Chapter 10
TEN
Spoted
Deacon
The driver glances at his screen. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, man!”
I look up. “Problem?”
He spins halfway around in the seat, eyes wide like a kid seeing Santa in a deli line.
“You’re Deacon Moretti.”
I blink. “That depends. If you're about to tell me I’ve been voted the ugliest bastard in the league, my lawyer advised me never to confirm my identity in public.”
He laughs loud, hand over his chest like he’s steadying his heart. “Nah, nah. You don’t understand.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been driving this route every morning, hoping one day I’d get you. Manifesting it. Telling guys at my sober house I’d meet you. And now you’re in my backseat.”
Sober house? My spine straightens a little. “You’re in recovery?”
He nods, face softening. “Three years. And I only got there because when I was sixteen, you came to Haven Bridge Youth Home. You talked to us like we mattered. Told us we weren’t fucked forever.
That we could come back. That pain wasn’t destiny and family wasn’t just blood. ” He swallows. His voice catches.
“You… gave me hope. That I could really be something, someone. I’m in college now.
Working this job to pay for tuition. Got roommates who are all trying too.
We’re clean. We’re all building something, becoming ya know, like you said.
And you were—” He breathes out. “You were the first person who ever said a kid like me had a shot at better.”
Silence crawls between us for a second.
My throat goes tight. Not from embarrassment. Not from pride. From… something heavier. Deep. A reminder of a younger version of me.
I clear my throat. “Good for you, man. That’s all you. You did the work.”
He wipes his eyes quickly. “Yeah—yeah. But you lit the fuse.”
He faces forward, trying to pull it together, and starts the meter.
“You know, most players talk charity. Cameras, hashtags, all that crap. But you showed up without press. Without PR. Without even a jersey.” He grins. “You just sat with us. Ate cafeteria spaghetti. And talked.”
I grunt. “That spaghetti was a hate crime.”
He laughs again, sniffles. “Yeah, it was terrible.”
He pulls into traffic, voice steadier. “Anyway—today? This right here? This is proof good shit comes back around.”
Maybe. Or maybe life just likes to kick you in the head, then give you a breadcrumb to make you keep walking forward for another mile.
He doesn’t know what I saw last night. What I felt holding a baby that isn’t mine.
What it did to my chest.
That’s a thought I can’t even deal with yet.
I lean back, close my eyes, and hand pressing gently over the tender spot on my skull.
“You good, Moretti?”
I answer. “Will be.”
His tone shifts, almost shy. “You know you changed someone’s life, right?”
I crack one eye open, staring at the back of his headrest.
“I’m starting to think maybe someone just changed mine.”
He nods once, like he somehow understands.
The cab merges into traffic, horns blaring, the city waking up around us.
Bruised head. Unsteady emotions… heart. And a destination I didn’t plan to go to until five seconds ago.
Change of plans, indeed.
“I never asked,” I say quietly. “What’s your name?”
“Marco,” he answers, still smiling like his face doesn’t remember how to do anything else.
“Marco,” I repeat. “Give me your number. I’d love to get you and your boys tickets to a game.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been punched in the hope-gland. “For real?”
“For real.”
He hesitates, then smirks. “Give me one good reason.”
I arch a brow. “I just offered you NHL seats.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head like he’s testing me. “You once told us never to take anything without giving a reason to deserve it. Earn the world you want.”
Damn. I did say that. Sixteen-year-old him heard every fucking syllable.
I nod. “So, what’s the goal now, Marco?”
He lifts his chin. Voice steady. Confident.
“Graduate sober. Walk across that stage and not in the ground. That’s my goal.”
It hits me hard. Like a clean check to the ribs.
He continues, “So if you really want to motivate me, here’s my incentive: I hit my two-year degree milestone in December and prove it? Then you hand me those tickets.”
I blink. Twice. No bullshit. Because that’s the kind of goal that matters. “That’s a hell of a plan.”
“It’s the only one,” he replies.
“Hand me your phone.” He does and I punch my number into his phone and send myself a text. “You earn it, you remind me. I’ll take care of the seats.”
He grins, hits the gas, “Deacon Moretti just gave me his number.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle.
“What’s your lawyer gonna say about that?” He laughs.
