The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,185

tried to reach out to him over the years.

“It was a beautiful service,” I say, tracing my finger across the crystal clear floor-to-ceiling window before me. Everything is so crisp and clean, like I could just reach my hand through and touch the building across the street. The windows seem to be the only remotely untouched thing about this place, and I wonder if he ever took the time to stand here and take in all this beauty. “There were a ton of people there. Hundreds, maybe a thousand? Back of the church was standing room only.”

“Who gave the eulogy?” she asks.

“His coach.”

“It’s so sad that he had no one in those final hours, you know?” she asks, voice fading. “No one by his side at the hospital. Breaks my heart that he died alone.”

“He could’ve had me.”

“I know, sweetheart.” She sighs through the phone, not in the mood to rehash the conversation we’ve had a million times before, but it’s okay, because neither am I. “How are you holding up? I know you have a lot on your plate now with cleaning out his place and handling his estate and everything.”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’ve got it.”

“Well, at least he’s with his family now. They’re all together again, may they finally rest in peace,” Mom says, and I can mentally picture her making the sign of the cross. It’s funny to me that she would speak so casually about the couple whose marriage she all but destroyed some twenty-plus years ago.

I leave the window and take a seat in one of his leather chairs. The leather is supple and smooth, void of cracks and creases, and I wonder if he ever thought about hanging up his skates and resting on his laurels for a bit.

There’s a soft, brisk knock at the door, and I think I’m imagining it until it happens again a few seconds later.

“Someone’s at the door, Mom. I’ll call you later, okay?” I whisper, ending the call before she has a chance to protest.

Brushing my dark bangs into place and straightening my shirt, I rise on my toes and peer through the peephole, my hand steady on the deadbolt and my breath suspended. There’s a man on the other side, dressed in a black suit with a Spartan-green tie, most likely one of Bryce’s teammates.

Clearing my throat, I unlock the door and pull it open. “Hi.”

The guy towers over me, and with watery, red-rimmed eyes he stares so deeply at me I feel like he’s examining the contents of my soul. There’s anguish written all over his face, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“You’re Bryce’s sister?” he asks.

I nod.

“I’m sorry,” he says, running a goliath palm through his short coffee-brown hair. An overabundance of aftershave clouds the air between us. “I don’t know your name.”

Probably because Bryce didn’t want anyone to know I existed ...

“Ayla,” I say. “Ayla Caldwell.”

I feel that my brother would want me to make it crystal clear that we did not share the same last name even if we did share the same father.

“Didn’t even know he had a sister until Coach mentioned it to me today. Bryce never really talked about his family,” he says, eyes searching mine. “Anyway, just came by because a bunch of us are going to grab some drinks. Not, like, going out or anything, just having a drink for old times’ sake ... celebrating Bryce’s life, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah. I get you.” I bite my lower lip, staring down and trying to decide my fate for the night. A half hour ago, I wanted to lock myself in the guest room, take a hot shower, and call it an early night.

“It’d be on us,” he says, as if money were the main objection here. “You know, ‘cause you’re his family and all, and we take care of our own.”

“I’m going to be honest ...” I offer an apologetic smile and watch his face fall just enough to make me feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Maybe when he looks at me, he sees Bryce, and maybe he feels like I’m the final link to a man he’ll never see again in this lifetime. He didn’t have to come all the way here, to his dead friend-slash-teammate’s apartment, asking his estranged sister to come out for complimentary drinks. He did it out of the kindness of his mourning heart. I can’t say “no.” It’d be uncouth.

I suppose I can make one final toast to