3. Nat
Nat
July - 3 months later
In the minutes since I pulled up outside this two-story house in suburban St. Paul, I’ve taken the time to study the place. I’m looking for anything that gives me inspiration.
I’ve been planning this trip for weeks—months—and I still don’t know how to approach this meeting.
Not that it’s scheduled.
Or a meeting.
I’m ambushing Chase Hawkins.
He disappeared from college and the NHL scout radar without notice. Maybe his departure didn’t go unnoticed, but it certainly didn’t cause any ripples, no comments or rumors. And with the skills the kid has, I don’t understand it.
Especially when the reason behind his withdrawal from school and hockey is a tragic one.
Maybe that’s why everyone has stayed quiet—stayed away—kept his departure from the sports scene off the radar.
Then again, perhaps, like me, they’re all still in shock over what happened.
Four months ago, Chase was preparing, along with his father and teenage sisters, to welcome a new member of their family while they waited for another one to slip away.
In a cruel twist of fate, only weeks after the newest member of the Hawkins family joined the world, Mitch Hawkins was on his way home from the hospital where his wife lay dying of cancer when he was hit head-on by a drunk driver.
The death of Sienna Hawkins had been expected—anticipated in a macabre way. Not Mitch’s.
His untimely death rocked the grieving Hawkins family to the bones.
And left Chase the guardian of his three younger sisters. One only a baby.
I’m not sure how I’m going to convince him to uproot himself and his siblings for a move to Baton Rouge. They’ve experienced so much change in the last few months. So much devastation.
Is the offer we have really good for them?
I’ve been over it again and again. Hashed it out seven ways from Sunday on my own, with the girls, as well as a few other trusted advisors, and as much as I don’t want to cause any of the people living in this house more change, the consensus of all is to make the offer.
Taking a final fortifying breath of cool air, I switch off the rental car and climb out. It’s hot, not as hot as the south, but still warm enough to warrant air conditioning.
My gaze sweeps over the area as I make my way to the sidewalk. The yard is overgrown, the garden beds full of weeds instead of flowers, and there’s a few things hanging out of the mailbox.
The urge to pull the mail from that box and take it inside—sort it out and take care of it to lift one small thing from Chase’s shoulders—sweeps through me.
I clench my fists and keep walking.
If he’s receptive to listening to our offer, if he even considers it, I’ll gladly spend a few extra days in St. Paul helping organize anything he needs help with.
Jerked to a stop, I look down to find my heel stuck in a crack in the pavement. I have to give it a good hard yank to pull it free, and to be safe, I slip the shoe off and examine the heel.
Luckily it doesn’t appear to have any damage, and I slide my foot back in and take a careful step toward the house.
When my other foot wobbles on another crack, I stop and frown at the path beneath my feet, study the front yard with more care.
Even if Chase shuts the door in my face today, I’ll find a local landscaping company—pay them from my own pocket—to come clean things up, mow the lawns, tidy the garden beds, plant some low maintenance flowers.
The backyard too.
The kids need a safe place to play.
Decision made, I head for the house again, but when my foot wobbles on another crack I slow my pace, shake my head, and mutter, “Shouldn’t have worn heels.”
Although my shoes aren’t wedge heels, they’re not stilettos either, and shouldn’t have this much trouble walking along a path, even a cracked and crumbling one.
I might not know how to approach this meeting with Chase but I’m still the general manager of the Baton Rouge Rogues, newest NHL franchise, here to offer him a lucrative contract with the team and as such, this morning, before I left the hotel, I dressed for business.
Power suit skirt—no need for the jacket in this heat—in a deep, almost black blue, a starched white blouse in a thick fabric that isn’t see-through even when wet, and my favorite pair of two-inch Dior heels.
Another glance around the neighborhood has me wondering if jeans and a t-shirt might have been a more appropriate choice. After all, I am meeting with Chase in his home. Without notice.
Too late to second guess my wardrobe choice now, I shake off concerns about my outfit and walk up the steps to the porch.
There’s a stroller to the left of the door, a blanket and a few baby toys in the seat. To the right, a two-person glider that looks worn in and comfortable, and farther along the porch a small table sits between a couple of rocking chairs.
The yard and front path might be an unkept mess, but the house itself isn’t. The paint isn’t peeling, the windows are sparkly clean, and the stairs and porch floor don’t creak when I walk on them.
If you ignore the uncut grass, unweeded garden beds, and crumbling walkway, the house is the picture-perfect suburban family home. And I know the Hawkins family has lived within its walls from the day Mitchell Hawkins married Sienna Durum and moved his new wife in.
A niggle of doubt tugs at my belly.
Accepting our offer would pull the Hawkins children from the only home they’ve ever known.
The conflicting emotions I feel about offering Chase a pivotal spot on the Rogues is something I’ve never dealt with. Once I make a business decision, I stick to it. Forge ahead until I get what I want, how I want it.
The only decision in my life I floundered over and lived to regret was marrying Johnathon Whitman.
Not that I had any other options at the time.
And I am rectifying that mistake now.
Pressing the bell, I step back and wait for someone to answer the door.
The ding-dong of the bell quickly fades away leaving only silence and I wonder if anyone is home.
Chase should be here. The older girls should be in their summer school program like every other weekday, but Chase is usually home with the baby in the mornings.
I’m poised to press the bell again when the faint sound of a baby crying catches my ear. The sobbing gets louder and louder to the accompaniment of thumping feet and the low rumble of a deep voice.
