Second Shot K.O.K (The Brooklyn Bears: Season 1)

18. It’s A Date

EIGHTEEN

IT’S A DATE

Koa

M uch to Dash’s chagrin, there was no isolation or beatdowns; we didn’t get waterboarded—hell, they didn’t even separate us. We told the cops, who were cool as hell, what happened, and Deacon was asked if he wanted to press charges. Drew told them that he needed to see a doctor before he made that decision. Deacon went to see the medical team. When he doesn’t come to practice, I shoot him a text.

Me:

Your head okay?

Deacon:

I have a slight concussion.

Me:

What can I do?

Deacon:

You have a date. Seal the deal.

Me:

That’s a given. What can I do for you?

“KOK,” Deacon calls to me.

I look over my shoulder and see him jogging toward me. “Shouldn’t you be wearing sunglasses in this light and taking it easy?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m good. They’re saying concussion; glued my head that might have needed a stitch. He comes after us, I go after him. He goes balls out after the momma bear and her cub, we go hard. If not, it was a bar fight.”

“You out for tomorrow night’s game?” I ask.

He nods. “They’re bringing your Lincoln guy, Williams Junior, up for the game.”

Hank Marshall, who Dean Costello refuses to call him by name so he calls him Williams Junior, and Johnson hate him because he knows he’s a better goalie.

“We’re fucked,” I groan.

“You’re fine. Junior’s a natural.” He forces a laugh. “I may be fucked.”

“Nah, man, you’re Deacon fucking Moretti. You’re playing like you were before Costello bought the team.”

“Share a ride back to the Puck Pad?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

With everything set, I shoot Nalani a text before I start the vehicle.

Me:

Hey.

Maybe Nalani:

Hey.

Me:

Probably should have asked if you changed your number before sending some unsuspecting soul a text message saying I’ll be at your place in an hour, and here I am, doing just that.

Maybe Nalani:

See you then.

Me:

Wanna throw me an emoji for identification purposes?

Maybe Nalani:

Like a dick pic?

Me:

Sorry bro, wrong number.

Maybe Nalani:

I’m asking you for a dick pic.

What the fuck?

Me:

That’s never going happen.

I’m about to block the number when it hits me—she might be fucking with me—so I toss it on the seat and get my ass in gear.

The fact I walk right in, even though Paul added deadbolts, doesn’t sit well with me, and not just because Nalani lives here, but because a mother, her child, and an older man call this place home. It’s reckless. The neighborhood itself is nice enough, but two blocks away last night, there was a shooting. Cars are stolen, people are mugged, worse …

“You sure you wanna take that on? You’re starting a new job, and you’re a single mother,” comes from the back of the house.

“Now that she’s sleeping through the night, Savannah sleeps a lot. It’ll give me something to do.”

“The elevator should be fixed tomorrow; I’ll show you two and three. Help you the best I can. And I’m not budging on slashing the rent for you doing the work.”

“I’m not skilled. This will be a learning?—”

“Young lady, I can’t get anyone in here for less than a hundred bucks an hour, and not one of them has finished a job they’ve started. I’m sure as hell not going to let you do it for nothing.”

Gotta admit, he’s not a bad guy, but times are different now and …

I look up when I hear a door shut, and although I can’t see her fully, I see enough to know she’s not in a dress and heels or an outfit like last night’s black leather pants and the tight, deep red, ribbed Henley that hugged her perfect little curves.

Coming down the last flight, I bite back a smile when I see she’s in an oversized, cream-colored sweater under an olive green utility jacket and a plaid scarf. She’s wearing black leggings with thick wool socks peeking out from black hiking boots. Two long, thick black braids are peeking out from under the burgundy hat she’s wearing, and her face is makeup-free except whatever lip moisturizer she’s got on over the smile that spreads across her face when she sees the flowers in my hand. She looks just like she did back then, and fuck, she’s looking at me just like then, too.

