Ella

Abbey and I are walking up the stairs to Shea and Brenna's house. It sits on the edge of the canyon, backing onto provincial park land. Land that will never be developed with housing or urban centres. It makes me a little jealous. Although there is light pollution, there are no city noises. As much as I enjoy the city life, I miss the quietness of rural areas. Sometimes, the city feels like a constant white noise.

Wringing my hands, I try to suppress the nervous feeling spreading through my gut. Nothing feels right. My dress feels too tight. Too fancy. I'm worried my makeup hasn't done its job. There are prominent bluish-purple half-moons beneath my eyes, signifying my restless night—and upcoming restless nights. It's difficult to go from sharing a bed to being alone again.

Plus, I miss the Ryland I thought I knew. At least... the one I thought existed.

A lump forms in my throat. Maybe this isn't a good idea. It's too soon to be going out and trying to live normally. I need time to grieve. Yet the social side of my personality doesn't want to return home. There are still remnants of Ryland in the apartment. I need to do a major overhaul again. Redecorate to remove any essence of him.

At the top of the stairs, I stop because nerves get the best of me. Then I turn to Abbey. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask.

Abbey reaches out and squeezes my shoulders. She flashes a sympathetic smile. "We can leave if you want to, Ella. Brenna said not to feel obligated to come."

Brenna also said she would skip the party and join Abbey and me for a night of ice cream and gin and tonic. Which is part of the reason I told Brenna I would come tonight. She's a marvellous hostess, and she's made good friends with some of the other wives and girlfriends. I don't want her missing out because of my shitty relationship.

"It feels like a lot," I admit.

"But?" She cocks an eyebrow.

"But," I sigh, "there's free food and alcohol. I'm familiar with some people, too. Staying in the apartment is also depressing." Staring at my hands, I pick at my cuticles. "There's a bit of guilt, too. Guilt over not letting myself grieve enough."

"Ella," Abbey says. She releases my shoulders and begins making gestures with her hands as she speaks. "Everyone deals with grief differently. Sometimes, the numbness hits first before the sadness. Maybe you're still processing what Ryland did. Either way, you should never feel guilty for following your gut. Just because you're not at home eating ice cream doesn't mean you're not working out your emotions. It's clear you're thinking about yourself and what is too much or what is too little. Don't sell yourself short."

Sighing, I tuck my hair behind my ears. It hangs past my shoulders tonight, perfectly straight with a black headband that matches my simple black dress. "You're right."

We continue walking up the pathway.

Shea and Brenna's house is astounding, reflecting the money two professional hockey players make. Their house has a modern farmhouse style, complete with white siding, a grey roof, barn-wood trim and doors, and two matching wooden pillars at their sheltered entryway. Following their driveway, there's a side-entry three-car garage, as well as access to their fenced-in backyard.

As for the landscape?

Shea's incompetent love for lavender is present across the front yard; bountiful bushes of it line the pathway. And rose bushes line the front porch. In the spring, this place smells like a flower garden, and it's always buzzing with honey bees.

There's a sign on the door that says No need to knock.

Abbey grabs the door handle. "Ready?"

Taking a deep breath, I nod.

*  *  *

Hockey is a family sport.

It unites teammates and their families, creating one large family. There are inside jokes and team-themed drinks. Kids running down the hallways screaming at and chasing each other. People seem to feel at home in Brenna and Shea's house.

Overall, it's a different level of love.

One I wish I could admire more.

Seeing all these healthy relationships is making me sour. Glowering, I toss back the rest of my drink. The night's been slow and uninteresting. It's as if people can feel the sadness vibe surrounding me; they know to stay away. While it's annoying, it's also offensive. Why are they so judgemental? It's not like I bite people. Maybe I'm just shy and don't know how to talk to strangers.

Pressing my back against the couch, I cross my arms and stare ahead at the fireplace. It's surrounded by white subway tiles. The mantle is made of oak wood, stained a brownish-grey that matches the flooring. Above the mantle is a large TV. It's off, so I can see my reflection.

Maybe people aren't talking to you because you look sad.

I sigh, averting my gaze to the empty glass on the coffee table. Although I've been careful with my alcohol intake, I'm thinking it's time to forgo any responsibilities and get shit-faced. My lack of social interaction is making me feel like a fool. So I might as well be the fool.

However, before I can gather my glass and head back to the kitchen, the couch dips beneath someone's weight. Their thigh is pressed against mine. When I look up, I almost keel over.

Mikael Keravinen is sitting next to me. My gaze meets a pair of steel-blue eyes. Blush spreads across my cheeks, which forces me to look away. From the corner of my eye, I catch his mouth quirking to one side. Heat spreads through my cheeks. I'm mortified by my reaction. Shea and Kaleb are professional hockey players, and they're no different from me. Nor is Mikael.

