He’s Not My Type

“You know, I thought it was homier in here.” Posey looks around my apartment. “It feels . . . cold. Is it the concrete walls and floors or the lack of area rug? Maybe both.”

“Can you shut the fuck up and just help me?” I ask as I place a bonsai tree on the kitchen counter along with some of the supplies needed to take care of the stupid thing. I opted for the juniper bonsai tree because Posey insisted it looked more like a Sherman than the other varieties. The fucking thing was fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars for a miniature tree. Sure, I can afford it, but I was annoyed I had to purchase it in the first place.

I told Posey after our game last night that he was meeting me first thing in the morning to help me get groceries and some necessities for Blakely’s arrival, as well as a bonsai tree.

We’re running late because he made us examine the feminine products for ten minutes and what I should stock in my bathroom until I finally told him she was probably coming with her own. He agreed, that made the most sense.

We then smelled every candle in the candle aisle despite me telling him I had candles, and he ended up picking the scent that I already have in my home. This was followed up by him thinking I needed lots of snacks to make it seem like I was human. Pretty sure my walking body portrays that, but at that point, I was exhausted, so I let him fill up the cart.

Looking at the full reusable bags in my apartment, I’m guessing that was a big mistake.

“You know, I’m getting tired of the attitude,” Posey says as he comes up to me with a bag full of miscellaneous things like notepads, pens, lotion, and a whisk. He asked if I had one, and when I said no, he put it in the cart. You have to make it homey for her, he said. You have to make sure she doesn’t need a whisk and comes up short, he said.

Guarantee, she won’t even touch the fucking whisk.

“Then you never should have offered up my place to stay.” I fill up the sink with two inches of water and put Sherman—yup, that’s happening—in the water so it can soak up whatever it needs.

“You can act all grumpy about it, but you know deep down, this was a great idea.”

“How?” I ask. “How was this a great idea?” I motion to my apartment. “If you haven’t noticed, I keep it pretty plain here. I don’t need much, just a place to read and sleep. She’s going to come here and think it’s some sort of jail cell.”

“Not with the new Egyptian cotton sheets we got for her bed.” He pats me on the shoulder and says, “And can I just say, it’s really white knight-ish of you to give her your bed since you don’t have one in her room. Sleeping on an air mattress is a real commitment and making sure she doesn’t have to suffer through that truly shows how much you like this girl.”

“I wasn’t going to make her sleep on an air mattress,” I mutter. Nope, that will be me, which should be fun given I have lower back issues from playing hockey my whole damn life.

“That being said, we should probably move the bed, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “We have about an hour to get this shit done, so put away the cold food and I’ll work on everything else, then we’ll do the beds.”

“Right, okay.” Posey peeks into the sink. “Is that too much water for Sherman?”

“No, that’s what the girl at the nursery said to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“For the love of God, Levi,” I shout. “Please just put away the fucking cold food.”

“Sheesh, okay.” He moves toward the bags and starts unloading them as I try to calm myself.

Am I stressed?

Yes.

I’m beyond stressed. Blakely will be here in an hour. I have to move my bed to her room, try to make this concrete sanctuary not look so . . . sterile, and mentally prepare myself that Blakely White will temporarily share my space. My private, bland, and quiet space. And if there are two things Blakely is not, it’s bland and quiet.

“You know, you should probably iron the curtains you got for her room.”

I move past him and start placing crackers, chips, and whatever food Posey thought she might like in the pantry. “We don’t have time to iron, they’ll shake out once they’re hung.”

He’s stacking the cans of lime La Croix very carefully, making me want to scream at him. “I don’t know, it’s risky.”

“We can steam them then, but you need to fucking hurry up.”

“Dude, we need to make it look presentable. The last thing you want is for her to think you’re some careless bachelor. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” I ask. “Because I don’t see you with a girlfriend?”

“Because I haven’t pulled the trigger yet. Once I do, I’ll have my girl in the palm of my hand.”

I highly doubt it. If anyone is a hot mess on this team, it’s Levi Posey.

Together, we unpack the food and—carefully—stock the kitchen, including the whisk he made me buy, as well as the colorful cutting knives that are pink, purple, and blue. He claimed it was a nice, feminine touch that I could afford since I was brimming with masculinity. Once again, his words, not mine.

