Center Ice (Boston Rebels Book 1)

I follow Drew into his childhood home, trying not to think too hard about what this all means—the mind-bending sex we had earlier today, the way he came to school pickup with me and Graham’s elated reaction to finding Drew in the passenger seat, the fact that Drew took Graham to the park and to get hot chocolate afterward so I could do the work I’d neglected while he gave me multiple orgasms, and the way he drove my SUV out here with me in the passenger seat and Graham in the back seat.

It all feels too…relationship-like. And Drew already made it clear that he can’t be in a relationship right now. But then he told me that this physical aspect of our relationship means everything, and that there’s no way he could ever grow tired of me. So now I’m just feeling confused—is this just a physical relationship, or is it more?

We clearly need to talk, and I’m hoping maybe we can do that tonight, after Graham goes to bed.

“Hey, Mom!” Drew calls out as he walks through the back door with me and Graham on his heels.

“Drew!” She sounds surprised that he’s here.

We follow him through the kitchen and into the living room, where she’s sitting on the couch watching a show. She’s smaller than I’d have imagined, given Drew’s imposing size, and her light brown hair that was probably the same shade as Drew’s and Graham’s is now streaked with grey. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth make me think she spent a lot of her life smiling, but her lips turn down at the corners now. When she notices us with Drew, her eyebrows shoot up, then she puts one frail hand on the couch next to her and one on the arm of it, and stands slowly.

“Mom, this is Audrey,” he says, putting his hand on my lower back and guiding me in front of him. Her eyes fly to my hip, where he’s rested his hand. “She’s the architect that I told you I was bringing by to take some measurements so we can make some adjustments to help you get around better.”

She looks at me with interest, which I’m guessing has more to do with the way her son’s fingers are curled around my hip, rather than my profession. I’m tempted to swat his hand away, but I think that would make things more obvious.

“It’s nice to meet you, Audrey,” she says, and then looks down at Graham. “And who do we have here?”

“This is my son, Graham,” I tell her.

“I’m five, and I’m in kindergarten,” he says. It’s impossible to forget how he said those exact words to Drew a few weeks ago. “How old are you?”

Drew’s mom bursts out laughing, and it’s a welcome sight. Next to me, I feel Drew relax, even though he grips my hip even more possessively than before.

“I’m a lot older than five. But I love hanging out with five-year-olds. I used to be a kindergarten teacher.”

“You did?” Graham asks, his voice full of the awe that kids reserve for situations when they see a teacher in the wild. I glance at Drew because I had no idea his mom had been a teacher. I know almost nothing about his family, and even though I’ve been curious at times, I never wanted to pry. But she seems open and friendly, so maybe it wouldn’t be prying?

“I did. Do you like reading stories?” she asks.

“Yes, but I don’t know how to read them myself yet. Except board books, I read those to my little cousins, Iris and Ivy.”

I don’t correct him, because even though he knows that reading is different than telling a story you’ve memorized, I love that he wants to read to Lauren’s twins.

“How about you and I read a book together so my son can show your mom around?” She sends a small, conspiratorial smile our way.

Oh shit, is his mom trying to play matchmaker here?

“Okay,” Graham says, and his voice lacks the dubious sound it sometimes carries when he isn’t sure about something. I relax, knowing he’s comfortable with her.

When Jules and I were kids, our father took us plenty of places we shouldn’t have gone, and left us in the care of far too many sketchy adults, so he could go drink with his friends—especially once my mom got sick. I’d never want Graham to feel like I was off doing something else and leaving him in a situation where he didn’t feel safe.

I wait while Graham kneels down at a basket Mrs. Jenkins has pointed to and selects a book. When he climbs up on the couch and settles in next to where she’s sitting, I say to Drew, “Alright, maybe you can point out what you’d like to do so I know which rooms to measure?”

He leads me down a hallway and shows me around the minimalist space. Like most houses built in the 1960s in the Boston area, the hallways are narrow, and the rooms are all divided up, completely enclosed with only a narrow doorway to move through. For someone with mobility issues who needed a walker, or eventually a wheelchair, I could see how it would be hard or even impossible to get around. There’s no way, for example, that a wheelchair could make the turn from the hallway into the room Drew wants to convert into the primary bedroom—the angle you’d have to turn to fit through the doorway would be too tight.

We talk a bit about how we could move the door to the end of the hallway so it would be a straight shot in and out of the room, and then tuck the bathroom over on the side with a double-wide doorway to get in and out.

Luckily, his mom is not at the point where her mobility is severely impacted enough that she needs a walker or a wheelchair, but he speaks quietly about the possibility of a cane or a walker in the near future.

“I just want her to be able to stay in her home for as long as is humanly possible, you know?” His lips turn down at the corners and, without thinking, I reach up and cup his cheek in my hand, smoothing out his frown with my thumb. His eyes widen and, for a second, I’m afraid I’ve overstepped, and then he presses his hand over mine, holding my hand to his face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For considering this project, even when I know you and Jules are overbooked. For being you.”

