Page 17 of The Man in the Cottage

He doesn't answer. Just looks at me, this long searching look that makes me feel like he's seeing all the way through me, past the surface stuff to something deeper.

Then he picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

"This is good," he says.

"I know. I'm very talented."

He almost smiles again, and I feel that same little thrill I felt the other night.

Oh, I think I’m about to fall hard.

Chapter Six

Travis

I almost told her.

Sitting in her kitchen with coffee I didn't deserve, watching her face while she talked about her grandmother's trust, I almost opened my mouth and said everything. I'm not who you think I am. I'm not just some guy who works out in the mornings. I'm Travis Howe, and if you Google me, you'll find a video of me beating a man bloody outside a hospice.

But I didn't. Because I'm a coward, and because she was looking at me like I was worth something, and I wasn't ready to watch that look disappear.

It's after midnight and I can't sleep. The cottage is dark and quiet and too small, the walls pressing in on me the way they do when my head gets loud. I've been lying in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every conversation I've had with Kelly and thinking of all the ways I've lied to her.

The gym. That's what I told her. I go to the gym.

Technically true. The rink has a weight room. I use it sometimes after I skate. But that's not what she was asking, and we both knew it.

I throw off the covers and get up, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. The floor is cold under my bare feet as I pad to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge. I don't usually drink alone—too easy to let it become a habit—but tonight I need something to take the edge off.

The back window looks out at the main house. Kelly's bedroom light is off. She's asleep, probably, dreaming about fictional serial killers and oblivious wives. Not thinking about me at all.

Good. That's good.

I take my beer to the couch and sit in the dark, letting my eyes adjust. The cottage is sparse—I never unpacked much, never let myself settle in. A duffel bag in the corner with most of my clothes still in it. A few books on the shelf that I've read twice. The TV I never turn on because I'm afraid of seeing my own face on ESPN, some highlight reel followed by commentary about my "troubled history" and "anger issues."

Anger issues. That's what they called it. Like I just snapped for no reason, like there wasn't a man standing outside my grandmother's hospice with a camera and a smirk, asking me how it felt to lose everything at once.

I close my eyes and let the memory come. I've been fighting it for months, pushing it down every time it surfaces, but tonight I'm tired and lonely and Kelly's words are echoing in my head. Maybe you should let other people decide what you deserve.

Maybe I should let myself remember what I did.

It was March. The season was almost over, and we were out of playoff contention for the first time in five years. My fault, mostly. I'd been playing like shit for months, distracted, making mistakes I hadn't made since juniors. Coach benched me for two games. The sports blogs were calling for a trade.

I didn't care. My grandmother was dying.

She had a stroke in January. A bad one. The doctors said she might recover, might regain some function, might be able to go home eventually. But she didn't. She just got worse, slowly and then quickly, until she couldn't speak anymore, couldn't squeeze my hand back when I held it, couldn't do anything but lie there and breathe.

I visited every day I wasn't traveling. Drove two hours to the hospice, sat with her for as long as they'd let me, drove two hours back. The team knew—they had to, I was missing practices and showing up exhausted—but nobody said anything. Professional courtesy. You don't hassle a guy whose grandmother is dying.

The photographer didn't get that memo.

I don't know how he found out where she was. Someone on the staff probably, selling information for a few hundred bucks. That's how it usually works. There's always someone willing to trade privacy for cash.

He was waiting for me in the parking lot when I came out. Late afternoon, gray sky, a day that feels like it's already over before it starts. I saw him and knew immediately what he was—the camera, the eager stance, the way he moved toward me like a predator who'd spotted easy prey.

"Travis! Travis Howe! Can I get a comment on the season?"

I tried to walk past him. I was exhausted and hollowed out and my grandmother had stopped recognizing me that morning, just looked at me with empty eyes like I was a stranger. I didn't have anything left for this guy. I didn't have anything left for anyone.