“Now, we don’t want to light the candle, but we need to place it somewhere,” Posey says, holding up the rich mahogany-scented jar. “Silas told me that sometimes it can look too desperate if you actually light the candle.” He glances around the barren living room. “Where are your coffee table books?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then where are your actual books? I know you have them, as you read all the time.”

“They’re in my room. Why?”

“Because, Joanna Gaines likes to stack books and put a candle on top. It looks nice.”

“Who is Joanna Gaines?”

“Jesus.” Posey moves past me, bumping my shoulder, and heads toward my bedroom. He stops immediately and takes it in. “What the hell is this?”

“My room.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s a bed with stacks of books piled on the floor. Where is your dresser? Your curtains? Perhaps a rug to keep your feet warm when you first pop out of bed?”

“Don’t need them.”

“What the hell do you do with your money?” he asks with a shake of his head.

“Invest. Save. I don’t know. Buy books.”

“How about some shelves, huh? That might be nice. Look at these stacks and stacks of books. Don’t you think they would want a place to live? What kind of bookworm are you?”

“It doesn’t matter to me. They’re fine as is. Stop stalling.” I walk over to my bed and strip the sheets off as well as the blankets and pillows while Posey studies my stacks and stacks of books.

“This might work.” He picks up a thick black book with no dust jacket. I hate them and always Terracycle them when I get the book. “What is this? A thriller? Doesn’t matter, it will go with the living room aesthetic.” He takes off, and I clench my jaw, keeping my mouth shut so I don’t fly off on him.

I’ve been close with Posey for a while now, and you wouldn’t think that our personalities would mix well. He’s kind of out there, odd at times, and a fucking monster while playing hockey. He’s also an instigator but with a heart. Hard to explain him. He’s all over the place, like right now, thinking he’s some sort of God’s gift to interior design. Funnily enough, he reminds me a lot of my brother Holden. He was the same way. Outgoing, always instigating shenanigans—something that used to get on our older brother’s nerves—but had a fucking heart of gold.

Levi Posey might drive me nuts, and I might want to murder him at times, but it’s almost as if Holden has pushed us closer.

Fuck, if Holden were still here, he’d be laughing his ass off in the corner, enjoying every second of my scrambling. He would egg Posey on. And he’d definitely be waiting off to the side, watching this entire circus unfold.

“The candle is set.” Posey walks back into the room, dusting off his hands.

“Well, thank God for that.”

“I also took Sherman out of his water because the dirt was saturated. His new home is on the console table behind your couch for better light. Which by the way, you have a console table, but you don’t have bookshelves? Make that make sense.”

“Just help me with this mattress.”

Posey grabs one end and tugs it toward him, grunting in the process. “Why the hell is this so heavy? Do you sleep on concrete as well?”

“It’s a custom mattress for my lower back. Use your fucking muscles.”

“I am,” he grunts as he tugs it across the floor while I push. “I was expecting something lightweight.”

“Well, it’s not, so keep tugging.”

“Are we going straight to the other room, or do you want to make a pit stop and move half of the bed so we can move the bottom and place it in the room first?” Why does he have to make things so complicated? I swear to God, when you work with Posey, you need to be prepared for an extra step in everything you do, including talking about it.

“Just move it to the other bedroom.”

Together, we drag the mattress into the living room.

“Are you sure? Because if we do this properly, we could unravel the bed and put it back without being clumsy about it. We could be efficient.” He tugs; I push. “And are we really clumsy people? Or are we efficient motherfuckers?”

“Does it fucking matter?” I push hard on the mattress with my shoulder, scooting it a good two feet.

“Whoa, man,” Posey says. “You almost knocked me over.”

I shove again, sending him to stumble backward and hit the console table behind the couch.

“Ah,” he yells. “You almost made me knock over Sherman.”

“Grip the mattress and keep moving.” I push again.

“I am, but you’re being aggressive.”

“Because we have like forty minutes until she’s here, and you want to steam the goddamn curtains and talk about efficiency. Just get it the fuck done.”

“Don’t fucking get mad at me for setting standards.”

“Just . . . pull . . .” I give the mattress a shove, and once again, I knock Posey away, but in the process, I lose grip of the mattress, leaving it tilting on its own. “Shit,” I say just as it starts to tip over. “Grab it,” I yell as I stumble forward but trip over some of the reusable bags we didn’t put away.

