O Goalie Night (The Ottawa Otters #1)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

BETH

I want to hibernate. Burrow into a hole in the ground far from the outside world and avoid the consequences of my actions.

No. This is not my fault, I remind myself. I am the victim.

Finding a place to live had been overwhelming to say the least. Every place I looked at required a first month’s rent and a damage deposit up front. Early in my search, I’d reached out to several places only to be told that the apartment had already been rented.

And then I found what seemed like the perfect rental. Close to the school and in a nice neighbourhood. The rent was expensive but not unreasonable. After inquiring about it, I received a response from Colleen, or whatever her real name is, asking for a phone interview. She peppered me with questions about my lifestyle. Did I smoke? How loud do I listen to my music? Do I have any pets? We talked for more than twenty minutes and at the end she told me the room was mine .

I feel physically ill. She played me like a fiddle and I had no idea it was happening.

When we arrive at Foster’s house, which for the record is beautiful and not even remotely seedy, all I want to do was go to bed and pretend the day had never happened.

Foster sets my suitcase down in the guest room he’s just led me to. It’s bigger than my room back home. The walls are painted a soft blue, enhancing the airy feel of the space. The only furniture is a queen-size bed and a simple white dresser.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, green eyes scanning me with concern.

I don’t want to be but I am. My appetite disappeared with my three-thousand-dollar deposit, but my stomach doesn’t know that. All it knows is that I haven’t fed it since lunch.

“Not really,” I lie. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

“Here’s the thing.” He points at the bed. “The sheets should be washed. No one has ever stayed here and I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. But the sheets have been on the bed for years. Why don’t you take a shower while I throw them in the laundry and make us something to eat?”

I bite my lip. A shower does sound amazing. I know I won’t be able to scrub away what’s happened and wash my disappointment down the drain, but I can try.

“That sounds great,” I admit gratefully.

As I help him strip the sheets from the queen-size bed I’m struck by the intimacy of it all. On any other day, being alone in a room with Foster James would probably have sent my imagination into overdrive. But here we are, leaning over a bed and I feel nothing but my own sense of self-pity.

I’m broken.

The shower is incredible. I’ve never felt water pressure this powerful; it’s practically massaging the balls of tension in my shoulders and neck. There is nothing on any of the shelves; not a bar or soap or a bottle of shampoo to be found. I have my own toiletries, so I don’t mind at all, but I find myself wondering if it’s ever been used. The tile is gleaming and I’m sure Foster has a cleaner come regularly to keep it that way.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, basking in the hot water, but eventually my growling stomach becomes more insistent and I get out. Once I’m dried and dressed in my oversized University of Prince Edward Island t-shirt and a pair of leggings, I make my way to the kitchen Foster pointed out on the initial tour of the house on the way to my room.

My host is standing at the stove with his back to me, his sculpted muscles visible through his thin t-shirt as he works. He must hear me approach because he glances back over his shoulder and gives me a smile that makes the lower half of my body tingle.

Maybe I’m not so broken after all.

“How was your shower?” His entire body stiffens and he immediately starts to shake his head. “Nope. Let’s try that again. How are you now?”

A burst of giggles escapes me as a blush stains his cheeks. It's not like I thought he was asking for a detailed report, but his reaction is priceless.

“Better, thank you.” I watch him plate our supper before joining me at the island. He sets down identical plates of chicken, rice, and broccoli in front of us.

“It’s not the most exciting meal,” he says with an apologetic shrug as he grabs forks and knives from a nearby drawer. “The team dietician gives us plans and I try to follow mine pretty closely. Would you like a glass of wi–”

“Yes, please.”

He chuckles as he moves to the cupboard and removes a bottle of red wine and a stemless glass. “Yes, Ma’am.”

I watch him search through three kitchen drawers before he retrieves a bottle opener. He removes the cork swiftly, his impressive bicep flexing as he pulls it from the bottle’s neck.

Accepting the glass gratefully, I raise it to my mouth and take a large mouthful of the maroon liquid. My eyes close as the full-bodied wine hits my taste buds and I swallow, sighing contentedly.

When I open my eyes, Foster is looking at me expectantly.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s wonderful. You’re not having a glass?”

He relaxes, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t drink much. I’ll have a beer with the guys when we’re playing poker sometimes, but that’s it.”

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “So you just keep a bottle of wine stocked for when you rescue your friends’ sisters from sleeping on a park bench?”

“I guess so. For the record, I would have left you at a seedy motel before I let you sleep outdoors.” The man has perfected deadpan and I laugh as I pick up my fork.

