Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Franky
Rosie was twelve years younger than me and, if official labels mattered to you, was my stepsister.
Violet had given birth to her as a surrogate for her best friend Cade, a former Rebels player, and Dante, a general manager of the team back in the day.
Ever since, our two families had been joined at the hip.
Cade and Dante were my bonus dads, and Rosie and I, despite our age difference, were sisters in all the ways that mattered, especially since Cat had moved to New York for college and stayed there after her marriage.
We were sitting on the well-worn sofa in Rosie’s apartment, she with a glass of wine and me with sparkling water.
“So he just offered?”
I was still reeling from Jason’s proposal. In four simple words, Rosie managed to convey all the skepticism I felt.
“What do you think his game is?”
Rosie shrugged. “Maybe he just wants a kid.”
“But … with me? It’s not like we’re friends and had some ancient pact to procreate if no one better came along.
” That kind of thing happened only in romance novels.
One of my favorite tropes, actually. “This is all so sudden. I don’t think I’ve spoken to him more than five times in the last ten years. ”
“Because of your ancient beef.”
“I know you think it’s foolish. But we nerds carry the scars more deeply.”
She touched my arm and gave it a light squeeze. “I know. I don’t mean to make light of it. But it’s good you guys made peace, isn’t it? It’s opened things up between you.”
It was weird to say she was right. As soon as he apologized, I let it go. At least, the words, if not completely the feelings of being slighted. A twenty-three-year grudge was hard to hold onto in the face of Jason Isner’s smile.
In truth, that was what I was mostly worried about. That smile of his was dangerous. I needed the friction to keep my armor in place.
“But why do you think he’s willing to do it this way? It’s not as if he has problems attracting a woman to have his child.”
“But there’s a difference, isn’t there? It sounds like he doesn’t want the trouble of a relationship. He wants to continue doing his thing, but he also wants the good feels you get from being a dad. Some people can compartmentalize. A man whore can still be a great parent.”
Was that Jason? I’d done some light Internet research when I started my list, and he didn’t date more than the average single hockey player.
However, all his former girlfriends were invariably attractive, blonde, and significantly younger than my old bones.
Some were barely out of college—if they attended any institutions of higher learning at all. Not a pair of glasses in sight, either.
Rosie was still talking. “Maybe he’s the kind of guy who knows a good opportunity when it comes his way.
He sees all the research and preparation you’ve put into this and thinks: hey, this chick has the right idea!
No haphazard family planning with her. Organized, too, so no chance she’d screw up Little Janky’s violin practice schedule or her playdates with Arabella and Cordelia. ”
“Little Janky?”
Rosie grinned. “Jason and Franky. Keep up.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He knows you’d make a great mom, sis. He’s right.”
“Thank you.”
She took a sip of her wine and carved out a slice of Brie for a cracker, then passed it to me. I popped that baby into my mouth whole.
“Or maybe he just wants to get into your pants.”
I spluttered, sending bits of cracker flying everywhere. “What? That’s not on the table.”
“But does he know that?”
“Of course—well, I don’t know. We didn’t discuss the particulars.” How the sausage is made. That cheeky grin and adorable dimple were stenciled on my eyeballs. “It would be a very strange way of making a conquest. No, that’s not what he’s after.”
My sister’s sly smile grew wider by the second.
“He’s a hockey player. I wouldn’t be so sure.”
I took a seat about ten rows up behind the bench and gave the men on the ice a wave.
“Take your time,” I called out. This morning, I was meeting my dad for breakfast, and while we could have connected at the Sunny Side Up Diner, I liked visiting the rink, an old haunt of mine.
In days past, I spent a lot of time here as my dad wound down his career.
My teenage self was a wee bit obsessed with hockey players.
Determined not to be the plain Jane wallflower who was too shy to talk to members of the opposite sex, I strove to be the most unusual of women: a nerd who was popular with boys.
All my crushes were on the single players, of course.
Theo Kershaw before he fell for Elle, Cal Foreman, Dex O’Malley, Bast Durand before they found their true loves.
I was notorious for hanging around outside the locker room.
Unfortunately, I was (a) too young, and (b) the daughter of Rebels legend Bren St. James. As if anyone would dare look my way.
At least, that’s what I preferred to think.
Not that my glasses and weirdness and propensity to suffer allergic reactions to everything might be off-putting to professional hockey hunks.
By the time I reached college, I had learned to stay in my lane.
Good boys with high GPAs who at first saw me as the perfect study partner, then competition for the internships and TA positions they felt were their God-given right.
No guy wanted a girlfriend who was smarter than him, and while my weakness might be muscle-bound jocks, nothing real could ever come of that.
So I retreated into my work. It never failed to fulfill me until the day my sister’s twins were born just over a year ago and I realized I was doomed to be the eccentric aunt unless I did something about it …
On the ice were four players, the usual configuration for my dad’s early morning “practices.” Although he had retired over twenty years ago, he still came out a couple of times a week with his old teammates, Remy DuPre and Vadim Petrov.
Sometimes Levi Hunt joined them, which meant there was a lot of center action—and ego—on the ice.
Today it was easy to spot who was who. Vadim was more fluid and had barely lost a step despite his bum knee.
Remy still had the brute force while my dad maintained his superior stick skills, even in his late fifties.
But their fourth wasn’t Levi. It was a younger player, one with a bit more stride in his glide, and he was playing defense while the three veterans pounded him with everything they had.
Jason Isner was haunting my waking hours as well as my dreams.
Of course I had seen him play against his peers.
He was a formidable force on the ice, and the Rebels had paid millions to bring the Green-Eyed Monster to Chicago to fill the void left by his brother’s retirement.
I still watched hockey, still cheered for my home team, so that thrill I felt watching his power and skill on full display was normal.
