Chapter Six
TREY
The locker room chatters around me with the sound of players prepping to get back out on the ice after the second period.
It's been a hard-fought game so far, but we're not even close to the end.
I adjust my hearing aid, filtering through the erratic sounds of hockey game chaos: skates being sharpened, tape ripping, and the endless shit-talking that comes with playing any competitive group sport.
"Hart, how's the nanny search going?" Hunter asks, sitting on the bench to my right, strapping back on his shin guards. "It's got to be hard for her to lose Charlotte. It seemed like they were getting along."
What's hard is having another person leave Adeline's life so abruptly. I'm used to loss, but she shouldn't be. Not at her age.
"She's handling it," I say, unable to hide the frustration in my voice.
I hate how fast Adeline is having to grow up. I hate how many disappointments and losses she's been facing over the last year.
"She's a tough kid." Wolf chimes in from his stall. "She'll bounce back through it."
I blow out a breath. "Yeah, but she's only nine. I don't like how mature she's being about it. I expected tears, or for her to throw something…but she didn't even give a bad attitude over it at all." It concerns me.
"Have you been looking around for a fill-in? Our next away game is coming up," JP Dumont asks.
"Yeah, I know. I have to figure out something fast. All the agencies I've called don't have anyone.
No one wants to cover away games or evenings with the home games," I say.
"Isla and her mother-in-law have been great this last week, filling in where they can, but I can't put that kind of pressure on them forever. "
Even when Charlotte was Adeline's nanny, Isla and Kaenan's mom would jump in where they could if I needed a night covered for team events that Charlotte couldn't cover. Adeline jumps at any chance she can to spend more time with Berkeley.
"Speaking of help," Luca Popovich, our alternate right winger says, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "I heard at Berkeley's party last week that Newport Staffing is between CEOs right now. Maybe you could work something out with Vivi."
It’s been a week since I saw Vivi at Berkeley’s birthday party, two weeks since I dropped Vivi off at Isla’s in a rain-logged wedding dress.
"Shut up, Popeye," I warn.
But apparently Wolf doesn't get the memo. "Come on, Hart. We all saw how you looked at her at Berkeley's party."
"I didn't look at her in any way."
"Bullshit." Hunter snorts. "You were watching her like a sniper on target."
They're not wrong. I'd tracked her movements all afternoon, cataloging every smile, every laugh.
The way she'd helped Berkeley open presents, with Oliver perched in her lap, completely aware that every moment with her niece and nephew are precious.
How she'd snuck extra cake to the kids when Isla wasn't looking.
"Besides," Hunter adds, "word is Holiday's living it up in Greece with the wedding planner. Talk about Vivi dodging a bullet."
"How the hell do you know that?" I ask. I was at the same party and didn't hear anything about it.
JP chuckles as he walks by me, suited up and ready to go. "He overheard it from Peyton. The girls are just as bad as the Hawkeyes locker room. No one can keep a secret around here."
My jaw clenches. The image of Vivi in that wedding dress, rain-soaked and desperate, flashes through my mind. The way she'd trusted me without hesitation, climbing into my car like I was her salvation instead of the random asshole who just so happened to be there.
"Whatever's going on with Jameson, she's got enough on her plate, and she's overqualified for a nanny position. I wouldn't insult her by asking."
Coach Haynes saves me from further interrogation, striding in with his game face on. "All right, boys. Circle up."
We gather around, the familiar pre-game energy vibrating through the room. Coach's eyes scan each of us, landing on me last.
"Florida is playing physical tonight. They've got something to prove after we embarrassed them last year." He turns to me. "Hart, I want you on their top line. Shut down Erikson before he gets comfortable."
I nod. Erikson's their star forward, known for fancy stick work and a nasty right hook. Nothing I can't handle.
He discusses a few more changeups for some of the players, and then the room erupts in movement, players grabbing sticks and heading for the tunnel.
I cut to the end of the line, adjusting my hearing aid one last time to lower the sound.
The device helps with the damage from the Helicopter accident, but game nights are still a sensory nightmare.
The whistle blows, and everything else fades away. Time to remind anyone in the world who doubts me why Everett Kauffman signed me to the team as a walk-on with a lot to prove.
