Page 25 of Yard Sale

I treated myself to a California burrito with extra fries and extra cheese, jerked off, watched six episodes of a random flower design competition show, then passed out in a puddle of my own drool and regret.

It had been a great night.

“No. No one said anything. It just wasn’t what I heard.”

I frowned. It felt like I was missing something, but I didn’t want to care. I was done with the job. I would never be done with the hockey world—not until my dad was, which was probably going to be never. But whatever happened after this wasn’t my responsibility.

My dad stood up and came around the desk, tugging me into a hug, which allowed me to let it go. It was easy to fall into his arms, to bask in the physical comfort I’d wanted and been denied by him as a child. I was still kind of bitter about it, but he was both South Asian and a hockey player, so he had been allergic to physical affection for years.

It sucked so fucking much that it took my mom’s death to flip that switch, but I did like to believe he would have come around eventually.

His injury and retirement had also changed him.

“The keys for the house are in my desk. Soma and Ankita will be in on Friday, so you’ll have the week to yourself. And it should have a fully stocked fridge and pantry.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t going to touch shit in the kitchen besides maybe the toast and jam. But there was a bunch of cute little restaurants along the cove that would keep me alive and fed.

“Drive safe,” my dad said, giving my cheek a pat before he walked over to his desk. His limp was more pronounced today, but I wasn’t going to draw attention to it. He didn’t need that.

I shot him a wave, then slipped out the door and began the long walk down the corridor that would lead to the arena employee parking lot. I still had my press badge, which felt a bit like cheating, but my dad insisted I keep it, so I was going to do exactly that.

Turning the corner as I pulled out my phone, I got four steps past the wall before immediately crashing into a tall, very bulky body.

“Oh my god, will you—” I froze when I recognized the baby face of the player who was probably the sole reason my dad had decided to pick up the Glaciers gig.

Ferris Redding blinked at me owlishly before his eyes cut to the floor. His fingers danced along his thighs—probably the only public trait of his autism, and most people didn’t pick up on it.

I knew because there had been a whole piece on him by ESPN for his rookie year.

“Sorry,” he said very softly.

“No, it was my fault. I was being a jackass and not looking where I was going.”

He glanced at me again, so quick I could barely catch the whites of his eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“What? Honey, no. Did I hurt you?”

His lips twitched into something like a smile, and he shook his head. A few locks of his messy, dark curls fell over his forehead. “No. I’m used to getting checked around here.”

“I—oh. Right.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I shifted from right to left. “Were you looking for my dad? He’s in his office if you need him.”

Ferris shook his head again. “No. I was waiting on Quinn. He had a meeting, so I decided to go watch the crew drain the rink water while I crocheted.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what I was pretty sure was an elephant seal.

“That’s pretty sweet.”

He shoved it at me so hard his knuckles hit my chest. “You can have it.”

“Oh, hey.” I curled my fingers around the soft, squishy bit of crocheted yarn and stuffing. “I don’t want to take your stuff.”

He looked up at me again, holding my gaze a bit longer this time. “I don’t like to keep them. It makes me feel good to give them away to people.”

I held it a little tighter. “Okay. Then he’s coming with me everywhere. Should I name him?”

“Yes,” Ferris said without missing a beat. “He should have a name.”

I stared down at the seal and his weird floppy little snout. He deserved something dignified. “Snoot the Boop.”

Ferris broke out into a big smile, and his cheeks darkened a bit. “That’s not what I would have named him.”