“She’s gonna tell me you earned it. Proud of you, Marco.”
“Fuck, Moretti, don’t make me cry like a bitch in front of you.”
Then I see her through the windshield. Dark hair. Stroller. Claudia. Walking a block from Waverly.
“Stop here,” I say abruptly.
Marco brakes. “Everything good?”
“No idea.”
I push some cash toward him, he pushes it back.
“Pay me when I graduate,” he says.
I nod once—respect—and get out.
The cold hits fast. I jog across the street and catch up just as she’s adjusting the stroller cover.
She hears my steps and turns, eyes widening, cheeks pink from the wind—or maybe from seeing me.
“You followed me?” she asks, breath catching.
“No,” I scowl, not because of what she asked, but because I have serious concerns that I could be that way with her. “Saw you and decided to get dropped off here, walk with you instead of waiting on the porch for a conversation.”
She shakes her head giving me the, what about look.
“I have a decision to make,” I tell her. My voice comes out lower than I intend. “And I need you to help me make it.”
Her lashes flutter. She white knuckles the stroller handle.
“Me?” she whispers. “Why me?”
Because you’re the only thing that feels real right now. Because this morning I held your kid and wanted to swing at the world if anything touched her. Because I can’t get the taste of you out of my goddamn head and I haven’t even had you yet.
Thankfully, none of that comes out, thinking it is bad enough.
Instead, I swallow hard and say, “Because you matter in this. And I don’t make choices that involve other people without looking them in the eye.”
She stands there blinking at me like she forgot how to breathe.
“What choice?” she manages.
I step closer, voice rough. “Whether to press charges—or take matters into my own hands.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “You can’t get in trouble again. You play a dangerous sport, and you're dealing with a possible concussion. Did you see the doctor?”
I dip my head. “Walk with me?”
She hesitates, then nods.
We start down the sidewalk, stroller wheels bumping gently over uneven concrete.
“I do have a concussion,” I say. “Out at least two days. No practice, no games, no contact.”
She winces like it hurts her, not me.
“Are you okay?” she asks quietly.
“Been hit harder,” I shrug. “Still pissed it came from behind. Bitch move.” I flex my jaw. “The cops want to know if I’m pressing charges. I wanna know if you want that to be a tally mark for your side in court or—”
“Court?” she cuts in, voice thin. “You think this is going to court?”
“He shook a damn SUV looking for your little one. Heard enough last night to know he wasn’t involved and now that he’s suddenly interested in being Father of the Year? Yeah. I think court’s coming.”
Her breath hitches. She stops pushing, grips the stroller tighter.
“He agreed,” she whispers. “He agreed to stay out of her life. I wasn’t trying to hide her. I was being a mother, protecting her.”
“I know.” I make sure she hears that. Every syllable. “And I believe you.”
She blinks fast, lashes wet. My chest pulls tight.
“But here’s the part I need you to hear,” I say, hands on my hips. “I don’t think this is about her. I think this is about optics.”
Her brows pinch. “Optics?”
I exhale slow, angry heat climbing up my spine.
“I don’t scroll. I did last night. Been in this business long enough to know all the players.
He’s trying to climb into Aldridge Shaw’s pocket.
And Shaw’s daughter? Emilia?” I shake my head.
“Ice princess. Family royalty in his world. A girl like that doesn’t want a scandal, nothing that could blemish her appearance.
Pictures of the two of them?” I shake my head.
“Obvious as to what’s going on. So now Dingy’s scrambling to clean his image,” I continue.
“Suddenly being Daddy of the Year looks good for business.”
Her face goes pale.
But she needs to hear it all. “You don’t shadow a girl like Emilia Shaw unless there’s a ring or negotiations underway.”
She swallows, small and tight. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you deserve to know why your life’s being invaded,” I say, voice low. “And because this isn’t a man wanting his child. This is a little weasel wanting leverage.”
She closes her eyes like she needs a second. Savannah stirs, babbles softly, oblivious. Perfect.
Claudia wipes at her cheek once, quick, like she hopes I didn’t notice.
I did. I don’t comment. Instead, I say, “So I don’t know whether to give the cops the green light, official. Or handle it myself, unofficial.”
