Cross-Checked (Boston Rebels #3)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

AJ

I don’t know what I expected when Charlie texted me to say, “I need you in the locker room,” but it wasn’t twenty grown men singing nursery rhymes at the top of their lungs.

Pausing for a moment outside the door, I let out the giggles that are rising up at the horribly off-key rendition of “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” There’s no way I’m walking in there with a smile on my face—not when the team is supposed to be on the ice for warmups, but is instead...I don’t even know? Reverting to childhood revelry?

When I push open that door, I’m greeted by the uniformed backs of my players, who are standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle. They’re lightly bouncing up and down on their skates, and they’re all doing the hand gestures as they sing “...down came the rain and washed the spider out!”

I push between two of the players, and my presence inside the circle has a hush gradually falling over the team. The last man singing is Colt, who looks like a giant standing at least six and a half feet tall with his skates on. He’s got one arm across his stomach with a baby girl sitting on his forearm facing out, and he’s holding her back against his chest with his opposite hand.

The minute the singing stops, she bursts into tears.

“Ahhh, come on, AJ,” Luke Hartmann says, “we just got her to stop crying.”

I want to laugh at the ridiculous scene in front of me. When Charlie texted me, I figured something must be wrong. I never expected that the boys were too busy babysitting to take the ice. So I keep my voice slow and deliberate when I ask, “Why is there a baby in the locker room?”

The far side of the circle parts, and Ronan McCabe sits at his locker stall, bent over and lacing up his skates. His head snaps up, and he uses one hand to brush back the tendrils of dark hair that have fallen across his forehead.

When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look anything like the angry, annoyed man I normally see. He looks more like the college kid I drafted back in St. Louis—the kid with bright green eyes and a cocky smirk, who walked onto his D1 hockey team and ended up getting drafted to the pros his junior year—than the pro-hockey player who’s spent the past eight years hating me.

He looks . . . lost.

As he bites his lower lip, I can’t take my eyes off him, and I can’t stop wishing he hadn’t just done that. I don’t want to notice that full lip or the row of perfectly straight teeth sinking into it. I don’t want to notice the way his eyes heat when he looks at me, or the way they sweep from my face down my body and back up again so quickly I’m not sure it actually happened. Because Ronan McCabe hasn’t looked at me with this lost puppy dog look in a very long time, and the last time he did, it ruined my marriage and almost ruined his career.

Silence stretches on for a few seconds too long as we stand there staring at each other.

Then his adorable daughter lets out a real wail, and he stands quickly, rushing over to her. As he holds her tenderly, snuggling her against his chest and shushing her as he bounces lightly on his skates, I wish I wasn’t seeing this side of him either.

Because the hard, resentful man who’s played for me the past six years is easy to boss around and easy to dismiss. But seeing this human side of him that reminds me of who he used to be? This isn’t going to be good for either of us.

“Again,” I say once the baby has settled down. “Can someone explain why there’s a baby in the locker room? And why you’re all in here when you’re supposed to be on the ice for warmups?”

Charlie clears his throat, but when I look at him, he’s watching McCabe standing there, bouncing his baby in his arms.

As my eyes track over to our captain, he says, “My nanny didn’t show up tonight.”

The other guys stay silent, watching this stare down between us.

“After making you late for our flight in the last series, and now not showing up, she’s sounding more and more like someone who shouldn’t be responsible for a baby.”

“Which is why she isn’t my nanny anymore.”

“So, what is the plan for your daughter during this game?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest..

He clears his throat and shrugs. “I haven’t gotten that far. But I couldn’t exactly leave her home alone.”

“Obviously,” I say, unable to resist rolling my eyes. “Alright, give her here, and get your asses out on the ice.”

“What?” His head rears back in shock, like I’m the last person he’d leave his baby with.

“I’ll take care of her,” I assure him.

“I’m not expecting you to watch her while I play.”

“Well, someone has to,” I say, looking around. “And every other person in this room needs to be on that bench tonight. So unless you don’t want to play, hand her over.”

He eyes me dubiously.

“Alright,” Charlie says loudly. “Everyone else on the ice while McCabe and AJ work this out.”

“You good?” Drew asks McCabe from beside him, which makes me wonder if he’s afraid to leave the two of us alone in a room together. That thought has a laugh slipping out—because if they only knew—and twenty-three sets of eyes settle on me.

A flush creeps up my neck. “You all are acting like I can’t possibly take care of a baby for the next few hours.”

“Nooo,” McCabe says slowly. “We’re acting like it’s not your job to take care of a baby, especially during a game.”

“My job,” I say, a hard edge to my voice as I lock my gaze back on him, “is to make sure my players are on the ice and ready to play. And if taking care of your baby in an emergency situation is what I need to do for you to go out there and win, it’s what I’m going to do.”

“On the ice, boys,” Charlie snaps, as McCabe and I remain squared off like we’re ready to fight. And as everyone around us filters out of the room, we stay six feet apart, locked in a battle of the wills.

“I don’t want to be that guy,” McCabe says quietly before pressing his lips to his daughter’s head while bouncing her in his arms.

“What guy is that?”

“The one who asks his GM, the only female in the room, to watch his kid.”

Well, that’s unexpectedly thoughtful.

“You’re not asking, I’m insisting. And while I appreciate your attention to gender roles, in this situation, it doesn’t matter. I need you out there on the ice tonight. I need you to play. And if being responsible for her so you can do your job is what’s needed, that’s what I’m going to do. It’s what any GM should do in this situation—male or female.”