We eat in comfortable silence. The meal is simple, but simple suits my anxiety-riddled stomach just fine. Though there is no way I can possibly eat all of it. Two chicken breasts, at least two cups of brown rice, and a mountain of broccoli. He probably doubled what he would normally make for himself.

As I sip my wine, I make a mental list of everything I need to do.

I’m going to need to call my parents. They will probably already be wondering why I haven’t called them yet, but I’m dreading my mother’s reaction when she hears about the apartment. Even though I wasn’t in any actual danger, she’ll act like I was robbed at gunpoint.

Then there’s the matter of finding a new place to live. Even if I manage to find a suitable rental on short notice, I don’t have enough in my meagre savings to afford another first month's rent, damage deposit, AND I still need a car.

UGH.

I feel Foster’s gaze on me and worry that I just made that noise out loud. He’s looking at me like he’s afraid I’m about to erupt or crumble or both and I decide to deflect.

“Your house is lovely,” I tell him as I look around and admire the custom-built cabinets and quartz countertop. It’s minimalistic and it suits him. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost three years. I lived in a condo downtown for a little while when I started with the team, but I tired of city life pretty quickly. I prefer the quiet.” He glances at the phone screen next to him and frowns.

Suddenly I wonder if I’m intruding on his solitude. “You don’t need to entertain me, you know. I’ll just head back to the guest room and you can pretend I’m not here.”

“No, please stay. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m happy you’re here, really. You’re the first real houseguest I’ve ever had.”

I suspected as much, but hearing him confirm it surprises me all the same. “Really? My sisters and parents impose on Ben at least once a year. Has your family never stayed here? Oh, but I forgot you’re from here, right? Do they live in the area?”

Foster doesn't look at me as he continues to chew the food in his mouth. When he finally swallows he takes a drink from his water glass before clearing his throat. “No.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “No, they don’t live nearby or no, they’ve never stayed here?”

“Both.” Pushing back from the table, he grabs his empty plate and walks to the sink without another word.

Way to go, Beth. Find that sore spot on the poor man and then poke it.

I open my mouth to apologise, but stop myself. Clearly, I’ve made him uncomfortable, but I feel like an apology would only bring more attention to what appears to be a sensitive subject. If Foster doesn’t want to talk about his family, I will happily change the subject.

I step down from the stool and bring my plate to the sink. There is a lot of food still left on it, but I made a decent dent in it. Foster’s broad back is to me as he washes the dishes. I note that there is a state-of-the-art dishwasher not two feet away from him, but don’t mention it.

“No word from Ben yet?” I set my plate down next to him and grab the dish towel that’s resting on the counter so I can dry .

“No,” he sighs. “It’s not unusual, though,” he adds hastily, probably so I don’t worry.

“Oh, I know,” I laugh as I run the towel over the plate in my hands. “He probably forgot to charge his phone.”

“Or forgot it at home altogether,” he agrees, smirking. He probably knows my brother better than I do.

“Classic Ben.” I’m reaching for a glass to dry as Foster adds another plate to the drying rack and our arms brush against one another. The contact startles me, but thankfully I manage not to drop the glass I’m holding. Our gazes meet, and, for a moment, it’s like I can’t look away.

Just then a buzzer sounds from somewhere in the house.

“That’s the dryer,” Foster explains, shaking the soapy water from his hands. “Your bedsheets are ready. I’ll help you make the bed.”

While it’s kind of him to offer, I already feel like a child who’s been coddled all evening. I draw the line at having this man make my bed and tuck me in.

“No, I’ve got it,” I insist. “I’ll make the bed and then call my parents. Just point me in the direction of the laundry room.”

“Last door on the left.”

“Perfect.” I set down the dish towel and face him. “Thank you so much for everything, Foster. You really saved me tonight.”

He rubs the back of his neck looking downright bashful. “Well, I’m a goalie. Saving is what I do.”

I can’t help but wince. “That was really bad.”

“I regretted it the moment I said it. I’m so sorry.” We both laugh at his failed joke and I start to leave, grabbing my phone from the island .

“Could I use your wifi? I hate that I have to ask, but my phone plan is awful and I can’t use up all my data this early in the month.” It’s embarrassing to even ask.

“Of course. Password is Patrickroy33. All one word.”

Grinning, I enter it into my phone and take it off airplane mode. As soon as it connects, my phone starts to ping with voicemail and text alerts from my parents and sisters.

Alright. Let’s get this over with.

I take a final glance at Foster. He’s watching me from the counter as he’s drying off his hands, a serious look on his face.

“Goodnight, Foster.”

“Goodnight, Beth.”