There were times today when I wondered if I was being a fool for wanting to just pick up where we left off, but there were also times when I wondered if I was being foolish. The reality? I would one hundred percent cuff her to a wall if she ever tried to fuck us up again. And another reality? My head’s gonna be fucked every damn time I call her or she calls me from an airport for a bit.

I kiss her cheek then ask, “Did you have a good day?”

She nods as she takes the flowers that I hand to her. “This is beautiful, thank you.” She bends to smell them. “What are they?”

I knew she’d ask, so I came prepared. “The orange and deep red are dahlias, the ones that match your sweater are asters, the yellow ones are marigolds, the rust ones are chrysanthemums. There’s lavender, some berries on the twisted vined that the florist said you should not eat, and maple leaves, because?—”

“It’s peeping season.” She smiles.

“You ready to get the hell out of here?” I hold my hand out, and she takes it.

“Let me say goodbye to Claire, Paul, and Savannah.”

“Of course. Maybe leave the flowers here for now?”

She nods then heads to the back and around the corner.

Once she’s done that, we’re out the door and down the busted-ass steps.

She starts to head left, but I pull her to the right.

“The park’s this way,” she says.

“We’re not going to the park.”

She looks down at my boots then up. “Where are we going then?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Once I have her in the vehicle, I round the front, open the door, and slide in the front, and she’s looking behind the seat.

“We’re going on a picnic?”

“We are.” I buckle and start the engine.

She runs her hand over the sleek dashboard. “You ditched the Jeep?”

“Gave it to a freshman when I left Lincoln.”

“I mean, that’s nice but … no Jeep?”

I pull out onto the street. “I have a Jeep back in Wailea, and when the weather’s good here, I ride the motorcycle.”

“Nice.” She turns in her seat. “How was your day?” Before I can answer, she asks, “What are your days like playing pro?”

“On days we don’t have games and are here in the City, we’re at the facility by nine for a workout focused on what the trainers decide we need to improve. At ten thirty, we hit the ice for work on skills and drills. Then it’s a scrimmage. From eleven thirty to noon, it’s stretching and recovery.”

“Recovery? Are you hurt?”

“Got my ass kicked more than usual last night because I was a little distracted.”

She points to herself, and I roll my eyes as I turn then take her hand.

“Cryotherapy.”

“Oh my God, I would die.” She shakes her head.

“Feels real damn good after your balls crawl out from wherever they hide inside.”

She laughs. “What then?”

“Lunch from twelve thirty to one thirty. After that is optional skills work or films. Today, it was films. Then out at three and usually in bed by ten thirty or eleven.”

“Game days?”

“Morning skate at eight-thirty; ten-fifteen to eleven, cool down and treatments for whatever needs treating. Lunch at home is typical, then chill until it’s time to return at five thirty or six. Game time, seven p.m.”

“If you’re on a winning streak, do you ever get a day off?”

“Not a chance. We train harder to ensure we keep it.”

I can see her mind working, no doubt trying to find out how it will work with us.

I bring her hand to my lips again, rubbing them across her soft skin. “There is no game tonight. Tomorrow is like a normal game day at Hayward, except there is no class between morning work and the game.”

“And you still get summer vacations.”

“Basically,” I agree, as not to overwhelm her with fundraisers, charities, and other non-philanthropic endeavors, like endorsements, sponsorships, merchandising, and the endless hours I spend planning what comes after the NHL.

“We’ve been summering in Italy,” she states in a haughty tone. “All under the guile they wanted to be closer to Tūtū Mele. But we only stay at her home in Porto Servo two, maybe three days before she drags us all over, starting in Milan.”

The disgust in her tone makes me chuckle, and she sighs as she leans back.

“I know, I know, I sound like a …” She pause and shifts around uncomfortably.

“No other female I have ever met would hate that as much as I know you do. You’d rather go cliff diving or surfing in a ten-dollar bikini or nothing, or hiking through the woods in boots, than wearing three-thousand-dollar Amedeo Testoni heels. You care more about preference than privilege. I never met your other grandmother”—which still grates on my nerves because I should have gone to her funeral, showed my support—“but I already know you’re more Tūtū Kaleia than Tūtū Mele.”

