I’m not an emotional man. I don’t cry often. I’ve shed a few tears in my younger days if I didn’t make a game-winning shot or if I felt like I let my team down. Now, the only time emotions hit me is when my sister is involved. She’s my gray area in a world of black and white. I want her happiness more than I want my own and knowing the guy across from me makes her happier than she’s been in her whole life causes a slight burning in my eyes.
I exhale a deep breath, centering myself. “You’re about to make me lose it, man.”
“Good. You can get on my page. I was a crying mess talking to your dad today.”
I can picture that perfectly. My dad is a sweet man, caring and kind and Zanders is as in tune with his emotions as I’ve seen almost anyone. Well, maybe besides Indy.
“So, what do you think?”
“What do I think?” I contemplate for a moment. “I think if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.” I stand with a smile on my face, repeating the phrase I used the first night I met my future brother-in-law. “But yeah, I’d love for my sister to marry you.”
He stands as well, both of us throwing our arms around each other in a hug. I smack his shoulder a couple of times before pulling away.
He holds me at arm’s length. “You played like shit tonight, by the way.”
A silent laugh heaves in my chest. I almost forgot about my terrible game, but it’s one of eighty-two and I’m not going to let it ruin my night any longer.
“Thanks, Zee. Always supportive.” I exit the locker room with him following behind.
“Just keeping you in check. At the very least, I need you to make the playoffs because I’ve got a Stanley Cup win under my belt and it’s becoming a heavy burden to be the only champion in this family.”
“I’m so glad I make more money than you.” We head to the players’ parking lot. “Do you need a ride?”
“Nah, I drove.”
As we find our cars, I hesitate, knowing I’m going to sound like a complete stalker, but fuck it. This guy is about to be my brother. If I can’t ask him, who else can I ask?
“Hey, Zee.” He turns to face me, his hand lingering on the handle of his G-Wagon. “When you’re on the road, Indy…She’s good?”
His lips lift mischievously. “Is she good at her job? Yeah, the best.”
“No.”
“Oh, you mean is she good at getting hit on in every bar we walk into? Yeah, she’s fucking great at that too.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs from his core. “She’s good, man. She usually comes out and grabs a drink with Maddison, Rio, and me if we have the night off, but other than that, she’s in her hotel reading or sewing or whatever the fuck she does with her shoes.”
“The guys though, they don’t mess with her?”
“Ryan, if you’re asking if any of my guys are getting with her, the answer is no. Are they trying? I’m fairly certain a few of them have tried, but she’s not interested in the slightest. But if you’re asking if she’s good as in, is she happy? She seems happier than she has been in a long time.”
A quick nod of my head. “Thanks, man.” We both get into our cars that are parked near each other, but I roll down my window to add one more thing. “And keep your teammates in check. If I hear that one of them tries anything with her again, I’m coming to you.”
Zanders folds over his steering wheel in laughter. “Ryan, my guy, you’re so completely fucked, and you can’t even see it.”
“Indy!” I hang my keys on the hook by my front door. “Blue, are you home?”
All the lights are off in the apartment which means I was the last to leave. Indy leaves a symbolic trail of breadcrumbs behind her in the form of open cabinet doors and unnecessary lights on whenever she exits a room.
I quietly walk by her open bedroom door to be sure, but it’s empty. Her pillows are still stacked on one side of the mattress from last night, yet to work on her bucket list.
Grabbing my phone, I dial her again, which makes it my third call since I left the arena twenty minutes ago.
“You’ve reached Indy!” her voicemail repeats once again. “You can leave a message if you want but I probably won’t call you back. Bye!”
Typically, I’d find her voicemail charming just like her, but tonight it’s frustrating beyond belief.
“Call me back, Ind,” I mutter into the receiver, pacing the length of the living room, continuing to check my phone.
Surely, she’s got to be done driving by now. The game ended two hours ago.
What if she picked up a trip that took her hours out of town? Or what if her car broke down? Fuck, I don’t even know what she drives. Is it safe for a Chicago winter? She’s a Midwest native, so I assume it is, but what if it’s an old car?
I’m self-aware enough to know I’m avoiding the real question. What if something worse happened to her? Fans can be belligerent leaving the arena, I’ve seen it firsthand.
Where the hell is she?
“Stevie?” I ask as soon as my sister answers her phone. “Have you heard from Indy?”
“No. She’s driving tonight. Is everything okay?”
“She’s not home yet. She should be home by now.”
“It’s only eleven thirty. Maybe she’s still working or maybe she met up with friends.”
“What kind of friends?”
She laughs. “Oh my God. Male friends, I’m sure. The kind with lots of money and huge di—”
“Vee.”
“I’m kidding. Friends like girl friends or Rio.”
“Why are you not concerned at all?”
“Because she’s a grown woman who’s working. Will it make you feel better if I text her?”
“Please.”
My sister softens her tone. “Ryan, I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll text as soon as I hear back.”
Another twenty-five minutes goes by. I pace the kitchen. I pour myself a scotch. My collar feels too claustrophobic, so I change out of my gameday suit before wrapping a bag of ice around my shooter’s shoulder.
Stevie is probably right and I’m being over-dramatic, but the idea of Indy being alone in her car with strangers in the middle of the night sends a reaction through me that I haven’t felt in quite a while—concern.
My emotions haven’t taken over in years, including this one. I’ve kept them locked down, controlled, but right now they feel entirely unmanageable thanks to my blonde roommate I can’t stop worrying about.
I know how overwhelming it can be with the public. She’s not me, but what if fans recognize her from the photos of the banquet?
My phone pings, and you’d have to believe I was a professional athlete by how quickly I snatch it off the kitchen counter.
Blue
Sorry, still working! I’ve had nonstop rides tonight. Be home late. Going to keep driving until the bars close.
What the hell? Is she trying to force me into cardiac arrest? As if the fans after a home game weren’t rowdy enough, I can’t imagine how sloppy some of them get when they hit the bars afterward.
Ryan
Can you please come home?
Can’t. I need to make a little more $$ before calling it a night. Got a ride! Got to go. See you tomorrow.