“You know that no one else in your position would do this, right?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Maybe not,” I admit. But I’m not about to let my pride—the fact that I’m in charge of an entire hockey organization, and not a damn babysitter—get in the way of my team winning tonight. “But we need this win, which means I need you out there.”

“Can’t win without me, huh?” He’s teasing, but I hear what he’s saying—I need to sign him to a new contract. But for that to happen, he needs to compromise. Which is a conversation for another time.

“I’d rather not find out tonight. So get out on the ice.”

“She can be really fussy with new people,” he warns and, as if she understands him, her face scrunches up and she lets out a cry. She looks pissed off, and I can’t blame her. If I’d been passed around a circle of hockey players singing off-key, I’d be pissed too.

“We’ll be fine,” I assure him.

“She’s teething.”

“Most babies do.”

“It’s almost her bedtime.”

“She can sleep on me.”

“Are you really sure you want to do this?” he asks with a subtle shake of his head. “The optics...”

“I don’t give a shit about the optics, Ronan!” I say, and his look of surprise as I use his first name—something I haven’t done in the entire time I’ve been in Boston—stops me for a moment. “What matters tonight, is winning. After that, we can focus on finding you a new nanny.”

His eyebrows dip and he looks at me suspiciously. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” I ask on an exasperated breath. He’s acting like I’m offering him my kidney, instead of offering to help him out with this baby for a few hours. I can’t go out there and play for him, so I’ll do everything else that’s within my power to ensure a win.

“Helping me?”

“What part of we need to win tonight isn’t resonating?” This man is infuriating. It’s like he needs to question everything I say and turn every conversation into a fight, and I’m already tired of saying the same thing over and over.

He sighs so deeply it seems to physically deflate him, and then he places his baby into my outstretched arms. “Don’t make me stop hating you now.” His words are practically whispered as he watches me take his baby and turn her so she’s facing me.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply flippantly as I hold his little cuddle bug against my chest. She settles immediately, no trace of the fussy baby who was being passed around the circle minutes ago. I run my fingertips up and down her back, and her head grows heavy on my breasts. “Does she have a name?”

I already know her name, of course. I take my job as GM seriously, and make sure I know my players’ families. Too bad I never thought to memorize their home addresses. It could have saved me from buying a place across the hall from McCabe.

“Abby.”

“Hey, Abby,” I coo down at her, and her eyes flutter closed, long eyelashes resting against her chubby cheeks. I glance back up to find him watching us closely. “Do you have one of those baby carriers so I can strap her onto me?”

He presses his lips together and turns, walking over to a stroller I didn’t even notice off in the corner near the door to the athletic trainers’ room. Bending down, he pulls some sort of canvas backpack-looking thing from the storage space beneath the seat.

“Help me get her strapped into this,” I tell him, “and then I need you out there warming up.”

His eyes close briefly—a long blink that someone else might not even notice, but it says a lot to me about how hard it is for him to accept this help.

Standing in front of me, he lines the baby holder up against Abby’s back and then asks me to hold it in place before moving to stand behind me. Reaching around my hips, I can sense how tense he is, how careful he’s being not to touch me. But when he slips the padded straps under Abby’s legs, his forearms graze my hip bones before he brings the straps up around my waist, lifting my blazer as he clips them together behind me. There’s no way for him to avoid touching me as he tightens the waist strap.

“You just need to slip your arms through these shoulder straps,” he says.

“My jacket will get bunched up and uncomfortable like this,” I say as I hold one arm out. “Can you pull this sleeve so I can get my arm out?”

He holds the end of my sleeve with two fingers, like he’s touching trash—really, I just know he’s avoiding touching me . And I pull my arm out, then slip it through the shoulder strap, before pushing it back into the sleeve of my blazer. After repeating the motion on the other side, Abby’s secured to me and already half asleep.

“Such a fussy baby,” I say, rubbing Abby’s back through the soft carrier. His head snaps toward me, but his face relaxes when he realizes I’m teasing, and then his entire expression softens when he sees how comfortable Abby is with me.

I’m not sure why, but babies love me. It’s a cruel trick of nature, I guess, to give a woman who can’t have kids the ability to calm any baby she comes into contact with. The unfairness of it all used to get to me, but now I just embrace this gift and snuggle everyone else’s children any opportunity I have.

“I’m not sure why, but she seems to like you,” he says.

A laugh bursts out of me and startles Abby, her arms and legs flying out quickly. But I wrap my arms around her, shushing her and saying, “Don’t let your dad’s grouchiness get to you, babe. We’ve got this.” Then I level him with a look, and using my bossiest voice, I say, “Can you please go do your job now?”

“Are you sure you’re okay with her?”

“I’m positive.”

“You’ll come get me if you’re not?”

“I won’t be coming to get you, because we’ll be fine. Now go out there and play, and don’t think about us again until the game is over.”

“Where are you sitting?” he asks.

“I’ll be in the owners’ box with the Hartmanns,” I tell him. “And I’ll probably stop by and see the Flynns, too.”

“Behind the bench, right?” he asks, as if everyone on the team hasn’t given Drew endless shit this season about the way he can’t take his eyes off Audrey every single time he comes off the ice.

“Right. But for real, you don’t need to check on us. We’ll be fine. Now go do your job.”

“Okay. There’s a diaper bag in the bottom of the stroller with extra diapers, wipes, and a changing pad, and there’s a bottle of water and formula in there too if she needs it.”

It’s obvious how uncomfortable he is leaving Abby with me. But he brushes his fingertips across her head before turning to pick up his gloves, and then walks out the door just the same.