“Yeah.” She squeezes my hand, leans back in her seat, tucks her legs under her, and looks out the window. She’s quiet, deep in thought, until she sees we’re crossing the George Washington Bridge.

“Okay, spill it; where are you taking me?”

I kiss her hand again. “You’ll find out in about an hour.”

She turns and smiles softly at me, and I give her a wink. When I see her begin to worry her lip out of the corner of my eye, I look at her curiously.

“I need to tell you some things.”

“I know you do.” I reach back over and take her hand. “Whatever time you need to do that, it’s yours. I’m not pushing again.”

“We were both a little drunk.”

“I was buzzed; you were drunk.” I chuckle softly.

“Luckily for you, it doesn’t happen often, because if this goes where I hope it does”—she pauses, and I again give her hand a reassuring squeeze—“dating drunk me could be challenging.”

“History tells me I never stood down from that challenge.”

She squirms a bit in her seat, no doubt remembering what I’m alluding to.

In Hayward, we didn’t drink often, but the three or four times we did in that year, we had fucking amazing sex.

The lust haze I saw blossoming in her eyes is gone when I glance over at her again; in its place, sadness.

“I lied to you back then.”

“Gathered that.”

I hear a whispered, “Baby steps.”

As much as I hate liars, I hate the worry and the sadness she carries even more.

“Your pace, Nalani. We take this at your pace.”

“If I repeat anything from last night, it’s because I was kind of wrecked.”

“No worries.”

She exhales a slow, deep breath before she begins. “I never wondered where money came from, but in my defense, I also never asked for anything that wasn’t offered. I knew that we had more than most, and I knew people treated me a certain way because of it. Growing up at the resort, I saw people, like my family, who could spend hundreds of dollars on excursions, like swimming with the turtles or cliff diving. I also overheard whispered conversations between couples trying to decide whether or not to spend more money when they’d already spent thousands on their vacation to begin with. I knew you could do those things for free, so at times, I told families where they could go to do so.

“The first time my mother heard I had done that, I was reprimanded. She told me I was taking away from the resort’s profit, said I would make a shitty businesswoman, that I would ruin the family business. You know, belittled.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing. Had a few of those talks with my parents, too.”

She sighs. “I know.”

I lift her hand to my lips and kiss it. “Go on.”

“Her approval meant something to me, so I was mindful and didn’t do that anymore. I decided to learn the business. Dad hired me when I was twelve. I never had a specific job; I would just go where I was needed. I learned a lot and was paid, too. I saved every penny I made, and my mother was so impressed that she took me to open an account when I was fourteen. I loved watching that money grow. I didn’t just put what I made from working on weekends or summers in it; I put every cent I received for birthdays or holidays from Mele and my parents in there, too. I planned to buy an older Jeep so I could strap on my board and go to Wailea whenever I wanted to spend time with Kaleia and admire the local scenery.”

“The local scenery loved being admired,” I joke.

She sighs and leans back. “They bought me the X3.”

I chuckle, and she smiles, shaking her head.

“I know, I shouldn’t complain about getting a BMW, and that I had”—she pauses—“a hell of a lot of money banked, and I was appreciative. I only pouted privately. Fast forward to that summer, our summer, and me mentioning using the money to buy a vehicle in the States and, suddenly, I’m selfish.”

“For wanting to buy a vehicle with your own money?”

“Oh no, not just that, but for the amount of money they spent on Hayward, and the amount it was going to cost to go to Lincoln when I could go there for free. I told her I’d pay for college. I knew Mele had an account set up for that, and I’d be fine. It spiraled from there.”

She looks out the window as she continues, “I was chasing a boy who only wanted me for one thing. That I had agreed to go to law school in Māui, and then the reminder that if it weren’t for them and Mele, I’d be living like she did in Wailea, and she said it with nothing but contempt. We had our first big blow out when I told her I preferred Wailea, and by the end of it, I felt horrible because she was right; I didn’t spend time with Mele, and yes, Mele was the reason I had the life I did. She told me that if she told my father what a spoiled little bitch?—”

“She called you a bitch?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she huffs. “She certainly did.”

