Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMETT
In between his gasps of pain down the phone, Scott told me that Billie was ready and waiting to head to the hospital. But as I roll up along the sidewalk, there isn’t any sign of movement coming from inside the house.
Concerned, I hit Call on Billie’s contact and wait for an answer.
“I’m standing at your passenger window, you goof.”
I hit Unlock, and she throws her phone into her bag, pulling the door open as she laughs at the way I jumped out of my skin.
Stupidly, I didn’t think through how difficult it would be for her to negotiate the low profile of my Aston Martin, but it’s not like I had the time to switch to the Mercedes G-Wagon. I was on my way home from skate when I answered Scott’s frantic call.
As Billie attempts to lower herself into the car, panic rips through me. “Wait.”
“I can do it,” she protests, but I’m already rounding the car, taking her red shoulder bag in one hand and her soft palm into my other.
For a brief second, she pauses and turns to me, big pools of green swallowing me whole. She’s feeling vulnerable and likely nervous over the scan, and she doesn’t need to voice her emotions for me to guess them.
“Let me help you.” My voice barely rises above the sound of traffic and swishing trees.
The weather has been really bad lately with invisible black ice scattered around sidewalks. I slipped on an untreated patch on my way to the rink this morning, and the last thing I need is for Billie to overstretch herself, getting in my car. Or worse, fall.
She’s a little like her dad, and the conflict to accept my help wars within her, although she eventually yields, allowing me to take her weight as she slowly slips into my black leather bucket seat. I close the door, heading back to the driver’s side.
“It looks good on you.” Billie’s smile is full and bratty as she drops her eyes to her bag, still looped over my shoulder.
I climb into the car and turn the heating up a couple of degrees. “You think?” I reply, attempting my best Vogue pose. I look like a complete idiot, but at least it pulls a bubble of laughter from her.
As I set the purse in Billie’s lap, I get my first real chance to take her in.
I know I should be halfway down the street right now, eyes centered firmly on the road ahead.
The plan was to keep my distance, but I guess the universe had other ideas, like me taking her to the hospital and sitting within a foot of her while she looks cute as fuck in a fluffy green sweater and blue jeans that have to be sprayed on.
And let’s not talk about her knitted black beanie or the hot tan leather boots that hug her shapely calves.
Drive, Emmett. Fucking drive.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, pulling into the street and hitting the gas.
From beside me, Billie turns to gaze out of the passenger window. With a light shrug, she says, “Worried about Dad. Feeling like I should be there with him or at least helping with the recovery of his van.”
Scott isn’t what I was referring to, although it doesn’t surprise me that she’s more concerned about someone else’s well-being above her own.
I remember when she was around sixteen, and we were having a barbecue in Scott and Freya’s yard; Billie came tearing into the garden, holding a small bird that had broken its wing.
Most people—no, nearly all people—would’ve let the poor thing pass, but not Billie.
She basically emptied her modest savings to have the bird treated by a vet.
When news broke that the little dude had made it, she insisted that Scott set up a birdhouse in the huge oak tree at the end of their yard, just in case he needed a place to live.
At the time, I thought it was madness, but now, five years later and with a divorce under my belt, I can appreciate how temporary life or things can be.
“Your dad will be fine. His leg will heal and he’s damn lucky that his injuries aren’t more serious.” I attempt to soothe her, taking a left and pulling up to a stoplight.
Billie’s delicate fingers twist together in her lap, her red manicure chipped on several fingernails.
“Once he’s through surgery and in recovery, the pain will be way better. Then it’s all about rehabilitation.”
Memories of the pain I endured when I tore my ACL a couple of seasons back resurface, and I quickly push them away.
I was convinced that my career was through, sending me into a deep spiral of depression.
Part of me thinks that while it wasn’t the end of hockey, it was the start of the end for my marriage.
Maria was hell-bent on me calling it time in the NHL, frequently giving me long speeches about how “everything happens for a reason” and maybe I “should take this as a hint to call it quits.” When I look back, her lack of empathy was palpable, as was her agenda to control another part of my life.
Even if I refused to see it at the time, it’s as clear as day to me now.
When the light turns green and I pull off, Billie begins chewing on the edge of her right thumb.
“I was actually asking how you were doing,” I clarify.
“Just got to get through today and the childbirth, and then I’ll be golden.” She reels off major life events like a straightforward grocery list as we pull into the hospital parking lot.
Billie’s barely looked at me the entire journey, and when she eventually shows me her eyes, I work out why. Unshed tears form a gloss over them.
Stressed and trying to keep it together, Billie hastily goes to unclip her belt, frantic movements indicating that she’s far from okay.
I rest a tentative hand on her upper arm, silently asking her to pause for a moment.
She looks down at our connection and then up at me. One tear clinging to her long lashes. She isn’t wearing an inch of makeup; I can tell because her prominent freckles aren’t hidden behind concealer.
“Do you want me to wait here?” I ask, respecting the privacy she may need and noting that the pathway up to the maternity building is fully salted.