My stomach flips over, and I’m not sure how to respond, but then we hear Graham yell, “There’s a cat in the yard! Can I go out and pet it?”

I can hear his feet running across the floor, presumably toward the door, and that’s when Drew says, “I’ve got this. You good to start measuring?”

“Yeah. Thank you for keeping an eye on him.”

I listen as Drew offers to take Graham out to see the cat and throw around a football, and as they walk out the door to the backyard, I hear Graham say, “I’ve never thrown a football. Will you show me how?”

“Of course, Bud,” he says, already adopting the nickname that my whole family uses for Graham. At first, I hated that the nickname stuck. But it was fitting, because when Graham was a baby, taking care of him really was a team effort and he was always with me, Jameson, or Jules during the first year of his life—our little buddy who we carted around with us everywhere we went, making it work with our various school and work schedules.

It takes me about half an hour with the laser measure to record each room’s dimensions, and while I work, my mind is reeling with the possibilities of what we can do to transform this family room into the perfect first-floor living space for Drew’s mom.

As it always happens when I create a new floor plan, I picture the possible layouts and different design ideas spin in my brain until a fully formed image comes to the forefront. And then I know exactly which layout will work best—before I ever even sit down with my drafting software—and just how it will look once I can have Jules work her magic.

I design the layout, Jules does the structural engineering and construction, and then I work with the client on the finishes and design. Our synergy means our system flows seamlessly and the results are always spectacular.

But I have the nagging feeling that we can’t keep going at this pace. Jules works nearly 24/7, and I probably would too if I didn’t have Graham. But even in the evenings, once he’s in bed, I’m usually on the couch with my laptop, talking through different projects with Jules. But how long can we sustain this without burning out?

I make a mental note to circle back to Morgan’s idea about partnering with different trade schools in the area so we can recruit female contractors directly out of their training programs. The possibility of building this business is not only exciting, it’s necessary.

As I walk over to my bag, which I set on the couch under the window, I’m distracted by the view to the backyard. Drew is kneeling behind Graham, who has a football in his small hand. Drew’s got his hand over Graham’s and is pulling his arm back and snapping it forward, without letting go of the ball. My eyes fill with tears when I realize that my son’s father is teaching him how to throw a football. It’s a sight I never dared dream I’d see.

“How’s it going?” Mrs. Jenkins’s voice surprises me, and I spin to find her standing in the doorway watching me.

“Great. I just finished measuring everything. I think this space will be the perfect bedroom, and it’ll be easy to convert the hall bath to a nice ensuite for you.”

“I never thought my son would be a catastrophist, but that’s what this feels like,” she says, folding her arms across her stomach.

“Do you not want this work done? Because I in no way want to infringe on this situation if you’re not ready.” I want to be transparent here, because even though Drew’s right that these adjustments will be necessary if she’s going to be able to continue living in this house long term, they probably don’t need to happen quite yet.

“I just wish it wasn’t necessary,” she says as she walks across the room to stand next to me. “But in the long run, I know this will need to be done. He thinks I don’t see how he worries,” she says, and I follow her gaze out the window to her son. It takes me by surprise that she’s speaking about this with me—a virtual stranger.

“Is he naturally a worrier?”

“No. I used to joke that he didn’t have the good sense to worry. He was always so happy, such an optimist. It’s been hard watching him be an adult so far away. I’m glad he’s back home.”

Me too, I almost say. “I bet,” I manage instead.

“I never imagined this scene, though,” she says as she watches Drew show Graham how to release the football.

Me either. “He’s great with kids.”

“He’s great with his son,” she says, turning to look at me. I can’t hide my shocked reaction, but I clench my teeth together before my jaw falls open.

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a breathy sigh. Finally, I manage to ask, “H-how did you know?”

“Besides the way Drew looks at him? Graham is a carbon copy of him at that age. Even the way he speaks is the same. Reading on the couch with him was like getting to revisit my son’s childhood.” She pauses for a moment as her eyes fill with tears. “I’m not sure how we got here, but I’m sure glad we’ve arrived.”

She reaches out a shaky hand, and I take it, knowing it’s a gift that she’s offering it—knowing there are a thousand different ways this conversation could have gone, and appreciating that she’s welcoming me and Graham into her family without questioning how we got here.

I give her a gentle squeeze, and then she says, “Do you want to see pictures of Drew when he was younger, so you’ll know what I mean?”

“I’d love to.”

She crosses to the other side of the room and grabs a thick photo album off a shelf, returning to the couch and sitting. I take one more look at the backyard, where Graham is running and looking over his shoulder, waiting for Drew to throw him the ball. My heart hurts—both because of how this scene squeezes all my emotions until I feel like I’ll burst, and also because of all the years Graham missed with Drew.

If I’m being honest, maybe also because him being back in my life is bittersweet—he’s much more like the boy I adored in college than like the wild pro-hockey player the media makes him out to be. Maybe I bought into those rumors because I wanted them to be true, but in my heart of hearts, I knew Drew was a good person.

And he’s been nothing but good to me since he’s been back.

