Chapter 14
Fourteen
Leo
The whistle has me jerking my head up, and I half expect a puck to be flying toward me.
But it’s not Smitty waiting to lob an errant biscuit at me or one of the doofuses out here on the ice trying to distract me.
It’s…the girls.
Fine. The women.
Luna waddling in, her arm looped through Bri’s. Kailey smiling serenely, her hand resting on her lightly curved belly, Faye smiling down at her.
And…Harper.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“You’re staring, bro.”
I rear back so suddenly I nearly go ass over tea kettle. I keep my feet—barely—then glare over at Sawyer.
Who’s busting up, nearly going down himself.
Asshole.
He smirks and rights his helmet before he skates away, following the guys over to where Luna and the others have gathered.
I hang back, watching as Aiden pops open the door and steps off the rink, bending to brush his lips over Luna’s.
He straightens and grins at Bri, who’s no doubt said something snarky.
Smitty’s right behind him, moving to stand next to Kailey, draping his arm around her shoulders and making her and Faye laugh.
Gray’s stops beside his woman, staring down at her like the sun rises and sets on her smile.
And Harper…
I can tell she’s not really focused on the conversation. Though she seems to be smiling and laughing at all the right moments, her gaze is sweeping around the space, seemingly taking in something alien.
And maybe the rink is exactly that to her.
I grew up in places like this, have spent so much time in them that they oftentimes feel more like home than my actual homes. Not just the ice itself or the locker rooms or the training spaces or even the gym. But it’s the guys too.
The laughter and inside jokes. Working together to accomplish something.
Being frustrated and excited and angry and motivated, sometimes all at once.
And the rush of being on the ice, the cool air on my face, the sting of the puck hitting my stick and traveling up to my hands. The joy that comes from sinking a great shot or connecting a pass through seemingly impossible odds.
Battling on the boards. Crashing my fist into an asshole’s face (usually with the last name Ambrose). Skating my ass off to save a goal.
Hearing my name in the starting lineup.
The crowd roaring when we score…
A woman in the stands cheering just for me. A kid wearing a jersey with my number, holding her hand as he jumps up and down, shouting, “Dad!”
I freeze.
Where the fuck had that come from?
Of course, I know exactly where it came from.
It’s just…dumb as fuck.
“Ricky!” Smitty shouts and I groan, consider pretending I don’t hear him.
Impossible.
His fucking voice echoes through the rink, buzzing through the air molecules until it reaches my ears.
Sighing, I skate toward them.
Better to get this over with.
I skate to the open door, step onto the black mat, and…immediately want to commit murder.
Mostly because Sawyer is standing next to Harper. No. Not just next to. He’s close, so damned close I want to reach over, grab his shoulder, and yank him back.
Then punch him until he thinks twice about ever coming that close to her again.
Unfortunately, the amusement in his eyes when I approach tells me he would just love to see me try that.
Asshole.
“Ricky,” Smitty booms again.
I exhale then turn to face my annoying ass teammate. “Yeah?”
“What are we doing on the birthday present front?”
For a second, I don’t know what he’s talking about.
Then dread grips my insides with its talons as I do. After the other night, I’d put Shannon’s birthday party out of my mind. But I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to her dinner almost as much as I would a colonoscopy.
A necessary evil.
Then done.
“No presents,” I say. “Or flowers, if you really want to get her something.” When it looks like Smitty is going to protest further, I add, “Or a bottle of nice bourbon. She really likes bourbon.”
“Now that,” he says grinning, “I can do.”
And if she doesn’t show up then at least all the guys like it too.
We can make a toast to mark the end of me being a dumbass.
Especially since Shannon hasn’t talked to me in three days—not since she came out to find Harper and me talking. She’s repeatedly said she doesn’t want anything serious, but she was pissed and gave me the silent treatment the entire drive home.
Then immediately left.
Now radio silence.
Which brings me back to…
I’m an asshole. To her, to myself, to—
Harper.
“No,” she says, “I’m good. I’ve been working a lot is all.”
I frown, move closer.
“You know what they say,” Sawyer drawls. “All work and no play…”
“Makes my bank account happy?” she finishes with a smirk.
I chuckle and they both glance over at me. “He’s right,” I tell her. “You do look exhausted.”
She scowls. “Wow, you hockey players sure know how to turn on the charm.”
“That’s our Ricky.” Sawyer claps me on the shoulder. “So charming.”
I growl.
“Sawyer!” Luna calls and one glance at his face tells me he suspects the same thing I do in that moment—that Luna is getting him away from Harper and me.
Christ. The woman is always trying to play matchmaker.
But that’s not going to happen.
Harper and I are going to be co-parents—that’s all.
Except even as I cling to that thought, an inner voice is telling me I’m only kidding myself. Because the same pull I felt for Harper at Luna’s baby shower still exists.
Hell, it’s only grown.
Same as those dark circles beneath her eyes.
“You’re working too hard,” I say quietly.
Her shoulders tighten and her gaze flicks back to mine, her tone approaching flippant, her smile facsimile. “And, like I said, my bank account likes it.”
I don’t like the way she says that—or maybe it’s that I don’t buy the casual spin she’s trying to put on it.
“Are things tight?” I ask. “I can give you—”
“No,” she says fiercely.
So fiercely a little blip of alarm sails through me.
“I’m fine.” She exhales. “I promise, I’m fine. You’ve already bought—” A shake of her head. “Anyway, I don’t need any more charity.”
“It’s not—”
A muscle flickers in her jaw, and she looks away.
I lower my voice. “Babies are expensive.”
“I know,” she replies just as quietly. “But there haven’t been any expenses yet.” She touches my arm when I open my mouth, and the feel of her fingers, even through my equipment, is so intense that I’m momentarily mute. “When it comes to that point I promise we’ll talk about it,” she says. “Okay?”
My gaze searches hers as I process her words, as I try to decide if she’s telling the truth.
But the stubborn set of her jaw, the tenseness of her frame make it clear it doesn’t matter if she’s telling the truth right now.
She’s set on doing this alone.
Why does that burn like acid through my veins?
Because of that vision of her in the stands, my mind whispers. Because I want it to be her holding my son’s hand as they cheer for me.
I close my eyes for a second then peel back my lids and nod, forcing my own smile. “Okay,” I say. “If it gets there, we’ll talk about it.”
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Are you going to stick around?” I ask, wanting that more than I can express.
She hesitates, swiping at a strand of her hair as though it’s itching her. Then she nods. “Yeah, I think we’re going to watch for a bit.”
I touch her cheek, snag the errant lock between thumb and forefinger, and tuck it behind her ear.
“Good,” I whisper. “I’ll see you after.”
She opens her mouth, probably to protest precisely that, but Smitty saves the day for once instead of making things more awkward.
“Let’s go, Ricky!” he calls. “This ice time isn’t paying for itself.”