Page 18 of Matched with Her Athlete Boss
It’s always nice to have a friend in my corner.
8
KENZIE
My heart still beats a mile a minute and it’s been an hour since I last saw Trey. I sound like I’m part of an AA meeting although instead of alcohol, I’m trying to wean myself off the fangirl in me about one of the Breeze’s best players. It’s not going well.
How often do I see a professional hockey player out in the wild? Or have to drive him home?
We’d had a lot of fun during our teen years, but he doesn’t even remember me. To be honest, I wouldn’t recognize me either. I’d been able to get rid of the glasses and the braces by the time I made it to college, but Trey was already in the system to the NHL at that point.
I head over to the Spice House and drop off Trey’s car, not wanting any questions from my dad about how I ended up with a newish car a day after talking to him about saving money. There would be a lecture for sure, although I know he’s just trying to protect me.
My old rust bucket gets me to the supermarket, where I pick up cleaning supplies and then drive over to my dad’s house. The gas gauge is on E, but I’ll somehow make it back home. And I didn’t want to tell Trey I can’t pay him for using his gas.
There are brown spots in the grass when I pull up, where Dad must’ve had some of his junk piled for the past several weeks. At least he’s tried to clean up some of the outside.
As I peek around the side of the house, I frown. There are three junk cars sitting there, probably for spare parts. I keep telling him he can just go to the junkyard to find the specific part he needs when he needs it, but he’d rather have the death traps sitting next to the house.
I go through the side door and gag upon entry. What is that smell? It’s like something died in here. Even my eyes are starting to water.
My dad hasn’t mentioned any new pets, so hopefully I don’t have to battle more than the–
“Ah!” I scream out as my foot nudges a piece of cardboard on the floor and a pack of cockroaches emerge from it. Crap. Why does it have to be those things? They make my skin crawl long after I see them.
The kitchen is covered in boxes and garbage bags, plates with old food on them and mold. Lots of mold.
I walk into what was once the front room. Instead of seeing the couch and recliners, there are piles of newspapers, magazines, empty take-out containers, and then so much garbage. Why doesn’t he throw all this stuff out weekly when the garbage trucks come by?
“Brian Sullivan!” I call out, adding irritation to my tone.
“Are you here already, Baby Girl?” my dad says, walking out of his room down the hall from the living room. The man is not that tall and he has to lift his leg nearly to his armpit to make any forward progress.
“What happened here?” I wave my arms around, searching for anything that looks familiar, but all I see is junk.
Instead of joking around like I thought he would, he glances around at the mess and shrugs, looking like a kicked puppy. “I don’t know. It was just a lot.”
I bite my tongue, trying to remember the things I’ve learned in my online psychology class. There’s an underlying reason for why people do what they do, and this is no exception. I rein in my tone and say, “Where do you want me to start?” I’m mentally hoping we can avoid the kitchen for a few hours. I’m not ready to battle the cockroaches. Yet.
He looks around again and says, “I’m not even sure. I’m sorry, Mac. If you don’t have time, you don’t have to worry about this.”
My heart breaks for him. The man is so confident in his job at the rink, but standing before me now he looks like a shell of that man. I walk over to throw my arms around his neck. “I have time to help out, Dad, as long as you’ll let me. No one should have to live like this. Let’s check out the bedrooms and bathroom.”
I’ve never been so relieved to see that the bathroom, while filled with stuff, doesn’t have poop piled up in random places. I might’ve seen too many episodes of the Hoarders reality show back in the day. To be honest, it was the main reason why I worked so hard to keep things cleaned up after Mom left. I never wanted things to get to, well, this point.
The bedrooms have clothes piled high along with bags and bags of toys, most of them broken. It would be a five-year-old’s haven, more trucks and cars than they could play with in a lifetime.
“How does the basement look?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even and the accusations out of it.
“About like this.”
“Okay, are you wanting to help with this? Or do you want me to do what I used to do and just chuck stuff?”
Dad starts biting his thumbnail, which is a tell-tale sign to give him a minute to think. The urge to call up a dumpster and just get started is strong, but I wait, watching what he’s going to say. I’ve lost him once to this debate and I don’t want to go through that again.
“Will you ask me before you throw anything away?”
Asking about every piece of paper and knick-knack would mean this project will stretch on for the next three years.
