Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Claudia
Sofie arrives five minutes before puck drop and flops back on the couch. “Gimme the baby.”
I turn and hand Savannah to Sofie, who will no doubt rile her up —because she gives the fun aunt kind of energy— and I see a faint bruise under her right eye. It’s not that obvious, as she clearly attempted to cover it up, but I notice it immediately.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She starts kissing Savannah’s face and, between kisses, tells me, “Desk corner. I bent down for a pen, and the desk kissed me. Grace is my gift.”
She smirks, but the way she tucks her hair in front of the bruise isn’t something I will forget. It’s something I will now look for.
The pregame broadcast cuts to the tunnel, and as upset as I am that Deacon didn’t tell me what he did, my breath stops.
Deacon is cleared and back in the net. His shoulders and chest are so broad that they make the net look small and impossible to get to. He’s moving like a man who has been caged for six games and is ready to dominate the game.
Even Paul stops mid-chew— of course, I ordered his favorite pizza, it’s the least I could do— and says, “Look at him. That’s a goalie. That’s a man who knows the ice belongs to him.”
The camera focuses on Deacon working drills. I swear he moves with more grace than half the dancers in that ballet documentary I watched in college. Except all that grace sits on top of about two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and strength, which I am intimately aware of.
Sofie nudges me. “Tell me you are watching this. Tell me you see the way his stance is tighter. He is skating like he wants someone to say something out of pocket so that he can ruin them.”
“I am watching.” I breathe.
Paul grunts. “Look at his eyes, he’s reading every Philly player like he already knows their next ten plays, and he does. That’s what a veteran has that the rest of the players out there don’t have.”
I look at Paul, and he gives me a wink. I fight back tears because of what he did for us; I still can’t believe it.
My eyes are drawn back to the screen when I hear a reporter say, “Moretti, fans want to know how ready you really are. Considering your age and concussion history…”
Paul groans. “Here we go. Philly reporters. Always digging for drama like raccoons in the trash.”
Deacon keeps his expression stone cold. “My age is not the story. I’m cleared. I’m ready. As a team, we had a setback in Boston, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to win here tonight, because we are.”
I should not be staring as hard as I am. I should not be imagining the weight of those shoulders pressed against me. I should not be remembering the way he whispered good morning like he was demanding the day to be exactly that… for me.
Right now, he looks like a storm in human form, and I am weak, exhausted, and emotional.
Paul’s gift and the reason he gave it to me, Nalani’s joy and the fact that she is possibly happier than she was when she and Koa worked through all their struggles in record time, and the worry about Sofie?
All that doesn’t lessen the fact that I am a hormonal human woman, and Deacon is a man who not only looks like that, but carnal knowledge that he surpasses every fantasy I ever had about him.
The reporter keeps poking. Deacon keeps shutting him down. Then he says, “When I’m ready to talk about the cause of my missing games, I’ll be giving an exclusive to Sofie Fairfax.”
Sofie nearly chokes on her garlic knot. “What the fu—” she looks down and Savannah—“Fudge is he talking about?”
I shrug instead of saying I have no idea, because I do, thanks to Paul.
The moment the interview ends, the camera shows him skating to the goal and tapping each post with his stick.
Paul points at the screen with his cane. “You see that. That right there is a ritual. That is a goalie saying the crease is his to protect, and any forward who enters it better be prepared.”
He is so proud of him, it makes me smile.
They leave the ice and dive over the boards, and the first line replaces them.
“Marshall’s taking first?” Sofie asks the question we all want to.
“The Italian doesn’t give a damn what order he starts the game; he’s the kind of man who will finish it,” Paul says, looking at the screen and not me, but I know those words have two meanings.
The puck drops, and I am fully vested in this game, unlike the last few. The Bears are playing with renewed energy. They’re plugged back in now that Johnson is gone. Their hope and drive are back, and I know it has a lot to do with Moretti being back in play. Same.
It’s still 0-0 when they switch lines. It’s not typical for the goalies to switch with them, but the Bears have their own way of doing things.
The camera pans out, and you can see Marshall sitting on the bench, locked in, eyes sharp, studying Deacon like he’s teaching a masterclass. No jealousy like there was when Johnson was on the bench, it’s all respect. He wants to learn from him, to grow his game.
“This is the first time the team has truly looked like they are the number one team in the league,” Paul says, eyes on the screen.
“They’re tied with Philly,” Sofie states.
“Not for long, Sassy. Not for long.” Paul chuckles.
“Thanks, poppa obvious,” she says in the voice she uses, a voice usually reserved for Savannah, who giggles.
Paul rolls his eyes but is clearly amused by her.
A Philly forward breaks through, passing Dash and Rivera, then breaks through the defenses, Giroux, and Foster, and swings for Philly’s first real shot tonight.
Deacon catches it clean, and Paul hollers. “That is how you do it. Glove like a damn vacuum cleaner.”
Sofie raises her slice. “Cheers to vacuum hands.”
I try not to quell my excitement, and for the most part do so. But God, he’s incredible. Big, strong, fast, and so confident. And that confidence, that power, that takes no prisoners ownership of his job, of the moment, of the entire damn game, is… distracting. Very distracting.
The team cycles through a beautiful play; their speed is back, their passing is crisp.
Every shift looks purposeful.
“This is who they are,” Sofie says, leaning over to reach a napkin. “Claudia, this is the team I’ve watched grow since Costello bought it. The team they want to be. The team feels they are when they are not babysitting a man who sabotages their goals. Champions.”