So why am I reacting this way?

His Finnish accent.

"You're new here," he says.

He's from Helsinki and he has a Finnish accent. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My mind is a scrambled mess. Like the tofu scramble I make every morning; a disaster of different components. Only this time, there's no positive outcome. No protein-rich meal to curb my morning hunger. No dishes to clean or chives to add.

Instead, I'm stuttering like a fool.

"I, um, I'm a friend of uh, Brenna and Shea's. I know Kaleb, too. We, um, went to high school together."

His dazzling smile broadens, revealing a set of perfect white teeth and emphasizing his full, pale-pink lips. My gaze follows the outline of his lips. Then his broad Roman nose and pale skin. Then I meet his gaze again. His eyes are intimidating; sharp and steel-blue. Cold but warm.

"Ella Taylor," I continue. My hand fills the space between us.

Mikael takes my hand. His grip is firm when he shakes it. "It's nice to meet you, Ella. I'm—"

"Mikael Keravinen," I squeak.

A low, rich laugh erupts from his chest. "A fan, I presume?"

I lift one shoulder in a pathetic shrug. "Hard not to be when I went to school with Shea and Kaleb." Reaching for my glass, I set it on my lap, so I have something to keep my hands busy. Without something to hold, they're giving me anxiety. Where do I put my hands? In my lap? Do I sit on them?

The glass is the solution.

"Just high school, or did you grow up with them?" Mikael asks.

Mentioning I'm Kaleb's ex doesn't seem like a good idea. It feels too... personal, despite us having separate lives now. All I discuss with Mikael is the fact that I grew up with Shea, Kaleb, and Brenna. "Grew up with them. We went to Rose Valley Elementary School together and continued to attend the same schools until graduation. All of us went our separate ways after graduation, but connected again later. As you can see." I make a gesture that encompasses the area.

A small smile appears on his lips. He looks down at the bottle of beer in his hand, chuckling. "That's cool. Makes me a little jealous. All my friends are back in Finland. High school friends, that is." He surveys the room. "Made some good friends through hockey, though."

I flash him a sympathetic smile. "Leaving home always sucks. Sometimes, it's for the better."

He takes a sip of his beer, nodding. "Yes, you have a point."

We lapse into an awkward silence, our gazes looking anywhere but at each other. Sitting next to Mikael is awkward because I'm unsure of what to say next.

When I met Ryland, Abbey and I were out for dinner. His family's restaurant was just being passed down to him. He was in the last year of culinary school, and his dad was ready to retire. Ryland had come outside the kitchen to serve a high- status dessert. On his way through the dining area, Ryland caught my eye. He smiled. So did I.

After Ryland was finished, he dropped a dessert off at Abbey and I's table. He loitered around for a few minutes, and we discussed our favourite foods. After, the receipt had his phone number on it.

The next day, I called him.

Overall, conversation with Ryland was easy.

Now, that memory means nothing.

A sharp pain slices through my heart as I continue to stare at the coffee table. It makes me regret coming here.

"How was it?" I ask, setting my glass down on the coffee table. I'll do anything to stop thinking about Ryland. "Moving here from Finland?"

Mikael leans back against the couch, strands of his dirty-blond hair falling across his forehead. He expels a deep breath. Then he chuckles. "My English was horrible. I could understand it at a decent level, but speaking? Fuck. Very broken English with lots of combined sentences; English and Finnish words were strung together. My previous team wasn't as welcoming compared to this one. But maybe that's because my English wasn't as broken."

"It's smoother now," I nod.

Chuckling, he asks, "How's the accent?"

"Still Finnish."

He flashes me a crooked grin. "Good. Can't become too Canadianized. Gotta stay close to the roots." Pausing, Mikael takes another sip of his beer. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Want to go somewhere quieter?"

Just as he says that, a stream of kids runs through the living room. They wind around the coffee table and couches, then disappear down the hallway. Still, their voices are persistent; they echo and fill the room, making it difficult to have a conversation.

My gaze follows his thumb. He's gesturing to the patio behind the kitchen. Fairy lights are on, outlining the white-washed wooden pergola, and intertwined with ivy. The leaves are turning orange, adding an elegant touch of autumn to the scenery.

Butterflies flutter across my stomach lining, and I lick my lips while trying to decipher an answer. Part of me wants to have a conversation with Mikael. He seems like a sweet guy. The other half is throwing up walls, saying it's too soon for this.

"S-sure," I stutter. "That'd be great. I-I just need to go to the bathroom." Then I hold up my empty glass. "And grab a drink."

It's true. For every alcoholic drink I've had, I've consumed three glasses of water. My bladder feels like it's ready to explode. Plus, my glass is empty.

Mikael chuckles and stands up. He holds his hand out, and I take it, letting him help me up. His hand is warm and calloused, and from where I'm standing, I can smell his cologne. "I'll meet you outside."

