Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Leo
I wanted to run today.
When I got that call.
When I realized what it meant.
I wanted to slice away at everything vulnerable, wanted to give in to those old feelings—better to end this, end us now, better to not hurt someone I care about, better to not hurt someone I love.
Then I realized…
I would bet my life that not once in my parents’ lives had that thought ever crossed their minds.
Their first thought wouldn’t have been worry for the person they supposedly loved.
It was for themselves—and only themselves.
What they wanted, what they needed.
And that’s when I realized what they had wasn’t love.
I was worried I was broken, that I didn’t have the capacity for a good relationship, that I would eventually poison everything good in it until it withered and died.
But. That. Wasn’t. Love.
I can’t imagine feeling what I feel for Harper and doing what they did.
Because it’s not what they had.
Because it’s not what they would do.
I’m different. I can be part of something better.
So now I’ve promised myself that whenever that old, toxic panic creeps in, the insecurities and worries threaten to take over, I’m going to do something nice for Harper.
Something she’ll love.
Something that will bring a smile to her face.
Something that shows her exactly how I feel.
My parents wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t even have the thought cross their minds.
But that’s great.
Because it’s more evidence that I’m not them, that I won’t ever allow myself to become them.
Harper sighs softly and burrows more deeply into my chest.
Her hair is an unruly mess that’s tickling my nose, my forehead, getting in my mouth, sticking to my beard, and I just hold her closer.
She’s not an inconvenience, not a burden I have to bear.
She’s the woman I love, the woman I’m never going to let go of.
Not because she’s been through too much already.
Not even because I’m going to protect her and make sure she always feels safe and secure and wanted.
But because she’s Harper.
And she’s mine.
Forever.
And, finally, that’s not a scary thought.
I wake up with hair in my mouth and the woman I love in my arms.
Yeah, I’ll take that trade.
I glance at the clock, see that even though I don’t want to move, even though I want to linger and enjoy just holding Harper, I need to get up.
The guys and I have ice time this morning, and then I’m meeting with the strength coach to rework my training plan.
Which likely means more devious exercises that will have me crying foul.
Or maybe just crying.
Either way, I can’t stay where I am.
Carefully, I slip out of the bed, making sure not to wake her.
Then stand there watching her, probably looking like a total creeper as I watch her sleep.
She’s peaceful, those long lashes resting on the tops of her cheeks, her breathing even and steady.
Her face is more rounded than before she was carrying my baby—and her breasts are too (not that I’m complaining about either—but I’m certainly not bitching about those gorgeous tits of hers).
Her belly has begun to grow too, curving in a way that makes me want to beat at my chest and declare I did that.
To declare she’s mine.
It’s fucking ridiculous being a man sometimes.
Even with the changes, she’s still as beautiful as ever, and there’s a softness I’m compelled to protect.
More of that mine-ness.
I smooth back her hair, tucking it behind her ear, then head to the bathroom to take care of what I need to take care of.
I have my gear and a gym bag in my trunk, which means I can go straight to the rink to start my day. But I make a pit stop in the kitchen. I don’t want Harper to wonder where I am, so I locate a notepad and—
“Shit,” I mutter as I knock a stack of mail to the floor.
Bending, I start to gather it up.
Then freeze.
Past Due.
Overdue.
Final Notice.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, flipping through the bills.
There are so many of them.
My phone chimes.
SMITTY: Where the fuck are you, man? You would not believe who’s here.
I start to shove my cell back in my pocket, but it buzzes again.
SMITTY: For the record it’s Ace fucking Ambrose.
SMITTY: And Storm Harrison.
“What the fuck?” I whisper for a completely different reason.
And, shit, I really am late.
I stare at the bills and debate what to do. Then sigh. It’s not like I’m going to stomp down the hall and wake Harper, demanding she give me answers.
Explain yourself, baby. Right fucking now.
Yeah, that would go over well.
About as well as when I offered to chip in for the maternity clothes she’s been buying.
Groaning, I rub my forehead. Then exhale, take a beat to calm my mind. This will hold until later. But I can’t lie—it lingers in my mind as I jot down a quick note for her, reminding her where I am and that I’ll see her later.
And it lingers as I get in my car and drive to the Grizzlies’ practice facility.
The ice is busy as I haul my gear into the locker room, so I don’t fuck around. I just quickly suit up and join the guys out there.
Sure as shit, Storm and Ace are here.
I lift my brows at Sawyer, who just lifts them back.
We get an explanation from Ryan a minute later. “Storm’s a good kid. One of my buddies from the Sierra asked that I keep an eye on him now that he’s been traded to the Hawks.”
Right, I’d heard about that towards the end of last season.
It had been a surprise— over the last few years, the Sierra seemed to be positioning Storm to become the face of the organization. Then again, I’d heard through the league’s gossip chain that he was spiraling.
And his stats last season weren’t great.
Maybe the Harrisburg Hawks will give him a fresh start.
“So why’s Ace here?” Smitty mutters, and for once it’s quiet.
Ryan shrugs. “No clue. Ace does what Ace wants.” Another shrug. “Apparently, he wanted to tag along and get some ice time.”
“Asshole.” Smitty jabs a finger in Ryan’s direction. “At least see if you can get some info on that Blue Line Matchmaker.”
“Why are you talking about my Vi?” I hear and spin to see Ace standing there with his typical shit-eating grin (the same grin that’s gotten him punched more than once).
“Vi’s your wife?” Smitty asks, his eyes full of suspicion.
“Yup.” Ace lifts his brows. “I thought you were happily married, Smith. Why do you need a matchmaker?”
“I’m more than happily married, asshole. Kailey’s my life. I don’t need—”
Smitty’s mouth drops open.
“You’re saying your wife is the Blue Line Matchmaker?”
Ace shrugs. “Everyone’s got to make a living. My Vi makes hers by helping people fall in love.”
Okay, now this is a turn I didn’t expect.
And also, now I need the entire story.
But I don’t get the chance to so much as utter another syllable before Ace is skating off again.
“Did that just happen?” Smitty asks.
“Apparently,” I say dryly.
“His wife is—”
“Hey, assholes!” Gray shouts. “Are we going to play some hockey or what?!”
Ryan pats Smitty on the shoulder. “At least you know who your competition is now.”
He scowls. “Except she belongs to Ambrose, and you know if I fuck with one Ambrose, I get the other four assholes in the league coming after me too.”
That’s true.
The Ambroses are assholes who don’t get along on the best of days.
But come after one and you’ll pay four-fold.
“Maybe you all can join forces,” Ryan says. “You know, expand your circle and make more matches, or whatever you call it.”
Smitty lights up. “Now we’re taking, Ry Guy.” He shoves Ryan’s shoulder so hard my teammate has to scramble to stay on his feet. “You’re fucking brilliant!”
“Um, thanks?” Ryan says.
But Smitty is already gone, skating across the ice. “Yo, Ambrose!”
“Oof,” Ryan mutters. “That may have been a mistake.”
“You think?” I ask dryly.
“Fuck, man.” He just shakes his head and skates away.
I follow him and get down to the reason why I came out in the first place—getting ready for the season. I skate and shoot, stretch and pass. I work on my hands and my footwork and on tipping shots that Smitty fires my way.
The sting of the puck hitting my stick, the cold air on my cheeks, Smitty’s voice booming through the rink as he demands more information about Vi—it’s all familiar, all like coming home.
But even as much as it’s part of me, the rest of me is focused on the woman I left sleeping in her bed.
And the stack of bills on her counter.