“I can’t,” he yells back.

We watch in horror as it tips all the way over, right onto the console table and flat onto Sherman.

“Noooooo,” Posey yells as the plant topples to the floor, and with a loud crack, the pot breaks. Wet soil scatters all over the floor along with a smushed plant. Posey falls to his knees and holds up the dilapidated bonsai tree. He glares up at me, clutching the plant to his chest. “You monster.”

I grip my forehead, staring at the mess. Fuck, I don’t have time for this.

“Don’t you have any remorse?”

Feeling panic start to take over, I step back and press both hands to the top of my head. “Fuck, we won’t get this done in time.”

“He was so innocent.” Posey strokes the plant.

“Can you stop that,” I yell, my chest filling with anxiety. “Fuck, what are we going to do? We don’t have time for this.” I shake my head. “This . . . this was a bad idea. I . . . I have to call her, tell her she can’t come. I can’t do this. I can’t—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Posey stands from the floor, holding the bonsai tree by the broken trunk. “You’re freaking out.”

“Of course I’m freaking out!” I yell. “I just broke the bonsai tree that I never wanted in the first place, soil is everywhere, and I don’t have a goddamn vacuum to clean it up. Blakely will be over here in forty minutes, she doesn’t have a bed to sleep on, and the curtains will be fucking wrinkled! Not to mention, what the hell am I going to do with a girl in my apartment? I don’t know how to act around her, talk to her . . . not fucking stare into her gorgeous eyes every chance I get. She’s going to think I’m some sort of stalker. And I’m not a stalker. This is your fault. You’re the one who made me do this. You’re the one who—”

“Okay, okay. You’re on the verge of what some might call a mental breakdown. And I’ll tell you this, pointing the finger won’t solve the problem.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and says, “This is why we’re a band of brothers. I’m just going to shoot over a quick text and all will be right with the world.”

He types away on his phone. I watch his face scrunch in concern as he types, and I take in the mess. There is no way we’re going to get this done. No fucking way.

My phone chimes with a text, and when I lift a brow at him, he winces. “Shit, was that to the group chat with you in it?”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and read his text.

Posey: You guys, we’re at DEFCON 1 over here. Holmes is about to wee himself from nerves. We need help. Taters, please grab a juniper bonsai tree and have it here in twenty minutes. Pacey, we need a vacuum cleaner like ten minutes ago. Get it here. Hornsby, we need two nightstands, preferably a white oak or black iron. You also have twenty minutes.

I glance up at him. “I’m not going to wee myself.”

“Say that to your quivering legs.”

“THE CURTAINS LOOK LIKE SHIT,” Silas says as all five of us stare at the room we haphazardly put together.

“You think I don’t know that?” I ask. “Fuck, should I take them down?”

“No,” Pacey says. “You don’t have blinds, so she’ll want curtains for privacy.”

“Told you they needed to be ironed.” Posey leans against the wall, arms folded.

“You are literally not allowed to say anything to me anymore.” I point at him and move out of her bedroom and into the living room, where the soil has been vacuumed by a brand-new vacuum courtesy of Pacey. Sherman has been replaced. Posey stupidly said he feels more attached and bonded to the new one. I punched him after that comment.

My air mattress is blown up, but not made with my sheets. I didn’t want her hearing the air mattress being blown up, but I didn’t have time to put the sheets on. I’ll have to do that later.

The stupid candle is on the book on the coffee table as well as a figurine of a hockey player that Eli insisted I have after Posey bitched about my apartment being too bland.

So . . . that’s what I have in my living room. A fucking sofa, TV, coffee table, candle with a book, and a hockey player figurine. It looked better without the extra shit. Now it looks like I’m trying too hard and the other things are out of place.

Not to mention, New Sherman, or Sherman as we’re going to refer to him from here on out, looks stupid as the only thing on the console table.

It all looks stupid. Everything.

The curtains.

The nightstands that don’t match because Hornsby doesn’t know what white oak is.

The disheveled and wrinkled bedding on her bed because we all tried to make the bed together, but none of us were taking directions from each other.

It’s a fucking disaster.

I move my hand over my forehead, my nerves completely shot, as the boys join me in the living room.

