Chapter 9 #2
The last time I felt this way was when I accidentally broke one of Allie’s favorite paintings. Grayson tried to assure me it was fine but I was so nervous to tell her I ended up puking all over her shoes instead.
And telling my team I have a daughter is making my stomach roll.
Irving also won’t shut the fuck up, which doesn’t help matters.
“I swear to God, she said she was from Switzerland. A Swiss! Do you know how attractive Swiss women are?”
“Yes, because you’ve been yapping about her all fucking morning, but I’m sure that won’t stop you,” Johnson grumbles from the other end of the locker room.
Irving fists his hands on his hips. “You’re just a grumpy old bastard.”
“And you’re a young pesky fly that won’t stop fucking bothering everyone.”
“No one’s bothered by me.” Irving looks around the locker room, waiting for someone to back him up, but when it remains quiet, he deflates. “What the hell, guys? I’m not annoying!”
Mitchel strides into the locker room, dropping his duffel on the floor. He takes one look at Irving and sighs. “Jesus Christ, Johnson, don’t make the poor kid fucking cry again.”
Irving’s eyes bug out of his head. “He only made me cry once!”
Johnson looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “Fucking hell, Irving, just stop your jabbering about your Swiss woman and we’ll be okay.”
Mitchel’s brows rise. “You banged a Swiss?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t fucking believe the story I have to tell you.”
At that, the entire locker room groans.
Usually I wouldn’t mind Irving’s stories—they’re legendary and funny as fuck—however he’s told it every time a player walked through the locker room doors. I’ve heard it eleven times already.
Johnson growls under his breath, rushing for Irving and crowding his space as he hisses, “If you tell that goddamn story one more time, I’m going to buy Swiss cheese and shove it so far down your throat you’ll never speak again. Got it?”
Irving gives him a small smile before patting him on the head like a dog. “Seems like someone forgot to pull the stick out of their ass this morning.”
“No one wants to hear about the Swiss woman!”
“I do,” Mitchel declares with a wave of his hand, dooming us all.
“All right, who’s ruining Swiss women for Johnson?” Ellington asks as he rounds the corner.
Johnson points incredulously at Irving. “That fucker! He’s ruining dating Swiss women for me!”
Ellington tsks. “That should be a crime, Irving.”
“Not my fault the old man has no sense of humor.”
“I have humor,” Johnson grumbles.
“Yeah, the grade-A dick kind,” Irving jabs back.
A leg kicks me in the shin. Frowning, I snap my head up to Grayson. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he whisper-hisses.
“Did I get dragged here just to watch Johnson and Irving have a domestic?” Matteo Valenti drawls as he strides into the room, his hands in the pockets of his pants.
With my eyes still locked on Grayson’s, I have the perfect view of him raising his brows at me.
Before I can chicken out, I jump to my feet, the sudden movement making heads whip my way. My chest freezes and my lungs don’t know how to expel air, let alone draw in a breath.
Grayson’s hand claps down on my shoulder, the touch rough enough to jostle my lungs into working once more.
“Fuck me, why does Kieran look like he’s two seconds away from shitting himself?” Lewis asks.
Johnson eyes me warily. “You’re not dying, are you?”
Grayson smacks his forehead. “You lot have no decorum.”
“Why would we bring house décor to the locker room?” Irving asks innocently.
The men groan.
“That’s decoration, you dumb shit,” Johnson snaps.
“I’m not dumb, you old hag!”
Grayson’s sigh is long, his eyes tightly squeezed shut. He pauses, like he’s counting to ten. “Irving,” he says calmly. “Decorum means appropriate behavior, like social etiquette, manners—”
“Everything you don’t have.”
“Shut it, Johnson.”
The man lifts his hands in surrender, instantly backing down. Grayson is the only one he seems to listen to.
“My bad, Cap,” Irving says quietly, his cheeks tinted pink.
“All good, just give Kieran a moment to say what he needs to say. It’s why we’re here early, remember?”
Irving mimics zipping his lips and throwing the key away, while Johnson claps his hands together like he’s thanking the heavens.
If I didn’t feel like I was about to projectile vomit all over these fuckers, I’d be laughing my ass off.
“Is everything okay?” Matteo asks.
“Spit it out. You’re starting to scare Irving,” Ellington declares, pointing at Irving who seriously does look pale and green.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“I have a daughter.”
The words fly out of me like a gunshot, cracking through the room.
Everyone falls deadly quiet, and I’m not the only one who holds their breath.
Until the room explodes with activity, my team throwing questions at me so fast I’m suddenly swept into chaos, standing in the eye of the storm.
“How do you have a kid?’
“Are you sure she’s yours?”
“What the fuck happened to wrapping up?”
“How old is she?”
“Who’s the mother?”
“Is she a puck bunny?”
“What’s her name?”
“Are you keeping her?”
“Who the fuck asked that last question?” At my bark of pure rage, the locker room falls silent.
Grayson shakes his head. “Boys, I suggest you handle this topic with sensitivity and fucking care. Don’t be heartless. Let the man speak and stop bombarding him.”
“Sorry, Cap,” everyone mutters in unison.
I try to brush the comment aside but I can’t. “Of course I’m fucking keeping her. She’s my family, and I’d be shocked if one of you ever turned your back on family. That’s not what we do at IceHawks.” Running a hand through my hair, I blow out a breath and explain…everything.
How I found out about Emmy, what I know of her mom, her upbringing, her mutism, and how I’ll need help, support, and love from those around me moving forward.
And once I’m done, I see that it’s gotten through to them, that they know how much I care for Emmy, that’s she’s mine in every sense of the word.
She is my daughter.
To my surprise, it’s Irving who’s the first to stand. “We’ve got your back, Ashford.”
Johnson nods, too. “All the way.”
“Whatever you need,” Valenti adds.
Ellington stands and walks over, pulling me in for a hug. “Congratulations, Ashford.”
Mitchel jumps up, pulling Lewis with him as he cheers, “Ashford is a fucking dad!”
“Let’s fucking go, Daddy Ashford!”
“I want to meet her.”
“When’s her birthday? Is it too soon to buy her a present?”
“Is she coming to a game?”
Over the flurry of questions, I spot Grayson behind the group of guys with a bright smile stretching his lips. He mouths, I told you.
Yes, yes he did.