“Jesus, Nalani, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” She sighs heavily and flops back. “This was two weeks before you were heading to Lincoln, and I was bound and determined to stay the course. I went to the bank to withdraw”—she pauses—“a lot of money, enough to pay my tuition for the year and buy the vehicle.”

When she pauses, I ask, “And?”

“They told me it would take a minute to get the money, and I patiently waited. Except they didn’t bring me the money. Mother came in and demanded I leave with her. It ended up being a big scene, and the way people looked at me”—she shakes her head—“it was humiliating. But not as humiliating as the lecture I received about how I’d become someone unrecognizable from my father.”

“So you stayed.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You should have told me,” I say as calmly as possible, because yeah, I’m pissed she lied, knowing damn well I would have figured it out … somehow.

“I was afraid you’d throw away your chance at this.”

I don’t reply, because I’m not sure she’s wrong.

She’s quiet, too quiet, so I give her hand a squeeze. “I don’t know what I would have done at that moment, but —”

“I may have been delusional, but that worry was real to me.” Her tone—anger.

“I was seconds from coming home. I should have, then at least we could have talked it out and made a plan.”

“And what would the plan have been, Koa?” she bites out.

“Put you in my fucking suitcase? Move you into the apartment? Fuck, I don’t know, but …” I reel it in because I promised her, and myself, that I would let her do this at her own pace.

She stays silent again for a long time, and then she whispered, “I was depressed for the first time in my life. I was riddled with anxiety, and I was so damn ashamed for lying to you, but I couldn’t find my way out of the lie. My grades were slipping, and then Mele died.”

“I should have come home.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t.”

My body tightened.

“I didn’t even like myself at that point, Koa, and I was irrationally pissed at you, too.”

“What?” I snap.

“I said it was irrational,” she snaps back.

More silence.

“Once the semester ended, I went to her and told her I couldn’t live like this. I told her I was an adult and that I wanted to get an apartment so that I could feel like I wasn’t in high school anymore, and I told her I would be withdrawing my money to do so. She said she’d consider it.

“Christmas came, I saw you, and it was like I was alive again. I made you more promises, and not just you, I swore on everything I am that I was going to fix what I broke.” She looks at me and reads me like a book. “I know you’re pissed, I know you want to yell at me, but?—”

“Can we skip to the next part?”

She leans back in the seat again and looks out the window. “Yeah.”

My heart is beating faster, my body tense. I’m fucking angry at them, and yeah, at her, because all that pain I felt, that wound that took forever to stitch up, those threads are threatening to snap apart, one by fucking one.

“When I got home, she knew I had been with you. Kaleia had called and told her how happy she was that we were still together, how happy I looked. She told me I couldn’t be trusted, that I may be happy now, but it wouldn’t last because even a billion dollars and a twelve-inch cock wouldn’t satisfy a spoiled little brat like me. So, I told her that she was wrong because you weren’t quite twelve inches, but at least eleven, and had satisfied me for eight hours straight.”

A laugh breaks from my chest, and fuck, does it feel good. “You lied to your mother. I stand at ten.”

“She deserves it.”

As I’m kissing her hand, she tells me, “She slapped me so hard my ear was ringing.”

“She fucking hit you?” I growl.

She nods, brown eyes pooling with tears. “Twice. The third time, I shoved her away.”

“Good for you.”

“No, not really. She fell, hit her head and, well, there was some blood. And by the time my father raced home after she called, telling him I attacked her, the handprints had lessened and, well, yeah.” A tear falls. “I told them I was leaving, and they told me no. I made the mistake of saying I’d rather die than be stuck with them. I went to my room, packed a bag, and ran out of the house to get in my car. They held me off until security came.”

“They called the cops?”

“No, because they didn’t want that kind of embarrassment, which was also …” She shakes her head. “Hotel security came, three of them. One drove, and two caged me in on both sides for the two-hour drive to a mental health facility. Three months was the sentence imposed by my parents … for my own safety, of course.” She sniffs.

