Chapter 8 #2
I’ve held teammates’ kids. I’ve let fans pass their babies over the glass for pictures. It’s never hit like this. A punch straight to the sternum, right under the ribs. Primitive. Territorial. Mine is too strong a word — wrong word — but something in that neighborhood cracks open and starts pacing.
She’s tiny. Fragile. Perfect. And I suddenly want to put her in one of those backpacks and fight off anything coming her way.
Hell. What is that?
I shift her higher against my chest and she settles in. It’s like she recognizes solid wall of protective muscle when she finds it, and I swear that tethers when she lets out a little sigh.
Protective instincts are one thing. This? This is a warning shot to the spine. I’m in trouble.
I swear I would put someone through a wall if they tried to harm her in any way.
And I don't even know what the hell this is supposed to mean.
Claudia disappears into the bathroom, and I stay planted where she left me, one palm on the baby’s back, thumb smoothing circles without thinking. The others keep talking — bickering, chirping, being idiots but those sounds drops out, like someone shoved cotton in my ears.
I don’t do this. I don’t get soft like this. I don’t get affected.
Dash whistles low under his breath. “Look at that. Big bad Moretti holding a baby. Should I get a photo? Frame it? Send it to the league?”
I don’t look at him. “Touch your phone and I’ll break your hand.”
He laughs, but there’s a note in it — disbelief, maybe respect, maybe the realization that something has shifted and he just witnessed it.
Sofie stares. “Oh my God, you’re domesticated now.”
Noelle nudges her. “Leave him alone. It’s sweet.”
Sweet. Yeah. Terrifying is more like it.
Savannah’s head nestles under my jaw. I swallow hard and lock my knees, like bracing against a hit. Because this feels like one. And not the kind you skate off.
This isn’t part of the plan. Hockey, routine, solitude — that’s my system. My safe zone. All clean edges, tight control. I don’t get pulled off-balance.
But this little girl? This woman in the bathroom?
They’re a wrecking ball.
And for one long second, standing barefoot in a shitty Brooklyn apartment with morning light scraping across the floor, baby tucked against me like she belongs there… I let it hit.
Then I choke it down hard, because wanting something that dangerous is how men get ruined. But I’d rather get ruined than let that motherfucker ruin either one of these girls.
Savannah starts to stir as Claudia comes back out, hair damp, cheeks flushed, smelling like lavender baby soap and motherhood and a life I have no business wanting a piece of.
I pretend like I’m not holding her kid like she’s mine. I pass her back, careful, slower than I need to be. She takes her and immediately presses a kiss to Savannah’s head, proof she’s scared about what’s to come, but she’s doing a damn good job trying to hide it.
I clear my throat, force myself to step back. Locker room mode. Not… whatever the fuck this instinct is.
I take a piss and wash up as best I can, then duck into the spare room, find a stack of old Hayward University gear — Koa’s, clearly — and pull on a long-sleeve and joggers. Comfortable, neutral, nothing like the circus show happening outside the door.
When I walk out, it’s obvious I’m part of a fashion challenge I didn’t agree to be in.
“Now who wears Hayward better?” Dash asks the girls.
Noelle stares at him. “You’re kidding right? That’s… fashion trauma.” She nods to me. “That’s what we strive for.”
Sofie giggles. “I’ve seen less skin in lingerie ads.”
Dash flexes proudly. “It breathes.”
“It’s screaming,” Sofie shoots back. “For mercy.”
I tug my own tee down. “Mine fits fine.”
“That’s because you put on a shirt meant to be worn.” Noelle looks at me, “Thank you for being a functional adult.”
Dash gasps dramatically at her dig, “Jealousy is so loud.” He then looks down at his phone. “Cars waiting, let’s roll.”
I nod to Claudia and the others, “Thanks.”
In the hall, Dash informs me, “We’re meeting with the cops at the arena to give them our side of the story.”
I roll my eyes. “We got a story that won’t fuck Claudia?”
“We got the truth.”
I look back and see Claudia looking at me, “That good for you?”
She nods.
Downstairs Koa and Nalani are walking toward us from the back, coming from the door that leads to Paul’s NYC chicken farm. “Is Dash wearing my Hayward cut-off?”
“Appears so,” Koa chuckles.
“And my joggers,” she adds, hands on her hips.
Dash whispers, “Guess they’re back together. Can’t even say I’ll fuck her up if she fucks him over.”
“No, Sterling, you can’t.” I growl.
“I want that back.” She points at him, then me. “Both of you better return them.”
“Maybe, or maybe we’ll keep them,” Dash taunts.
“I will—” She starts.
“You’ll get them back,” I assure her as I steer him to the door. “Thank you for giving us a place to crash.”
“Can’t call the cops asking them to get back stolen goods,” Dash calls back to her. “This was all property of Haywards ice—.”
“I’m sure I can find a way around that.” She jabs back as we head to the car.