problem with all along.

  A dick doesn’t stop being a dick just because they know that’s who they are. It’s not an excuse.

  “You’re right about that.” I stand up, waiting in the doorway for his door to open.

  Obviously, he has been watching from the peephole this entire time. Hence my fighting not to laugh.

  When the door does open, I’m treated to the sight of a sheepish Matt.

  “You like my delivery girl? She gets paid in treats.”

  “She’s worth every single one.”

  “I am sorry, you know. I really am. What I did was stupid and childish, and I shouldn’t have done it.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet. “I guess I took the protective-neighbor thing a step too far.”

  “Mmhmm.” What do I say?

  Grandmother is pro-communication, and ordinarily, I’d feel the same way. But this isn’t an ordinary situation. No matter how strong I was whenever I imagined this conversation going down—and I imagined it way more times than was probably normal or healthy—when it comes to me looking him straight in the eye and telling it like it is, my tongue forgets how to make words.

  “Mmhmm?” His brows lift. “Is that all?”

  “It wasn’t a protective-neighbor thing, and I think we both know it.”

  He looks at the floor, telling me I’m right.

  “You shouldn’t have introduced me to a friend if you didn’t like the idea of us actually dating.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like the idea of you dating Luke. He’s a great guy who’s going places. He’s exactly the sort of guy you should date. Not some loser or playboy pretender.”

  I know he’s talking about Paxton, who completely rubbed him the wrong way from the beginning. Maybe because Matt had his number from the start. Because he knew about Paxton’s past before I did.

  “So, what’s the problem? You don’t like seeing me date anybody, period?”

  His head falls back as he groans. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Good point.” He looks at me again, frowning. “It’s been a few weeks, so I guess it’s okay to tell you now that, no, I wasn’t cool with you dating anybody at all back then.”

  Back then. I manage to keep a straight face but barely. “Something’s changed?”

  “Sure. For one thing, I got real with myself. I didn’t think there was any lingering … stuff until you started working again. And dating again.”

  Stuff, huh? I know what he means even if his way of dancing around things infuriates me.

  I’m not making this easy for him, and I can tell he’s not thrilled by how quiet I am. What am I supposed to say though? Do I apologize for making him feel icky? For making life hard for him? I have a job to do and a contract, which he so helpfully reminded me of before ever introducing me to his friend.

  His hands clench in his pockets. “So, I’m past that now, and I wanted you to know. I’m sorry for making things weird. I don’t want things to be weird. Your friendship means a lot.”

  This I find hard to believe. With a snort, I ask, “Really? Because from where I stand, a lot of our relationship has consisted of you telling me what a dope I am.”

  “You would see it that way, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’ve turned laughing at me into a pastime, Matt.”

  “I laugh at a lot of people. What I don’t do is make a point of hanging around them when I could be doing just about anything else instead. Not that I’m complaining—this isn’t a complaint, no matter how much it might sound like one. Besides, friends laugh at each other. They bust balls or make fun or whatever you want to call it. That doesn’t mean your friendship doesn’t mean something to me. And when you aren’t around, it’s obvious how much I like being able to stroll across the hall to ask you a question or see if you want to order lunch.”

  He has a point there. Life loses some of its color when I don’t have anybody to talk to at random times. I know he’ll almost always be there during the day. I’ve come to count on that.

  When we aren’t speaking, I’m sort of disconnected. U
ntethered. Back to being alone most of the time, and I don’t like it.

  “It’s nice, having you there,” I agree. “I miss what we have when we’re fighting.”

  “So, are we not fighting anymore?”

  “I guess we aren’t.”

  Though honestly, there’s a part of me that’s dying to ask about Ginger. But that would be cruel, and besides, Luke already told me what I needed to know.

  I’d like to smack her for hurting him, though I have to wonder if he would ever admit to being hurt. He’s a man. In my experience, they don’t come right out and admit that sort of thing. They’d rather … what? Pick up all manner of girls in bars and clubs and bring them home, so they can bang their brains out, I guess?

  Is that why he was such a player for so long?

  “Not the enthusiasm I was hoping for, but I can’t have everything.” He looks over my shoulder and shakes his head. “I guess you have a guest. She looks comfortable; I’d hate to move her.”

  “It’s no problem. Besides, I could use the company. I’m tired of talking to myself.”

  Even though the dog doesn’t understand me, speaking out loud to another breathing, living creature sometimes helps. The occasional head tilt I get makes it even better, like she’s intrigued by something I’ve hit on.

  I know it’s weird, but at times like this, the little things get me through.

  “Are you in for the night?” I venture. “Wanna order dinner?”

  The momentary crinkling of his forehead tells me I’m about to be turned down. My heart sinks before he even opens his mouth. “Uh, no, sorry. I have plans tonight.”

  Be his friend. Be his friend, damn it. “Oh? A date?” I wiggle my eyebrows up and down to show I’m perfectly, absolutely, a hundred percent fine with him dating somebody. Because I am. I totally am.

  This is me being fine with it.

  “Yeah, sort of. Nothing serious. We met a few weeks ago—”

  Our eyes meet. Oh, jeez, why am I constantly tested in this way?

  “A few weeks ago? Like, when you went out with Luke that night?”