I sit next to Mrs. Jenkins while she flips through some old photos of Drew, and I see exactly what she means. Graham does look just like him.

“Oh, this one is my favorite,” she laughs, showing me a picture of Drew when he was probably Graham’s age, sitting naked on the toilet, making a face like he’s trying to poop.

I burst out laughing. “You must love showing this picture off any time Drew brings someone home.”

“That would require him having ever brought a girl home.”

“What?” I let out a nervous laugh. “He’s never even had a girlfriend he brought home?”

“He always insisted that the first girl he brought home would be the woman he was going to marry.”

That information hits me like a lead weight. “Well, I guess he’s making an exception for the mother of his child. Do you mind if we don’t mention this conversation to him when he comes in? Graham doesn’t know yet, and I’d like for Drew and me to be able to talk to him first, and for you and Drew to have a chance to talk about all this without me and Graham around.”

She looks at me like I just said the dumbest thing in the world, but then her face gets a far-away look. I’m about to ask if she’s okay, when I hear a feminine voice call out “Ma?” from the front room.

Mrs. Jenkins’s head snaps toward the door, then she grasps my hand where it sits on the photo album and gives me another little squeeze. “Don’t mind Caitlyn,” she says quietly. “She’s prickly.”

Ahhh, Drew’s oldest sister. The one who he said is deeply unhappy, and therefore makes everyone else unhappy. Awesome.

“Back here,” Mrs. Jenkins calls out, and when she goes to stand, she struggles a bit, so I give her my arm for support.

She’s just reached a full standing position when Caitlyn bursts through the open doorway and comes to a halting stop, eyeing me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Audrey Flynn. I’m the architect Drew hired to draw up some plans for converting this space to a primary bedroom for your mom.”

Her gaze narrows. Shit. I shouldn’t have made it clear that I knew who she was even before meeting her. I should have acted like I knew nothing about their family.

“Hey, Caitlyn.” Drew’s voice comes from behind her, right as Graham runs in—narrowly squeezing his body between Caitlyn’s and the door frame—and throws his arms around my legs.

“Mom! Drew taught me how to throw a football. Do you think I can play hockey and football? I’m really good at throwing!”

I give him a smile as I push his hair out of his eyes. The kid needs a haircut, but like most hockey players his age, he’s perpetually growing it out.

“Sure, we can talk about that.”

I watch as Caitlyn’s head swings from me, over to Drew, who’s looking at me and Graham like a love-sick fool. Knock it off, I say in my head, wishing I could somehow send that message telepathically. But he just continues staring at me with that devilish grin. If any adult in the room didn’t know we’d just slept together, they probably do now.

“You’re seeing someone with a kid, Drew?” Caitlyn’s voice is accusatory at best, downright disgusted at worst.

I open my mouth to say that we’re not dating, but Drew beats me to it, instead telling her, “It’s none of your business, Caitlyn.”

“Hey, Graham,” Mrs. Jenkins says. “How about we go find another book to read while the adults have a conversation.”

“Okay,” Graham says and runs from the room, oblivious to the hostility lacing the atmosphere in here.

“Be nice, please,” Mrs. Jenkins tells Caitlyn before she leaves.

Completely ignoring her mother’s request, she focuses her dark eyes back on Drew. “You can’t even take care of yourself or Mom. How the hell are you going to be there for someone with a kid?”

“Let me repeat myself so we’re absolutely clear here,” he says, his voice taking on an icy tone I’ve never heard before. He doesn’t sound anything like himself. “It’s. None. Of. Your. Business.”

“Fine,” she huffs, crossing her arms like a petulant child. “Just don’t let this get in the way of your other obligations. Like, let’s make sure you don’t forget about tomorrow morning’s appointment, like you forgot about the last one.” Her snide tone and the reference to the appointment he almost missed turn my stomach to acid.

Drew’s eyes slide over to me, and he gives a little shake of his head like he’s trying to tell me it’s not my fault he wasn’t there for his mom.

But it is. I didn’t ask him to come over and help me, but if he hadn’t, then he’d have been there for his mom. And you’d probably have gotten scarlet fever, I remind myself.

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow in on me. “Oh. My. God. You were with her?”

Drew’s gaze snaps from me to Caitlyn.

“You didn’t show up for Mom because you were too busy…what? Shacking up with some random chick?” She turns toward her brother, and she looks furious. “Of all the irresponsible, selfish things you could do, putting this puck bunny before your mom is probably the lowest.”

I dig my nails into my palms, knowing it’s not my place to get involved in their argument, and I watch as Drew’s hands curl into fists too. He’s clenching his teeth together so tightly I’m surprised he’s able to speak, but his voice comes out clear and deathly serious. “If you ever speak about the mother of my child and my future wife that way again, you and I are done. For good. Understand?”

I’m pretty sure the air has been sucked from my lungs, or maybe from the whole room, because it’s now deathly silent in here, like there’s no air for sound waves to carry through. I might pass out, or throw up, I’m not sure which.

What the fuck is he saying? And why?

I can’t breathe. I need some fresh air. I need to get out of here. I need to leave.