To my surprise, Billie shakes her head, shocking me further when she adds, “I don’t want to be alone for the scan.”
“Y-you want me to come in with you?”
“Yeah,” she confirms, pressing the button to unclip her belt. “Today has already been crappy, and if the sonographer tells me something bad, I don’t want to be alone when I completely lose my shit.”
“All right, Miss Quinn, if you can hop up on the bed, then we can check everything over for you.”
“I’m not hopping anywhere,” Billie quietly whispers to me, popping the top button on her jeans.
When the sonographer turns her back and heads to the sink to wash her hands, I drop down into a deep lunge, keeping my hands in my pockets as I do it.
“Baby-free and flexible,” I goad.
She just rolls her eyes and expertly hoists herself onto the bed, pulling her sweater up to reveal a naked bump before tucking it under her bra like she’s been through this routine a million times over.
This whole thing is deeply personal, and I have zero right to be here. But as I pull up a plastic chair and sit next to my best friend’s daughter, I know this is exactly what she needs.
Five minutes with Tucker fucking Price—that’s all I’ll need.
The sonographer points at me and looks at Billie. “Is this Dad?”
To prevent choking on my tongue, I bite down on it instead. Hard.
“No,” she replies with an uncomfortable chuckle. “This is a family friend, Emmett. He gave me a ride here, and I asked him to sit with me while we do this.” Her voice drops a couple of octaves, laced with a mixture of sadness and frustration. “The actual dad is in Texas.”
I don’t miss the sonographer’s eyes as they flick to mine before she gets to work, smoothing jelly across Billie’s bump and applying the probe.
It’s possible she’s a hockey fan, and since I’m a veteran these days, my face is well known.
That’s not the gut feeling I’m getting from her though, more a look of judgment or even uncertainty on Billie’s behalf.
I guess, to her, this whole setup is kind of weird.
Why wouldn’t she be here with a friend or her mom?
Reaching up, I take Billie’s hand in mine. I don’t interlace our fingers, simply wrapping my palm around the back of her hand, resting it beside her on the bed. The sonographer tracks the movement as Billie continues to focus on the screen, totally tuned out to what’s happening around her.
My eyes meet the sonographer’s, a silent message passing between us.
Judge away because this woman right here needs someone, and in this moment, I’m all she has.
“Oh, there we go!” Like she’s hit the reset button on her professionalism, the sonographer moves the probe half an inch, resting it over the baby’s heartbeat.
The sound is clear and strong, and I feel Billie’s fingers relax.
“So, everything’s okay then?” Billie asks, hope evident in her tone.
The sonographer remains silent, and I’m ready to shove the probe up her ass when she eventually answers Billie.
“Everything looks to be completely normal and what we would expect at this point in your pregnancy. However, we would like to monitor fetal movement for the next couple of hours. I’m sure the doctor explained this to you when you called the hospital. ”
“Yes. They said that it’s standard procedure for reduced fetal movements.”
I watch the column of Billie’s throat work as the sonographer wipes away jelly residue, and Billie sits up, legs dangling over the edge as she lowers her sweater and climbs down from the bed.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I quietly whisper.
She just smiles at that. “Do you have time to stick around, or should I get an Uber?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I immediately respond.
Billie winces at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention the monitoring part. With my dad and this whole morning, I totally forgot to warn you how long we could be in the hospital for.” She puffs out a frustrated breath. “You probably have way more import—”
“There’s nothing more important than this, Bill,” I confirm, shaking my head at her slowly before looking back at the monitor. “Do you want the scan images?”
“Oh, we don’t normally offer those for non-routine appointments,” the sonographer explains before Billie can answer me.
I’ve never been gifted at telepathy, but I’m pretty sure the sonographer has no issue reading my mind from the expression I give her.
“Did you want the images?” I repeat my question to the person whom it was originally directed at.
Billie takes her handbag off the back of my chair and hooks it over her shoulder, turning on her heel to look at the sonographer. “How much do they cost?”
She waves a hand at Billie, eyes still fixed on mine. “Nothing at all, Miss Quinn. Let me go and grab them for you now.”
I watch the sonographer leave and close the door behind her and then focus my attention on Billie. “How about after we’re done in the hospital, I take you somewhere for a late lunch?”
I’m ready to shove my fist straight down my throat.
Stop talking, Emmett. Distance, remember? Put distance between you and your friend’s hot-as-fuck daughter.
Billie stays quiet for a second, twisting her full lips in thought.
“Or I can just give you a ride back to your place.” I keep talking, secretly hoping that she’ll take me up on the lunch offer.
“Well, by the time we’re finished up here, I’ll probably be able to manage a steak.”
I balk at her, equally amused and impressed at the way she isn’t afraid to go all in. Especially after the morning she’s had.
“I was thinking more like a burger and fries.”
She sets a sarcastic palm on my shoulder, pink lips curving into a wicked grin that tightens my chest. “When the millionaire hockey player offers to take the poor student out for a meal, she would be foolish to accept anything less than the whole nine yards.”