When the door flies open, through the screen I see a barely clothed man bouncing on his toes, a squirming baby held against his bare chest, her butt and head cradled in his big hands, while she wails her displeasure for all to hear.
And for the first time in years, my insides clench—throb.
I suppose this is what women mean when they say their ovaries explode.
The hunk of male perfection in front of me is all man. Nothing kid-like about him.
He’s the hottest thing I’ve seen—possibly in my life—and from one heartbeat to the next my long dormant-believed-dead libido is resurrected.
I’m so shocked by my body’s reactions I can’t speak.
Not even when he pushes the storm door open and moves to the side.
“Thank fu”—his gaze darts to the baby on his shoulder—“fudge, you’re here. Come in. She woke up hangry. Her butt is clean, and her bottle is in the warmer.”
In my flustered state, I don’t question him. Don’t ask what the hell he’s talking about. Just step inside the cool house, and when he hands over the crying baby, I take her, cradle her to me and rock side to side as though I’ve done it a thousand times before.
“The kitchen is that way.” He throws out a muscled arm and my insides do that weird clenchy-swoony thing again. “I’ll be in the office in the basement if you need me, but the call should only last thirty minutes. It’s just a check-in with the store managers.”
The baby on my chest continues to wail, but I can’t take my eyes off the man in front of me, his body now in full view.
My stare has him looking down. “Shit!” Wide eyes bounce back to mine. “Shoot. I meant shoot. I need to get dressed and I’m already running late.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, he turns and heads up the stairs two at a time. When he reaches the top, he looks back with a frown.
“Her bottle should be ready now. I put it in the warmer before I took her upstairs to change her diaper.”
“Oh.” I jolt out of the lust-daze I’m in, disguise it as a rock of the baby, and offer him a smile. “Right. I’ll get her fed and take care of her until your meeting is done. No rush.”
Turning away from the sight of him in nothing but his underwear—and holy hell, that ass!—proves more difficult than I expect, but I do it and head in the direction he indicated.
Except for the neglected front yard, the outside of the house is the picture of perfect suburban family life, and inside is no different. It’s like a movie set. Even with the clothes and toys and general daily bric-a-brac of family life scattered around the place, it’s neat and tidy.
And clean.
When I enter the kitchen, I find a large open space filled with light streaming in through the row of windows facing the backyard. A big island dominates the center of the room.
On one side is the work area—countertop, oven, fridge, sink, dishwasher. On the other, a row of stools is tucked under the counter edge. Behind them the space holds a well-used comfortable looking couch and a plethora of baby equipment and toys on a colorful baby blanket spread out in the middle of the warm colored timber floor.
A glance at the countertop near the fridge finds the bottle warmer easy to locate. When I pull the bottle from the device and turn the baby so she’s cradled in my arms instead of over my shoulder and she sees what I have, the crying stops.
Instantly.
Her rosebud mouth remains open as though she’s about to let out a yell, but her eyes are glued to the bottle in my hand.
“Is this what you want, baby girl?”
I’ve had little experience with babies this small, enough to know how to hold them and to check the temperature of formula before sticking a nipple in a little one’s mouth. It takes a bit of juggling, but I manage to check the warmth of the milk then offer it to the now quiet baby.
Candace.
The baby’s name is Candace.
The older two girls are Cassidy and Crystal.
I need to remember that. Use their names when I think about or speak to them.
And I assume the man upstairs is Chase. In his panic to be ready for a call while getting Candace changed and fed, and finding me on his doorstep, neither of us introduced ourselves.
Moving over to the sofa, I lower myself to the soft-as-it-looks-cushion without jostling Candace.
Although I needn’t have worried. Her little mouth is latched onto the nipple and is not letting go. She’s already sucked down a good amount in the minute or so she’s been drinking, and I hope it fills her belly long enough for Chase to return.
Because I have no idea if this little one is only on formula or if she needs solid food as well. She’s not quite five months and my knowledge of babies doesn’t stretch to when they start eating solid food. Does she have teeth?
No. Drew is seven months and only just teething.
Looking around, I don’t see a highchair and breathe a sigh of relief. If Chase isn’t back, I don’t want to have to search out anything that might tell me what to do once she finishes her bottle.
With Candace content for the moment, I let my gaze roam the room and take note of all the pictures on the walls. Family photos from years gone by right up to the newest one, a group shot of the whole family, probably taken within hours of Candace being born.
My stomach clenches.
Taking this family from their home is going to be difficult.
Despite the circumstances, I believe Chase deserves a chance to play in the NHL. And if anyone can give him a chance to shine on the ice, it’s the Rogues.
We’re built for families. It’s part of our mission statement. To support every player and employee of the Rogues organization in and out of their job.
We built Rogue sportswear the same way and the two companies are closely entwined, especially now we’ve constructed our newest sportswear manufacturing plant in Baton Rouge.
The hollow sound of air being sucked from a container snaps me out of my thoughts and focuses my attention back on Candace.
“Wow. No wonder you were screaming your lungs out. You were starving.”
Removing the bottle from her mouth, I tuck it between my knees then lift her to my shoulder. I might not have had much to do with babies this small, but I know you’re supposed to burp them after they finish a bottle.
I get a good loud, body-jolting burb followed by two smaller ones and I pull her away from my chest, a smile on my face, but I almost drop her when from behind me a booming voice yells, “Fuck!”