I enjoyed the game and the people who played it. That was all.
Three on one, Jason seemed unperturbed by the hockey hurricane blowing his way.
He deftly defended the goal, and while he had no one to pass to, he still found a way to retrieve the puck and blast it into the opposite net.
Over his fifteen-year career, he had developed into an all-rounder, almost as good on offense as he was defense.
He even scored points quite regularly, which was unusual in today’s game where the skillsets were so siloed.
When they finished, I headed down to the rink wall. Remy greeted me first.
“Francoise, I wish you didn’t have to see that.” My New Orleans-raised uncle always called me by the French equivalent of my name.
I kissed his cheek. “Why, because the three of you were soundly beaten by one player?”
“The shame,” he said ruefully, but there was humor, too. Remy was never one to take himself seriously.
“You are here to feed your father.” Vadim was someone who did take himself seriously. “This is good. He is wasting away.”
“I doubt that,” I said as I accepted Vadim’s hug. “But I’ll make sure he’s fortified.”
My father was next in line, bearded as if the playoffs were this month, but then he’d always been a fiend for facial hair.
He gave me a big hug then set me back. “Thought we were meeting at the diner.” His faint Scots burr kissed the words.
Even after all these years in North America, he hadn’t quite lost it.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you play. Pity you couldn’t do better.”
“Isner plays pretty aggressive for a practice.”
Plays pretty aggressive in all areas, though I kept that to myself.
My dad brushed his hand against my cheek. “I need a quick shower then I’ll meet you outside the locker room?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
And then there was one.
Jason had hung back, and I wondered if he didn’t want my father to know about our current relationship, such as it was.
Or perhaps he wanted to talk to me in private.
I suppressed a giddy flutter at the idea he might actually want to see me.
(And behind my dad’s back, too!) That boy-curious teen was never far beneath the surface.
He leaned on the wall, sucking down water. I ignored that thick column of neck muscle and focused on his thighs. Better, but not much safer.
“What are you doing on the ice with the ancients?”
He chuckled. “The ancients? Do they know you call them that?”
“Actually, I call them the Three Wise Men.”
“Cute. I could learn a lot from these oldsters. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve visited a practice rink. I used to spend my childhood here when I wasn’t foraging for snails and slugs. Violet lamented my behavior.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I was obsessed with hockey players. Was always sneaking into the locker room to get a peek. Very inappropriate, but I was fourteen and hormonal.”
He shuffled a little closer, still behind the wall, and it felt like the flimsiest of barriers.
“Fourteen and hormonal? I can relate.”
“Thirty-six and no change?”
His soft laugh felt like a hug. “That tongue of yours is awful sharp, Francesca. Besides, you’re one to talk with your hormones the way they are.”
He had me there. “I could say that my hormonal fluctuations have a good goal while yours—”
“The judgment. Here it comes.”
That made me laugh, the sound too loud against all the ice. “Seriously, though. Why aren’t you practicing with your teammates?”
“I will later if any of them show their lazy asses. I was in the gym when I saw those guys heading out. The lure of skating with legends was too much to resist.”
My dad and his cohort were legends, to be sure. That golden season when Cat and I came to live with Dad, when he met and wooed Violet, and the Rebels won the Cup, was a glorious time, indeed.
“I get it. It must be disappointing not to play on the same team as Theo, though.”
“It is. But we’ve played against each other plenty, and I’ve no doubt he’ll be joining this veteran crew before long.”
I liked his attitude. Strange to say, but I was starting to see Jason Isner in a whole new light. How odd we had come to this point with my childhood nemesis—overstating it, but the residual unease remained—asking me to co-parent with him.
I was sixty percent convinced that Jason made good points about balancing the genetic input and giving my child the best possible chance to be well-adjusted and not a complete nerd.
I had learned quickly how to repel the bullies with my smarts, but what if I could give my child another layer of protection?
However, deep down I knew that this was a fallacy. Genetics didn’t work that way. Look at me, the product of a mother with no interest in anything intellectual and a father with sporting prowess and a history of alcoholism. Where did I come from? I may as well have been adopted.
I needed to talk to Charles in London. There was still a chance I wouldn’t have to tie myself to Jason Isner forever.
“So, I have something for you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
That dangerous dimple popped in his cheek. “Not yet, Doc. You’ll get the good stuff when the time is right.”
I almost dislocated my eyeballs in not rolling them.
He unpocketed his phone, which he really shouldn’t take on the ice, but the Three Wise Men had rules about checking because of their ancient bones. Tilly’s sweet face popped into my head. Butterfly stickers and friendship bracelets.
He passed the phone to me.
On the screen was something like a medical report. My pulse sped up as awareness dawned.
“Is this … a semen analysis?”
“Figured I’d give you some idea of the quality you’re dealing with. See those results?” He pointed generally at the screen. “Top of the range, Doc.”
He was correct. These results indicated very healthy numbers for volume, concentration, motility, and morphology. Any sample from this man would be A+.
Aiming for a polite aloofness, anything to calm my heartbeat, I passed back the phone. “Thank you for getting the test done. It will certainly save time, if that’s the route I take.”
He placed his hands on the wall. “I’m not gonna ask where your head’s at, Francesca, though I’m pretty sure I have some idea.”
The ego on the man. “Oh, really? How are you so sure?”
He leaned in, his breath close to my cheek. “Because you didn’t say no.”
He was right. If I’d thought this a terrible idea, I would have dismissed it outright. But I didn’t. Now here he was with the full court press and the sperm analysis, practically a love note for a science nerd like me. Not to mention a woman in a hormonal riot fest.
Nimbly, he scaled the rink wall in a foxy-fast nanosecond, though he could have gone through the gate. It was right there!
“You know where to find me.” And then he was gone.