The crowd roars as we take the ice. The third period starts with Florida up by one. My legs burn from chasing Erikson around the ice, but I've kept him scoreless so far.
Erikson lines up for the face-off, smirking. "Getting slow, old man."
I ignore him, focusing on the ref's hand.
The puck drops, and I win it clean, sending it back to Slade Matthews, our center and captain.
We've played together long enough that he knows exactly where I'll be—cutting across center ice, drawing Erikson with me while Aleksi M?kelin streaks up the boards.
The play develops exactly as planned until Florida's defenseman catches Aleksi with an elbow. The whistle blows, and suddenly I'm skating full force towards two hundred pounds of angry Floridian.
"That was clean." The defenseman shouts, shoving Hunter who's already in his face for hitting Aleksi.
Before I can intervene, gloves are dropping. I grab Hunter's jersey to pull him back while Wolf clocks another opposing player who's chirping in his ear. Last thing we need is our top defenders in the box.
"Save it for the scoreboard," I growl in Hunter's ear as Slade gets between Wolf and the other player.
The refs separate everyone. The player who hit Aleksi heads to the penalty box, and play resumes. But something's shifted. The hits get harder, the chirping nastier. With five minutes left, Erikson catches me with a late check that sends me into the boards. My bad shoulder screams in protest.
I push through it, like I always do. The pain's nothing compared to what I've survived. But when Erikson gets the puck in the neutral zone with seconds left, my body betrays me. That split-second delay is all he needs.
The red light flashes. Florida's bench erupts. 4-2 with one second left.
Game over.
The locker room is quiet afterward, everyone lost in their own thoughts. Coach Haynes' critique is brief but pointed.
"Hart." He catches me as I'm heading out. "Kendall's room. Get that shoulder looked at."
I want to argue, but the throbbing speaks for itself. Dr. Hensen wraps it, lectures me about playing through pain, then she clears me to leave. By then, most of the guys have already headed to —our usual post-game spot whether we win or lose.
I text Adeline's temporary sitter—Isla's mother-in-law—to check in. Everything's fine. She's already asleep. I should go straight home, ice my shoulder, and try to figure out this nanny situation.
Instead, I find myself pulling into Oakley's parking lot. One drink won't hurt. And there aren't any nanny services I can call late at night. Though I've already tried most of the reputable ones.
I push through the door at Oakley's. The place is packed with the usual post-game crowd—players, fans, and locals all mingling together, the bar music just loud enough to work as background noise without being overwhelming, the smell of beer and freshly showered hockey players mixed with long forgotten peanut shells fills the space.
Wolf and Olsen are setting up at one of the pool tables, Hunter and JP are at the bar with their girlfriends, Cammy and Peyton, and the rest of the guys are scattered around.
What I don't expect to see is Vivi Newport perched at a high-top table with Isla and Kaenan, laughing at something Aleksi just said.
My feet stop moving. She's wearing tight dark jeans that stretch across her perfect curves, and a puffy jacket with a fur-lined hood, her dark hair falling in waves down over her shoulder. The sight of her instantly soothes the ache in my body. How the hell does she do that?
She glances over her shoulder, and those honey-colored eyes lock onto mine. My pulse kicks up like I'm eighteen again, not a thirty-four-year-old ex-soldier with more baggage than the luggage terminal at LAX.
"Rough game?" she asks as I approach, concern flickering across her features.
"You were watching?" I ask.
She nods, and I swear her cheeks flush slightly. "Isla and I caught the third period after we got the kids settled at her mother-in-law’s. That last hit looked nasty."
"I've had worse," I say, though my shoulder throbs in protest as I shrug off my jacket.
Her eyes track the movement, lingering on my arms where my T-shirt stretches across my biceps. When she bites her lower lip, heat floods my system and my cock twitches. Christ, this woman has an effect on me that no one has ever had before.
When Isla steals her attention away, I adjust myself under the table.
"At least let me buy you a drink," she offers. "To make up for that cheap shot Erikson took."
"I can't let you do that."
She arches an eyebrow. "Why not?"
Because every time you look at me like that, I forget all the reasons I should stay away from you.
Because I have no idea if you still belong to someone else.
Because I'm barely holding my life together as it is, with no extra room to take on something this complicated.
Even if I wanted to, I can't give you the life you were raised with—a life you deserve.