“I never noticed how uninspiring your apartment was until you added that candle,” Pacey says. “Now I’m questioning if you should have it at all.”

“See, I fucking told him that.” I gesture to Posey.

“Nah, I think the candle is a nice touch,” Silas says.

“Thank you.” Posey throws his arms up in exasperation.

We all turn to Hornsby, who looks between us. “Uh . . . I don’t know much about candles. Penny is really in charge now.”

I’m just about to pick up the candle and hand it off to Posey when there’s a knock on the door.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

“She’s here,” Posey says.

“Shit, am I sweaty?” I lift my arms and turn toward the boys.

“Oooo, giant pit stains,” Pacey says. “Go change your shirt.”

Hornsby leans in and sniffs me. “And throw on more deodorant.”

Taters slaps me in the ass. “Hurry. We’ll distract her.”

Too fucking flustered to even ask if all four of them greeting her would be weird, I run down the hall to my disheveled room and tear my shirt over my head. I toss it in my hamper in my walk-in closet and quickly grab a black Agitators shirt and toss it on. I hear them open the door and greet her, so I quickly grab my deodorant, swipe it on, then, for the hell of it, swish some mouthwash around, too.

When I spit out the mouthwash, I look up into the mirror and adjust my hair with my shaky hand.

Jesus, man. Calm the fuck down.

The last thing you need to do is stumble over your words and look like a bumbling mess.

I take a few deep breaths and then head out to the living room, making sure to shut my bedroom door behind me. The boys part, and Blakely is there, two large suitcases by her side, looking so fucking good in a black hat with her hair curled over her shoulders. She wears a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved sweater that hangs slightly off her shoulder, revealing some lacy strap hugging her shoulder.

Fuck.

Me.

“Hey, there you are. Posey told me you spilled a smoothie all over your shirt so you had to change.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Unsure of what to do, I stick my hands in my pockets. “Yeah . . . I changed.” I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth from the anxiety ripping through me.

She smiles. “Well, I didn’t think half the team would be here to greet me, so what a surprise.”

“We were having a team meeting,” Taters says. “We like coming to Holmes’s place because it just has that cozy feel to it, don’t you think?”

Blakely looks around and I can see the confusion in her eyes as she takes in the cold concrete walls and floors. But because she’s nice, she says, “Oh yes, very cozy.”

“Well.” Posey claps his hands together. “We should get going. The ice isn’t going to skate on itself. Got to keep our legs warm.”

“Oh right, you have practice.”

“More like treatment today and keeping our legs moving,” Pacey says. He glances at me. “See you at the arena.”

“Yup.” I nod, and one by one, the guys filter out of the apartment. Posey gives me a subtle thumbs-up right before he closes the door, leaving me alone with Blakely.

When silence falls over us, she says, “Well, thanks again for letting me stay here.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

I awkwardly shift, she awkwardly grips her purse and we just . . . stand there, unsure of where to go from here.

Finally, she says, “How about a tour?”

Fuck, that’s right. That would be the next step.

Pull your head out of your ass, Holmes.

“Right, yeah, good idea. So, uh, this is my place.” I gesture to the open space.

There’s a smile in her voice as she replies, “I can see that.”

Yup, she knows this is your place, dumbass.

Be better.

“And, uh, this is the living room. I don’t have cable or anything like that, but I have all the streamers. If you want to watch the hockey games, if you’re into that, I have ESPN+.”

“So I can watch your away games and see if you have any last-minute goals.”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to the console table. “That’s the plant.”

She turns and gasps. “This is Sherman? Well, I can see why you’re so attached. He’s very cute.” She squats down to get a better look. “He looks like a real tree, just shrunk down to be a foot tall. I love it.”

I’ve never been into plants, but sure, Sherman is kind of cool.

Am I attached like Posey? No, but I can see the interest there. The thing is interesting to look at.

“Have you always been into bonsai trees?” She stands up and turns toward me.

“Uhh, not really.”

“Oh, then what got you into them?”

Yeah, Holmes, what got you into bonsai trees?

I scuff my foot against the floor and say, “Read about one in a book. Sounded interesting, so I grabbed one.”

“And you’ve been friends with Sherman ever since. That’s so sweet.”

Yup, not looking like a fucking loser at all.

