One game. One fucking play. Just five seconds off the play clock, and my life changed in an instant, eradicating my all-star dreams and leaving my future in limbo.
But Crescent Harbor is home. Being back here is for the best. That's what I keep telling myself. I just need to lay low for a while. Get out of the limelight. Focus all my attention on my healing. And what better place to do that than my quiet, secluded hometown?
When I pick up my phone, I see that my brother has finally messaged me with the details for the rental.
I tear out of the gas station just as an old, duct taped Volkswagen Quantum swings into the lot with a load of teenagers hanging out the windows, yelling my name. I breathe a sigh of relief that I dodged the incoming bullet.
Plugging the address into my phone’s GPS, I make the short drive across town with a sports talk radio station playing last night’s game highlights in the background. Those assholes talk so much shit. I’m arguing at the radio the whole time.
Fine. I’ll admit it—I’m a little salty that my brother didn’t offer to let me stay with him. Cannon and I were always the closest out of the four of us. I really could use some of my brother’s moral support right now. But he and Lexi are newly-weds and I can understand their need for a bit of privacy.
Sure, I could stay at my family's bed and breakfast but moving in with my parents is out of the question. I’m here to focus on my healing and as much as I adore my mother, Ma’s attention can be a bit smothering at times. I know she has the best intentions but I don't have the heart to tell her that she'd be a distraction.
As for Walker, his one-bedroom hunting cabin isn’t conducive for guests and frankly, neither is his grumpy attitude.
And Eli? Well, I love my brother but let’s just say I have no interest in being his cellmate in jail.
Besides, hiding away in some stranger’s place might be exactly what I need right now. I won’t have to worry about faking conversation or hurting anyone’s delicate feelings when the pain in my knee pushes me into one of those less-than-pleasant moods.
I can focus on healing in peace, take care of myself, and figure out a plan to get me back on my feet.
The driveway is empty, but I’m unsure of whether the owner has his own car, so I park on the street. I sit behind the wheel a few minutes, rubbing my knee, checking out the area and making sure this is the correct address. I can’t imagine anything more awkward than trying to move into the wrong house. I’m not in the mood for getting shot at, and some of the older folks around town have been known to settle conflicts with their shotguns.
The place is well-kept. It’s an older home, maybe close to a hundred years old. Probably just a couple bedrooms. A stark contrast to my modern penthouse back home. But for a short-term rental in Crescent Harbor, it’s actually pretty decent.
Still, I feel a tiny pang of apprehension. Maybe I should call Walker and ask to crash on his couch. I'm not sure how I feel about having a roommate at this stage in my life.
What if this guy is a clinger? Or a serial killer? Or worst yet, a stage-five football enthusiast who'll fan-boy his ass off all day and annoy the hell out of me.
Deciding to take my chances, I grab my phone, charger, and my duffel bag, then trek up a flagstone walkway that winds through a heavily landscaped front yard. Vivid flowers encase the path.
I step onto a recently redone wrap-around porch, eyeing the natural wood planks and Adirondack chairs. It gives me a strong urge to kick back on this picturesque porch with a warm cup of tea.
Turning my attention away, I pull out my phone and enter the passcode in Cannon's text message. The door clicks open on the first try.
When I step across the threshold, the first thing I notice is that someone has done some serious renovations. The house's character is all intact, with sleek hardwoods and white crown moldings. The colors and furnishings I can see from the entry are all pretty modern.
It really smells like broccoli, though.
Still, I can admit the place feels cozy in a strange way. Inviting. Cannon did well.
Broccoli stench aside.
I hear gravel crunching and the unmistakable sound of brake pads squeaking. I crane my neck to peer out the large front window, but the tall, lush garden hedges block my view. I know a vehicle just pulled into the drive, but I can’t see more than a back tire from here.
I’m not really sure how this whole rental thing works, and I feel like a moron standing aimlessly in some stranger’s entryway. But considering I don’t know where my new room is, it’s probably best to hang tight and meet my new landlord for further instructions.
Waiting for them to join me, I step further into the living room. My knee is killing me, and I need to elevate it before it swells even more.
There’s a potted palm tree in the corner and some kind of decorative vine draped over the top of a jam-packed bookcase. A hauty-looking orange tabby cat gives me a bored glance from its fluffy cushion on the large picture window before resuming its nap.
My eyes catch one of the photos resting on the mantle above the stone fireplace.
No. Way.
Icy disbelief floods my veins. There’s no possible way…it can’t be. Yeah—I know, I know—it's a small world. But no way is it that small.
I take another step, leaning in closer to inspect the photo that caught my attention. My hand reaches out and picks up the picture frame. But before I can examine it further, the front door swings open behind me.
Suddenly, my body
