Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
He trails off for dramatic effect. I already don’t like where this is going.
“I might sell the house.”
I stare at him. “Your house?”
That I live in.
That I’ve lived in for the past five years.
Luca shrugs, like he just announced he’s switching toothpaste brands. No big deal. “Yeah. We’ve been looking at listings. Nova is obsessed with finding something in a gated community. With a home gym. I realize we could remodel or whatever, but she’s really into that clean girl aesthetic now and it makes more sense to buy a new build.”
He laughs.
Meanwhile, I’m doing the mental math on how long it takes to pack up half a decade of stuff but also wondering: does any of my furniture actually belong to me?
“You’re selling the house,” I say again, to hear the sentence out loud.
He nods, totally unfazed. “Unless you want to buy it?”
Buy his McMansion in the suburbs?
A subdivision I wouldn’t choose, but live there for convenience, because it was with buddies?
I blink. “I’m a professional hockey player, not a goddamn hedge fund.”
He laughs again. “Give me a break, you have the money.”
Not the point.
“Nova just wants something that feels more like a home, you know?” Luca says, like this is a casual conversation and not a wrecking ball to my week. “Her apartment’s too cold. Too much marble and tile and not enough warmth.”
“She doesn’t want to raise kids eighteen stories up where they can’t even see a tree unless it’s through a window. Says it’d be like raising babies in a museum.”
I force a nod. My jaw is so tight it’s giving me a headache.
“She wants dirt and grass and backyard birthday parties,” Luca continues, dreamy as hell. “I get where she’s coming from.”
“You have a yard with dirt and trees and grass.” Not to mention a huge pool and patio, and outdoor kitchen.
“Yeah, but it’s mine. Not ours.”
That word hits me like a slap. Ours.
Hers and his.
Ours.
“She says she wants a house that feels like hers from the beginning,” Luca goes on, and my stomach does this weird, slow-turning flip. “Not some place that’s full of someone else’s history.”
My history.
Like the kitchen where I saw Poppy for the first time, half naked. Or the first time we had sex. Or flirted in the pool during Cash’s party, then snuck inside to fuck.
I nod again. I have to. What are my options?
“Makes sense,” I say voice flat.
Luca beams, relieved. “Right? I knew you’d get it.”
I get it. Nova wants more and she deserves more.
But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to hear it.
Luca claps me on the back like he just gave me a stock tip. “You’ll land somewhere great, man.”
“How much time are we talking, here?”
“Months? Six, seven? We’re still talking about it, but I’ll let you know cause obviously we have to do a walk-through. Fix some things up. Maybe paint. Plus I have to let Cash know—not that he’ll give a shit, either.”
No, Cash won’t give a shit.
He’ll take his dog, his Xbox, and crash on someone’s couch like he always does. That’s the lifestyle he’s used to—transient, unbothered, perfectly content living out of a duffel bag and calling it freedom.
But me?
I’m settled. I’ve built routines.
This place is one steady thing in a career full of constant motion. Exhausting road trips. The threat of trades always looming. Noise and pressure and media and stress.
This house is quiet.
And now my room is on the chopping block because someone else’s ovaries are exploding.
Luca is still chattering, something about paint samples and market comps and maybe replacing all the mirrors in the bathrooms because “Nova hates the frames,” and all I can think is: How did I become the guy on the sidelines of his own life?
poppy
. . .
After lots of whining on my part, Nova finally convinced me to leave the house.
Which is why I’m sitting on a pale pink cushion at a café where everything looks like it was designed specifically to be photographed and posted to social media.
Floral walls.
Custom cocktails are being carried past us in delicate crystal coupe glasses, garnished with dehydrated citrus and tiny clothespins clipped to the rim. Fussy finger foods arrive on slabs of marble. Everything’s drizzled or foamed or micro-sprouted. There’s a neon pink sign behind us that reads “You’re Like, Really Pretty.”
I want to die.
Our waitress wore a matching linen set and called us “queens,” which I’m not sure if it’s meant to be empowering or just part of the schtick. And my salad? That came on a literal cutting board with edible flowers and zero croutons.
Nova looks like she belongs here. Big sunglasses. Gold hoops. That confident glow people have when they’ve had regular sex and emotional stability for more than a month.
“Love that you’re feeling better,” she tells me. “It was getting annoying that you’re living in the same city yet I still barely see you.”