Paul takes another slice of pizza. “And look at the Italian. First game back and he looks like he could go two full games without blinking.”
He lowers his plate and looks at me.
“You know what they call that in hockey?” he asks.
“No,” I say softly.
“A man with his head on straight. A man who knows exactly who he is.”
And that line lands too hard in my chest. Because I know exactly who he is, too.
Even when I am mad at him. Even when everything in our world feels complicated.
And watching him on the ice like this. Settled.
Explosive. Focused. Yes. My heart is absolutely doing the thing it should not be doing, exposing itself to a devastating break.
“You good over there?” Paul mutters around a mouthful of crust.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He gives a little shrug. “You are staring like you are trying to memorize him for a test.”
“I am not,” I lie.
He snorts. “Kid, I’m old but not blind.”
Sofie leans in. “We all know that look, I’ve watched him for ten years.
Deacon Moretti could stand still and breathe, and every woman within a five-mile radius would suddenly drop things, like panties,” she giggles, and Savannah does too.
“The man is a walking highlight reel, right, and has been since before he was named sexiest man alive.”
The game ends, Bears 2, Philly 1.
“Are you staying here tonight?” Sofie asks as we clean up.
“I think I’ll go back, let them have the house to themselves.” I look at Savannah, who is sleeping soundly in the crazy-expensive swing Koa bought, and back at her, noticing her frown. “You want to come with?”
As soon as I say it, I realize what I’ve just done. Yes, all the packages have been moved, but none of our things have quite made it back to ‘our space’.
“Sleepover sounds good, actually.”
“Perfect,” I say, grabbing the garbage that doesn’t need to go out, but… shit, shit, shit.
Once outside, I call the hotel and ask for Robert, and feel my face burning when I ask him to do me… a favor.
“I will personally see that it’s done.”
“Thank you, Robert, and can you please use discretion?”
“Always, Ms. Holloway.”
Paul is far too amused because he clearly senses the panic I am trying to mask while we take him back to the Puck Pad.
“You ladies have a good night,” he chuckles as James opens the door and attempts to help him out. “Do I look like I need help?” he sputters.
“Of course not, Mr. Bronski.” He says as he shuts the door.
She looks at me, “Can we order room service and talk in British accents?”
I nod, “We can, but only if it sounds totally fake.”
“Love you,” she yawns.
“You, too.” And I do.
Thankfully, when we get to the suite, it looks perfect, and when I get Savannah into bed and have ordered sundaes from foodservice, I excuse myself and use the bathroom, where I finally open my messages.
Read the last one I sent.
Me:
Good luck tonight.
Deacon:
Thanks, Doc. See you soon.
I sent a thumbs up and a hockey stick emoji instead of the angry face, which best fit my emotions at the time.
After the game, I used a GIF of confetti instead of telling him how amazing he played, how strong he looked, and how badly his warm-up stretches made me ache.
Deacon:
Headed back. I’ll try not to wake you and Savannah when I come in.
Me:
Sofie is staying the night with us in our suite.
Deacon:
You and Savannah, okay?
I want to tell him Savannah is fine, but I’m upset with him. But like Paul, Deacon did what he did for very unselfish reasons.
Me:
We are. Travel safe.
“I love this smell,” Sofie says as she sits cross-legged on the couch in a hotel robe with a huge bowl full of chocolate ice cream with a crumbled waffle cone all covered in caramel and cherries.
“My comfort food is Ramen noodles,” I admit. “The kind you pretend doesn’t taste like the Styrofoam cup you nuked it in.”
“The first time I had those was when I was in college. Father was appalled.” She smiles softly.
I pick up my bowl and curl into the other corner of the couch. “You wanna talk about anything in particular, or do you want me to pick a random subject?”
“I will take avoidance for one thousand Claudia.” She smiles as she takes a giant spoonful of ice cream and announces, and continues. “Okay, got it. We have nine games until we have to make sure Noelle does not walk into Lauren’s wedding looking like she lost a bet to a thrift store.”
“I’m sure she’ll look beautiful in whatever she wears,” I say and take a bite. “She’s stunning.”
“That’s the problem, her body is the kind celebrities spend thousands to get, but she avoids showcasing any of it. She needs a dress to cause a scene at the wedding. A revenge dress. A dress that says I am thriving, and also, I could ruin you with a single eyebrow raise.”
I nod. “I think something satin. Jewel tone. Something that fits like she was poured into it.”
“Ooh, blood red.”
Sofie snaps her fingers. “Yes. That is the color of glowing up.”
She talks fast, dramatically, and animatedly. But every time she shifts, her hair falls conveniently over the right side of her face, shadowing pain. She yawns and looks around, “I have meetings, filming, and apparently an exclusive interview with a goalie.”
“You can crash in my room, or the other, but warning Savannah wakes early.”
“Same, but I wouldn’t want to wake her, where…” She looks around.
“This way,” I say, taking her bowl as I stand.
Once she’s settled in, I walk out of the room and tell her, “I have something.”
“Okay?”
I return with ice, wrapped in a burb cloth and a heating pad, two things I requested Robert bring up with the Sundaes.
I hold them up, “Ice it first, then switch to warm compresses. Bruises fade faster when you alternate.”
Sofie freezes for half a second.
“Make up for meetings, but if you’re filming, you may need these.”
She nods, “Thanks, Claudia.”
“Need a hug?” I ask.
“I really could use one.”