Chapter 15
fifteen
. . .
Al
I scored a fucking hat trick. I haven’t managed three goals in a game in the last year and a half. And today, with my kid and my wife in the stands, I was able to score three times. If this is what having my family in attendance will do for me, I need them to show up to every game from now on.
Early-2000s emo music rocks the dressing room as we cool down, shower, and change.
The guys are rowdy, pumped up after our win, laughing and joking.
I much prefer when the room is like this than the somber air after a loss.
Lewis and Henry are dancing like they’re in a two-person mosh pit, and Easton is scream-singing to Simple Plan.
I’m buoyant like Elphaba, like nothing can drag me down.
“Gonzo, MacGregor, Logan!” Coach calls before I can whip off my shirt. “Media!”
Okay, that might do it.
I salute him before following my teammates to the room where the team holds post-game press conferences. Some reporters will be let into the dressing room for a sound bite, but the formal question-and-answer session is for the full press pool.
I don’t particularly enjoy talking to reporters, but I can hold my own… mostly. My agent put me through media training when I first got into the league, and after a few years of doing this, I’ve got it handled, more or less.
“Gonzo, tell us about your game,” asks the hockey writer for the Boston Union. “What was different about tonight?”
“Having my family in the stands, cheering me on,” I say honestly. “Seeing them during pregame warm-ups lit a fire under my skates. I think I was showing off a little for them.”
Forcing a laugh, I’m gratified when I get a few chuckles in return.
“Sounds like your family will need to be at every game from now on,” he says.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I scratch at my beard with my left hand.
A shout goes through the room. One of the indie blog writers stands up.
“Gonzo, is that a wedding ring?”
I glance at my hand in confusion. “Yes?”
“When did you get married? Who is she?”
Thankfully, my agent prepared a script for me. “My wife enjoys her privacy, and I won’t be going into details of our relationship. We were married at the start of the season, and I am incredibly lucky to wake up each day knowing I get to spend the rest of my life with her.”
At least for the rest of the next year or two, until Emmy is officially mine and enough time has passed that nobody can comment on our quick divorce.
He opens his mouth, but another reporter beats him to the punch, asking Logan about his diving save in the second and subsequent absence for most of the third period.
Coach catches my eye, and he nods, pleased. A warm glow settles over me at his approval. We survived round one of the inquisition. Now, it’s only a matter of how many more.
As the press conference wraps up, we’re dismissed back to the dressing room. I waste no time in stripping down and hopping into the shower. By the time I’m dressed in my suit and out the door to the friends and family suite, I’m late—very late.
The suite is starting to empty as guys retrieve their families. I catch sight of Larsson with Leo and Vanessa, and Easton is giving his kid a piggyback ride.
Riley has her back to me, and I stop in my tracks. She’s wearing my name and number. Holy fuck is that hot. Hopped up on adrenaline from the game, my cock twitches, and I inhale sharply at the endorphins careening through my system.
I cannot act on this attraction to my wife. No. It’s not going to happen.
She turns, and I catch sight of Emmy in her arms. My little princess is crying, soft, snuffling sobs that tug at my heart.
Crossing the room, I set my hand on Riley’s back, and she jumps.
“Hey,” she says, swaying with the baby. “Good game.”
“Thanks.” I duck down, kissing her cheek, and her skin heats beneath my lips. “How was the view up here?”
“Eh.”
I stare at her. “Eh?”
Riley’s cool facade cracks and she bursts into giggles. Instantly, I’m warmed from the inside out, her happiness radiating through the room.
“It was really cool. Now I see what all the fuss is about.”
Emmy hiccups, catching my attention, and I reach for my daughter. “Is she still fussy?”
“A little. She doesn’t like that I won’t let her take off her shoes.”
With a chuckle, I kiss Emmy’s forehead. “I’m sorry, my princess. Your mommy only wants to protect you.”
