“I was going to figure it out.” Okay, he hadn’t thought beyond buying a king-size bed. Plus, maybe his roommate was going to have stuff. It didn’t make sense to get too much, although it would probably be good to have something to dry his hands with after he took a piss. Sisters were useful, Benji had to admit.
Even if Krista’s motivation for driving down to DC was less about buying Benji silverware, and more about having walked in on her husband fucking an Instagram model.
Again.
As she disconnected the call, anger bubbled up from Benji’s chest. His stomach muscles clenched; the hand still leaning on the balcony fisted so tightly that the tendons stood out along his forearm.
At the same time, though, he could hear his therapist at Quinnipiac’s calm, steady voice, asking him to go into his body, to evaluate what he was feeling.
Consciously, he uncurled his fingers. Took one breath, held it, let it out, took another.
Benji had known Rob was bad news from the first time he’d seen them together, seen the way he watched the waitress lean over even while he had an arm around Krista’s shoulders.
He went back inside, put on his shoes, stuck a key in his pocket, and walked out the door. He couldn’t sit still: he knew he needed to, like, interrupt the pattern of his thoughts. Give himself an outlet until he calmed down.
His apartment was a ten-minute walk away from the Mount Vernon Trail, which paralleled the Potomac River. He’d never lived anywhere as big as DC, and he’d thought it would be nice to be able to get into sort-of nature.
Sucked that he couldn’t enjoy his first trip. Benji wanted to punch every single one of the engaged-looking husbands smiling at their wives and cute fucking dogs.
But he was calmer by the time he got home, less likely to climb into his truck and drive to Pittsburgh and dig a big fucking hole for Rob McMeade’s big fucking body.
Krista was leaning on the breakfast bar. She looked perfect: low-key in a Pittsburgh ball cap and sneakers, wearing jeans that would have paid their rent for a month back in Duncannon. She was unrecognizable from the crying mess who had gotten his shoulder soggy when she arrived the day before, swearing they just needed a break for a few days.
In Benji’s opinion, Krista needed more than a break. She needed a fucking divorce lawyer. Rob liked having a pretty wife to wear his team sweater to his hockey games; didn’t like not fucking other women. But she always went back.
The more Krista got to optimize Benji’s life, though, the more cheerful she got. She’d already messaged Anna Dewitt about the Eagles’ traditional preseason off-day barbecue.
She looked up, raising one blond eyebrow. “You really need a new truck. Every time I park next to it… It’s just, you can’t park a 2002 Toyota next to your teammates.”
“Watch me.” Benji had been driving the same shitty Tacoma forever. He didn’t fuck with seventy-five rituals for putting on his skates, but his truck was his good-luck charm. He’d borrowed it from a buddy’s family to drive himself to Michigan, after he’d scraped his way into the US National Hockey Training Center. Davo’s dad had told him to pay him back when he made it to the NAHA. At the time, Benji couldn’t imagine the amount of money it would take to give away a truck. But Davo’s mom was a doctor and his dad was a principal, so in hindsight maybe a car the same age as their son hadn’t been the biggest sacrifice. （Benji had called Davo’s dad to try to pay him for the truck over the summer. He said he’d take free tickets instead.）
“You need to think more about your image.”
“Nobody gives a shit what kind of car I drive.”
Whatever she was going to say was cut off by the sound of the door buzzer—his new roommate. Järvinen had been in the NAHA for a few years but had gotten traded from Minnesota on kind of weird terms, if Benji remembered correctly. He was a center. Super-fast, defensive-minded, but inconsistent. There had been a lot of healthy scratches toward the end of last season. Under twelve goals. They were in different groups at camp, but Benji had kept an eye out. Unlike Benji’s, his edgework was impeccable.
Really nice hair, too.
Benji watched Krista head for the door, throwing him a narrow glance over her shoulder like the conversation about his image—as if he gave a shit, or was ever going to give a shit—wasn’t finished.
Järvinen better not be the kind of guy who was going to be a dickhead about Benji’s truck or who wanted to talk about Instagram all the time.
Don’t miss Season’s Change by Cait Nary,
available wherever books are sold.