Chapter 30
Thirty
Rhodes
“Look!” Chloe calls as I’m walking through the kitchen, tying my tie.
I glance down at her automatically.
And my stomach drops.
It’s not scribbles this time. She’s getting better at drawing, at writing, and it’s easy to identify the five of us.
Chloe.
Me.
Finn.
Olive and Pear.
All stick-figure style, of course, but unmistakable.
I’m the tall one holding a hockey stick.
Chloe is in all pink wearing a bow bigger than her head.
Finn has curly blond hair with dark roots and what I think is supposed to be a blanket in her hands.
The kittens are sporting huge whiskers and blankets of their own.
I grin. “This is really good, peanut. Should we put it on the fridge?”
“Yeah!”
She runs over to her stool, I go and grab the tape, and a few seconds later we’re finding room to put it up on the fridge.
It’s covered in a plethora of drawings and photos and projects from school, the colorful squares intermixed in chaotic joy.
They’re not squares of fabric, but it’s still a patchwork of our life.
I smile, pass her the tape to put back, then start to turn away.
But then I realize what Chloe’s written at the top of the drawing in huge uneven letters.
MY FAMLY
My lungs seize.
“You like it, Daddy?”
I swallow hard, force out, “Yeah, baby. It’s great.”
She beams and runs off to do who knows what, leaving me standing there feeling like I’m going to puke.
My family.
Fuck.
Those two words, and it all rushes in, surrounding me, choking me. Making me realize how big a mistake I’ve made.
I said it was a good thing, thought it was a good thing—what Finn means to Chloe, how much Chloe means to Finn right back.
But…Finn is leaving.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week.
But soon enough, her decade-long dream she’s been working so damned hard to achieve planned and booked and—
Chloe is already attached.
Too attached.
And…so am I.
How am I supposed to explain it to Chloe if Finn doesn’t come back?
How is Finn going to remain mine if she’s halfway around the world?
How will I deal with that empty space beside me in bed, the quiet kitchen, the demon kittens if she’s not here?
How the fuck am I supposed to exist in this house while enduring the grief of losing her?
But how can I possibly dream of asking her to give up all she’s worked for…
To stay?
“Fuck,” I growl, shoving the asshole off me. He falls backwards and I scoop up the puck, start carrying it down the ice.
I do it with my head up, looking for openings, looking for a pass, but the Sierra have clogged the center and I’m forced to dump it into our offensive zone, and hope my teammates can chase it down.
I turn, intending to get the fuck off the ice.
It certainly hasn’t been a record-breaking game for me. I’ve barely done anything. The best I can say is that I haven’t done anything to cost the team.
Until I finish that thought, that is.
I’ve kept my head up, but I haven’t looked behind me, and when I turn toward the bench, I’m only paying a half of beat of attention to my positioning.
Which means I trip the asshole coming up behind me.
Worse, that asshole is Lake Jordan.
And he always gets the fucking calls—especially the ones where he’s blatantly tripped right in front of the fucking ref.
Who throws his arm up.
“Fuck,” I groan as my teammates touch the puck and the play is blown dead.
Lake pushes himself up from the ice and winks at me. “Thanks.”
I glare at him then skate to the box, sitting down to take my two-minute timeout.
Which unfortunately only lasts thirty-two seconds before Lake taps a goal home.
“Fuck,” I hiss as I take the skate of shame to the bench.
“Shake it off, Calder,” Coach says, patting me on the shoulder before she goes to discuss something with another player.
I do my best to follow that edict.
But, fuck, it’s hard.
My mind is not in the game. It’s back at home, in the kitchen, staring at Chloe’s drawing, and freaking the fuck out that I’ve made a giant mistake that is going to cost us all.
I jump out for my shifts. I skate and shoot and pass…
Miss a clean chance to tie it up in the third.
Nearly get another penalty the shift after that.
And then spend the rest of the game sitting on the bench, watching my teammates even the score…and then pull ahead with thirty seconds left before the final buzzer.
When we’re all done with press—and thank fuck no one wants to talk to my sorry ass—King sinks down next to me, towel around his waist, hair damp from the shower. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
He snorts. “At least try to sound convincing.”
“I’m fine,” I mutter and start stripping down.
I need to shower.
Need to get home.
Need to think.
Except the only thing that keeps running through my head is that my daughter drew a picture of our family—a family that may not exist in a few months.
And she’s going to get hurt.
I’m going to get hurt.
“Hey, Rhodes?” King calls quietly when I tuck a towel around my waist and turn for the showers.
“Yeah?” I ask, bracing for some annoying comment and promising myself I will not throttle him.
“There’s going to come a time when the fear drowns out your heart.”
I freeze as his eyes bore into me, seeing far too much.
“Try to realize that’s what’s happening before it’s too late.”