Her eyes fly open. “You’re not hurting him.”
“Not unless he earns it.”
“Deacon—”
“I’m asking,” I say. “You tell me which way this goes.”
She looks down at Savannah, then back at me, jaw trembling now with fury, not fear.
“I want him stopped,” she whispers. “But I want to win clean. I want her to grow up knowing I love her and would do anything to keep her safe and healthy, and also that doing the easy thing isn’t always the right thing.”
That hits harder than a punch.
I nod once. “Then I’ll let the system take first shot.”
“And if it fails?” she asks, barely audible.
I lean in just enough that she feels the weight of my promise. Not touching her. But close enough she could. “Then it’s my turn.”
Her breath shudders. Mine isn’t much steadier. Savannah kicks softly, coos. Earth spins again.
“Four days,” I tell her. “Then I’m back on the ice.”
“And until then?” she shakes her head not understanding what I’m putting down.
I hold her gaze. “Until then, you get settled, you embrace the little team that’s surrounding you and Savannah now, and when needed, I watch out for you.”
Her lips part. Her fingers flex on the stroller. She doesn’t run.
Which might be the most dangerous thing either of us has done yet.
“Let me buy you lunch.”
She starts moving again, and I fall into step beside her, ready to steer her toward the nearest café when she murmurs, “Coffee.”
I shake my head. “You’re already wound and you’re breastfeeding.”
She stops mid-stride and closes her eyes like she wants to swear at the sky for forgetting one more thing she has to remember.
“You need real food,” I add. “Protein. Something that’ll keep you upright longer than fumes and pressure.”
Her eyes snap open, irritation sparking and not at me. The universe, and probably the entire male population.
“I don’t have time to sit and eat,” she argues. “I need to find a place to live, call the moving company, update—”
“Stop.” I don’t raise my voice, but she hears me. “You don’t run on a battery like a phone. You don’t fuel yourself, you fall over. Then who takes care of her?”
Savannah lets out a soft little baby chirp looking up at me. I lean down and ask her, “Hey little one, you backing me up?”
“Fine,” she whispers. “Lunch.”
I nod and steer us toward a quiet corner spot nearby. Brick exterior. Warm light. Not trendy, solid. Not a place that social media has picked up on. The kind of place you can sit without someone snapping a photo.
We step inside, and when we’re seated and have ordered, she has a steak, I have a salad and chicken, and Claudia starts digging in her bag for wipes and toys and all the miniature gear that comes with tiny humans.
I hold out my arms. “Give her to me.”
She hesitates. Reflexive. Protective. Incredibly sexy. Her inner momma bear is incredibly sexy. It speaks to my natural instinct to do the same.
“Doc,” I say softly. “Eat. This little one and I are gonna take a walk. You take a break.”
Her eyes flick up. Searching for an answer.
I motion around the place. “A few laps in here.”
Then slowly, she unclips Savannah, hands her over, and something in my chest… settles.
Feels right. Too right.
Savannah blinks up at me, sleepy and soft, and immediately grabs a fistful of my shirt. Tiny warm little fingers.
Claudia looks like she might cry.
“Food first,” I tell her, adjusting the baby like I’ve done this all my life. “We’ll take a lap and check out the scenery.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
It’s not a line. It’s truth.
I sling Savannah against my chest like she belongs there and nudge Claudia’s plate toward her when it arrives.
“Eat,” I say again, quiet but firm. “We’ll be right here.”
Then I turn and walk slowly along the front windows, bouncing Savannah lightly, whispering to her like we have all the time in the world.
“You and your mom,” I murmur to the tiny warm bundle in my arms. “You’re gonna change everything, aren’t you?”
Her fingers curl into my collar. My heart does that thing I don’t have the words to explain.
I glance back. Claudia’s watching us, fork halfway to her mouth, eyes soft, stunned, and just a little shattered.
I gesture to her plate.
Doc, I mouth. Eat.
She finally does.
And I keep pacing with her daughter, already knowing that whatever line I thought I had with this woman?
I crossed it the second I saw her on that sidewalk. “That’s a lie little one.” I admit. “I knew she was special the minute I opened up to her one drunken night when you were still just a gift being created for a woman as incredible as your mamma.”