We exchange a soft smile, then part ways. The bathroom is just down the hallway, and the door is open—thank god. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I relieve myself, wash my hands, and then make sure my hair looks half-decent.

Once I'm in the kitchen, I grab a new glass from the cupboard and make a drink. A gin caesar, complete with a stalk of celery and two slices of lime. The kitchen isn't busy, so it doesn't take me long. Plus, I'm familiar with Brenna and Shea's kitchen.

While I'm mixing the drink, I analyze the situation. Once again, I'm torn in two. Between grieving and living. There's guilt where there shouldn't be. Eagerness that feels too much like a rebound.

And why the hell am I obsessing over this?

Who cares if I want a rebound? A one-night stand? I'm not in a relationship, and sex is just as recreational as it is intimate. Besides, it's like Abbey said. Everyone reacts differently. All that matters is what I'm comfortable with. Maybe I'll end up at Mikael's house. Maybe I won't. We'll see where the night goes.

After taking a sip of my drink, I lick my lips and nod in approval. It's the perfect caesar, which means I shouldn't leave Mikael waiting any longer.

Stepping around the island, I head for the sliding glass door.

However, I'm stopped halfway there.

Shea grabs my bicep, stopping me mid-step. It catches me off-guard, which makes me feel a little uneasy, despite trusting Shea. "What?" I ask.

His hazel gaze flicks to Mikael, who is waiting for me on the back porch beneath the twinkling fairy lights. His broad silhouette looks enchanting against the exquisite backdrop of cedar trees and the twilight sky. Stars are puncturing the layer of indigo, but only a few because of the reflection of light pollution.

Still, I can't deny how handsome Mikael is. His steely blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair. That firm jaw and sharp cheekbones. And that square chin? Damn. Maybe it's not smart to rebound. Especially when my heart is still aching. Ryland betrayed me. With my best friend. It's a painful experience. Instead of losing one person, I've lost three: Ryland, Janae, and myself. But why should pain hold me back? I never asked for this. I never deserved it.

A crease forms between Shea's eyebrows. "Be careful around him, Ella. He's a hockey stereotype. A playboy." He looks at me, his gaze softening. "Just be careful. Expect little of him, aside from a one-night stand."

I cock an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with sleeping around?"

His face pales a little. "No! Of course not. I just don't want him to hurt you, Ella. Jesus. Don't jump to conclusions like that. He's a playboy. That's all. Don't expect him to become attached, okay?"

My gaze stays locked with Shea's. He has more to say.

Then Shea Smith pulls me in for a hug. It's a bone-crushing hug that causes some of my drink to slosh over the edge and splatter against the floor.

"We've never been on close terms, Ella," he says, "but you're my friend. I'm not judging you or your actions. This is me reaching out as a concerned friend. He degrades women. Like I did when I was a teenager. Just be cautious around him."

Although his hug has surprised me, I hug him back. My heart pinches a little. He's right. We've never been close, but we've always been friends. Comparing now to high school, we're closer, but not as close as Brenna and I are.

Hearing him express his concern is sweet, and his warning is something I won't take lightly. He knows Mikael better than I do.

"Have his hook-ups been consensual?" I ask.

Shea steps out of the hug and runs a hand through his hair. He expels a deep sigh. "As far as I know? Yes. But I refuse to lie to you, Ella. My gut says otherwise. He's too much like Connor was. When someone talks about a woman like that, their actions are based on false superiority. Please, just be careful. I could be overreacting, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

I search Shea's face. Being teammates, I feel as though he should know more details. Then again, why boast about your sex life? While Shea knows more about the notches in Mikael's bedpost, he doesn't know the nitty-gritty details.

Nothing but honesty is present in Shea's face, though. Besides, I trust Shea.

He flashes me a small smile. "I'm not dictating what you should do. Nor will I think any less of you based on whatever decision you make."

"I don't care what you think about me," I reply.

Shea laughs. "Good. You shouldn't give a shit about what anyone thinks about you. Make him a notch on your bedpost. Do whatever you want. Just be careful. And if he pulls any shit, Ella, and I'm being serious when I say this, come tell me. I'll fuck him up."

Reaching out, I squeeze Shea's shoulder. Smile at him. "You'll be the first person I talk to. Especially if Ryland turns up somewhere."

He smiles again, but this time it's sympathetic. "Good to see you out tonight. There's a spare bedroom upstairs if you need a place to crash."

I give his shoulder another squeeze before stepping around him and heading for the sliding glass door, drink in hand.

As I join Mikael's side, four prominent things linger in my mind.

Shea's warning.

Caution and the concept of trust.

And the walls surrounding my heart.

Mikael's not getting anywhere past conversation until he's gained my trust.