My voice shakes in anger when I say, “You should have told me.”

“I had no contact.”

“You messaged me, broke shit off again. You?—”

“ She did ! She had my phone!” she cries.

When a horn blows behind me, I realize I could have just hurt her, us, or someone else on the fucking highway and look for an exit.

“Three months turned to six within ten days because I was so fucking pissed they wouldn’t listen to me. I refused their meds and got …” A sob breaks free. “It was the most humiliating experience of my life.”

I find a safe place to pull over, put the vehicle in park, hop out, round the front, open her door, unbuckle her, and fucking hold her. “Fuck, Ku’uipo, I am so fucking sorry. So sorry.”

She digs her fingers into my shirt as sobs rack her body.

“So fucking sorry.”

I hold her like that, on the side of the road, until she pulls back and swipes her sleeve under her nose.

“None of this is your fault. None of it.”

I can’t even respond because I should have fucking known. Fuck, I did know. I knew she loved me. Even though we hadn’t said the words, I knew.

She dabs under her eyes, sniffs, then forces a smile. “You graduated and got drafted, like I knew you would.”

“I’d give it all away to go back.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Fuck yes, I would.”

“And I’d have never forgiven myself.” She closes her eyes as I wipe her face with my shirt. “The happiest day in all those years was watching you play your first professional game. It made it worth it.”

“And it makes me hate it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was medicated, pretty heavily at times, so it really wasn’t that bad.”

“This is not funny, Ku’uipo.”

She shakes her head. “No, but I made the decision not to let it define me, which is part of what finally gave me the strength to come here.”

“I’m never letting you go back there to that … that bitch.”

“Kaleia is there.”

“Fine, I’m never letting you go without me.”

She sighs. “There’s more.”

“You sure you wanna continue?”

Smiling sadly, she says, “Now you understand the steps?”

I push the stands of hair stuck to her face back. “I do.”

“Covid wasn’t kind to the resort.”

“Wasn’t bad for hockey; you’ll be fine.” I kiss her forehead. “Better than fine.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s not the point. I have a trust fund that was designed specifically for college. The rest of the money, which was … a lot was spent”—she looks down—“without my permission.” She looks back up at me. “And by them, I mean her lifestyle didn’t change, her spending was even more out of control, and when I confronted her , my father came to me and told me they needed it to offset what they spent”—she laughs, like from the belly laughs—“on my treatment.”

“How are you laughing at this?” I stand in awe at the fact she’s been through all of this. I can’t fathom what that must feel like, yet she is laughing genuinely—I can see it in her eyes.

“Because it feels good to finally talk about it.”

“You haven’t told Sophie?”

She shakes her head, scowling. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is that your own mother would do this? That it took me so long to realize it? She took what belonged to me. My damn car, which was a gift, was gone when I got out of that bullshit mental health ‘retreat.’ It was a lease, not a freaking gift, so I couldn’t even leave if I wanted. My undergrad work was done online, so I was basically under a …” She laughs again. “I was basically under a conservatorship, but she wasn’t smart enough to do that, and by the time she thought of it—last freaking week—I had my ducks in line already. My law professor helped me scare the shit out of the bank so my college trust couldn’t be touched. I threatened to sue them for … the money she’d already taken if they allowed her to touch the money I received from my grandmother’s estate on my birthday. They called when they saw the transfer was coming in, and I put it in the account. She didn’t know that I had been stashing away.”

“Why the hell didn’t you reach out when you knew this was going on?”

“You don’t get to be pissed at me. Anytime I thought about it, I remembered you had a new life.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Considering how I have questioned my own mental health for years, you’re not allowed to be angry at me. And if you are, then you’re opening a door for me to be pissed that I was so easily rep?—”

“Fucking bitch, she needs to pay for what she did to you.”

“She won’t.” Her eyes fill with tears again. “He’ll just work harder, kill himself for her to have whatever her heart desires.”

“You cut them off.”

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily.

“You need a break?”

“Yeah, I really do.”