Friends with a goddamn tree. Thank you, Posey.

I lead her to the kitchen and say, “This is the kitchen. Help yourself to whatever you want. I stocked the pantry and fridge with food. I just guessed what you might like. Please don’t feel shy to eat and drink things. I won’t be around to do it myself.”

“Well, that was sweet.” She opens the fridge. “Ooo, lime La Croix. My favorite.” That puts a little pride in my chest. The lime was my idea. She opens the pantry and smirks. “I can see what you bought and what you already had. The top shelf full of protein bars and powder is obviously what you live off, and the fresh bags of pretzels, crackers, and cookies . . . those are for me.”

I pull on the back of my neck. “I wanted to make sure you had something.”

“Thank you. Trust me, I’ll eat it.”

“Cool.” I move over to the kitchen drawers and pull them open. “Oh, your keys.” Why the fuck are they in the drawer? “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Right. Move on.

“Silverware is here. Utensils in this one.” I lift the whisk. “You can use this, feel free to whisk anything you need.” I notice the tag dangling off the end, and I curse myself for leaving it on there.

Her smile grows even wider. “Oh, I love a brand-new whisk. I’ll get good use out of that. Thanks.”

She’s being sarcastic. I can tell by her expression and tone.

It makes me sweat.

I point rigidly behind her. “And that’s the balcony. I don’t have any furniture out there because I don’t use it much, but I can buy some furniture if you want to go out there.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I can just lie on a blanket and enjoy the balcony like that. No need to buy furniture.”

Fuck that. I’m buying furniture the minute I’m done with the tour.

I should have had it to begin with.

Blakely deserves furniture.

“And down the hallway is your bedroom.” I head that way. “You have your own bathroom, so no need to worry about sharing one with me.”

“Oh great.” I open the door to her bedroom and cringe at the sight of the cumbersome bedding and wrinkled curtains. It’s painfully obvious that I just set this up and did a terrible job at that. “Aw, it’s so nice in here.” She takes a look around.

I run my hand over my jaw nervously. “Sorry about the wrinkles. I didn’t have time to iron everything.”

She turns toward me and, to my surprise, places her hand on my arm. “Don’t even worry about it. It looks great. Thank you.”

“And the nightstands don’t match,” I blurt out. “Sorry.”

She chuckles. “Seriously, Halsey. It’s fine. This is perfect. I really appreciate you offering up your place. I know it must feel like an invasion of your privacy and all that, but I promise you’ll barely notice I’m here. I’ll be sure to watch over Sherman while you’re gone on your away trips.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling defeated and exhausted. No need to head to the freaking arena today. I got my workout through worrying. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks. I’m just going to grab my bags.”

“Oh, I can help you with that.”

“That’s okay, I can do it.”

We both head out of her room toward her bags. “Seriously, I got it.” I grab both of the handles.

“Halsey.” She smiles softly. “You’ve done enough.”

“This is no big deal.” Why am I fighting with her over her bags?

Because I’m sad and pathetic and want her to know that I’m a good guy who would help a girl with her bags.

Despite her protest, I move the bags down the hallway, pushing one and pulling the other, and I set them to the side in her room.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“You’re welcome. Uh, and you have my number so if you need anything, just let me know.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll probably be unpacking and settling in tonight but let me know if you want me to grab dinner or something.”

“Nah, I’m good. Probably will go out with the guys.”

“Oh, have fun.” I nod, and just as I walk away, she says, “Quick question, what’s your policy on me having people over?”

Uhhhh . . .

Like men? Because I know the answer to that, and it’s not positive for her. There is no way in hell I’d be able to sit in my apartment knowing she has a man in her room with her.

“I mean like friends . . . just to clarify,” she says. “I have no intent of having men here, but if I were to have Penny over, would that be okay?”

Thank fuck.

Blakely and a man here? Yeah, I wouldn’t have been able to suffer through that. I’d move out first.

“Oh yeah, that would be fine,” I reply. “Treat my apartment like yours.”

Just don’t bring men home.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Of course.” I glance over my shoulder and thumb toward the door. “Well, I should get to the arena.”

“Okay, have a good treatment.” She cutely waves, then lays down one of her pieces of luggage and unzips it.

That’s my cue to leave . . . and to fucking breathe for a second.