Heat radiates off her forehead where we’re connected, and I frown, pulling away to check out her flushed skin. At first, I chalked it up to her crying fit, but she’s calm now and still pink in the cheeks. She slept through the night, the first time since her last tooth broke through.
“What’s wrong?” Riley asks, setting her hand on my forearm. Warmth spreads through me at the innocent contact.
“Does her skin feel warm to you?”
“A little. And she’s been grumpy…” She runs a finger over the baby’s cheek, and when Emmy doesn’t even smile, I know something’s wrong.
“We need a doctor. Is her pediatrician open today?”
It’s a Friday, but it’s also a holiday. I don’t even know the doctor’s name off the top of my head; her number is saved in my phone contacts.
Riley knows, though. She took her to a well-baby appointment while I was on a road trip two weeks ago.
I wanted to be there, but it’s not like I can change the league schedule, and this doctor is in high demand. I only want the best for my girl.
Riley shakes her head. “We can go to urgent care. The pediatrician recommended one for situations like this.”
“Okay. Perfect.”
Without realizing what I’m doing, I duck down and kiss her. It’s just a quick brush of lips, completely innocent.
But when I hear her sharp intake of breath, I know I’ve messed up.
Fuck.
“Sorry,” I mutter, shifting Emmy in my arms. “Let’s get out of here.”
Heat floods her cheeks and she steps away. I’m kicking myself for ruining this when she comes back with the stroller and diaper bag. Once Emmy is settled, I sling the pink quilted bag over my shoulder and take over pushing the stroller.
A few staff members give us weird looks as we navigate through the arena, but I don’t pay them any mind. The only thing I can think of is ruining the fragile friendship Riley and I have.
And tomorrow night we have the gala… I shake my head. Coach will understand if I don’t show. Emmy comes first. She has to.
The pediatric urgent care is only a few blocks from the house. I’ve never noticed the building before. Not that I would’ve had a reason to. Until now. We rush inside, Emmy sniffling and crying, and I go straight to the front desk. A harried-looking nurse glances up from her computer with a frown.
“Something is wrong with my baby.” I shift Emmy in my arms, until she’s peeking over my shoulder, but even her favorite position doesn’t soothe her.
The nurse’s eyes widen. “Did they fall or hit their head?”
“No. She’s warm and grumpy and I—something is wrong.”
Riley sets her hand on my arm, and instantly, some of my panic recedes. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“She’s seven months, her last shots were two weeks ago, and she’s generally pretty happy. No colic or reflux. This has been going on for less than twelve hours.”
The nurse nods. “Fill this out, and someone will be right with you.” She hands the clipboard to Riley.
We sit in the crowded waiting room, surrounded by coughing, sneezing, sniffling children. Everyone looks miserable.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I mutter, and Riley chuckles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“She’ll be fine.”
It feels like a year before we’re called back and shown to an exam room. A nurse in dark purple scrubs takes Emmy’s vitals while she screams and screams. Nothing we do can calm her down. She’s red in the face, her cheeks streaked with tears as she fights against the nurse.
My own eyes well up. My baby is in pain, she doesn’t feel good, and I can’t do anything to make her better. I’m useless.
Riley answers the nurse’s triage questions, which is good, because I wouldn’t know the first answer. I’ve been busy all day with the game; I haven’t spent time with Emmy since I left the house at nine o’clock this morning.
For the first time in my life, I think I hate being a hockey player. Especially if it means I can’t be there for my kid, for my family.
“I should quit my job,” I tell Riley.
She blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I should retire. That way I won’t miss out on Emmy’s life. I’ll be there if she gets hurt or sick.”
“You love hockey. It’s your life,” she says.
“But Emmy is more important.”
Her laughter is tinged with mania. “She’ll be fine. She probably has a cold. You can’t freak out about this.”
“I—”
“She’s a baby. Kids get sick. They get hurt. It’s part of life. You can’t put yours on hold. You have to live your life, too.”