Chapter 9
The past few days have been a blur of early morning baking, last-minute catering orders, and playing phone tag with Lane.
Every time I think about his nephew showing up on his doorstep, my personal past presents itself—loss and longing all knotted together like a poorly planned knitting project. A deep need I didn’t know I wanted to fill overwhelms me.
I keep telling myself it’s just my natural caretaking instincts kicking in.
I’ve always been the one who shows up with safety pins and stain remover, who remembers everyone’s favorite cookies and who can’t walk past a stray dog without wanting to take it home.
This situation with Kai shouldn’t be any different—even more so since he’s a human who just wants to be loved.
Except it feels that way.
Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to be unwanted.
Bibi and Papa were great, but I always felt like I wasn’t enough to make my mother stick around.
She looked at me and decided that I was too much.
That her idea of fun was more appealing.
That there was something out there bigger and better for her.
The idea of a ten-year-old boy being passed over by his mother for a boyfriend and a lark in Fiji makes something roar to life inside of me—mama bear style.
Or maybe it’s because Lane sounded so lost on the phone. Not the confident hockey player from New Year’s Eve or the problem solver who visited my bakery, but a man who’s been handed a child and doesn’t know where to start.
Either way, I can’t stop thinking about it.
Would it be so bad to play house with a hockey hunk and a child in need?
“Nina!” Bree’s voice cuts through my pondering as she barges into my house without knocking. As usual. “Put down whatever you’re doing to avoid reality and come with me.”
I shuffle in front of the mess of ingredients on the counter. “I’m not engaging in oven therapy.”
Following Bree through the door, Cara points. “You’re making cookies that look like puffy hockey pucks.”
Bree chimes, “That’s either baking becuase you’re stressed or Margo hired you for a hockey event.”
“They’re marshmallows dipped in chocolate—a new thing I’m trying, so I didn’t waste the chocolate,” ... or eat all of it.
“We’re going to the game tonight,” Ella announces as she appears, producing what looks like a Knights jersey from her oversized purse.
Bree holds it up to my torso. “And you’re wearing this.”
I read the name and number printed across the back. Sheridan. Number twenty-two.
I stare at the jersey like it might burn me if I get too close. Where are those oven mitts?
“I am not wearing my husband’s jersey to a hockey game,” I say firmly.
“Did you hear what you just said?” Gracie asks, also in tow, her romantic heart practically pulsing from her chest, cartoon-like.
Here comes Heidi and Jess.
They’re multiplying! If only I could make the same happen with my finances.
Whit whoops. “You’re supporting your man!”
“He’s not my man. We’re figuring things out.”
“All the more reason to show up and demonstrate that you’re a team player,” Margo says pragmatically.
Ella adds, “Trust me, hockey wives know how to make a statement.”
“I’m not a hockey wife!”
“You literally are, though,” Jess says matter-of-factly.
Whit clears her throat. “Legally speaking.”
A couple of hours later, I’m at the Ice Palace, sitting in the Knights’ family suite wearing Lane’s jersey and feeling completely out of place.
Sure, I’ve been here before, but not like this.
The girls occasionally bring me to games, but it’s so I don’t forget that there’s a life to be had beyond the bakery.
The arena is loud and bright and full of energy that makes my skin buzz with nervous excitement … because Lane is somewhere in this building and a secret thrill hums inside at the thought. There is no denying how handsome he is or how his deep voice wakes up a part of me I thought had gone dormant.
Bree points toward the ice where the players are warming up and singsongs, “There’s number twenty-two!”
I spot Lane immediately. Even with his helmet on, I can pick him out of the pack.
Once more, he’s full of confidence and there’s no denying he’s a pro with the way he moves so fluidly, powerfully as he fires a shot into the goal during the warm-up.
It’s different from the man who struggled to fit in my tiny bakery office.
This is Lane Sheridan Junior, the professional athlete, and I can see why he’s made a career out of this.
“He’s good,” I admit, trying to play it cool. Certain if I venture past those two words, I’ll say something like He looks good too, revealing that I’m attracted to him when I know better. This will only fuel my friends’ silly notion that the accidental marriage could ever work.
Plus, there’s the promise to my father.
And let’s not forget that I should be busy bailing my bakery out of near bankruptcy.
“He’s incredible. Even injured, he’s one of the best left wingers in the league,” Cara corrects. She, on the other hand, is a hockey expert, Coach Badaszek’s assistant, in fact.
The game starts, and I get swept up in the action despite my best intentions. Hockey is fast and intense, with the Mustangs putting up a good offense. Every time Lane touches the puck, my heart rate spikes.
Utah scores first, but the Knights answer quickly. Lane gets an assist on the tying goal, and the crowd goes wild. I may or may not cheer louder than necessary. You’d have to consult Whit, seated beside me, who tugs her hat lower on her ears.
“I knew you were a Lane Sheridan Junior fan,” Ella says with a knowing smile.
“I live in Cobbiton. I’m a Knights fan,” I counter.
“A Lane fan,” Bree singsongs.
After the first period, we break for snacks. No sooner am I standing outside the suite’s entrance when a small voice behind me says, “Hey, are you Nina?”
I turn to find a boy with sun-streaked hair and serious green eyes that look remarkably familiar. He’s wearing an oversized Mustangs jersey and holding the hand of an elegant woman in her late fifties.
“I’m Kai,” he says before I can answer.
I blink a few times as the conversation with Lane comes back to me.
“Lane is your husband, so that makes you my mom, right?” he asks.
My heart goes tumbling down the hallway, through the crowd, and outside into the snow. “I ... well, it’s complicated.”
“That’s what Lane says about everything,” Kai says, frowning.
He’s not wrong.
“This is my Grandma Sabrina. She’s married to Coach Grandpa. With you as my new mom and Uncle Lane as my new dad, we have a uniquely blended family,” Kai adds as if he did some internet research and maybe didn’t quite grasp all the concepts entirely.
Wearing a warm smile with a hint of Don’t kids say the darndest things? Grandma Sabrina extends her hand. “Sabrina Sheridan. You must be Nina. You’re almost famous and we’ve been hearing all about you and Lane Junior.”
“Almost famous might be overstating it,” I say, shaking her hand.
“Nonsense. That New Year’s Eve video has been viewed millions of times. You’re absolutely famous and fabulous. Your dress was gorgeous. Though I have to say, you’re even prettier in person.” Her eyes twinkle with both amusement and sincerity.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to smile.
She leans in. “And I’ve never seen Lane Junior smile like that. Not even at Xoe. You two must have something special.”
Xoe? The fact that he and I haven’t talked about our past relationships beyond Lucian Little confirming we were both single, hits me like an ice dam falling off a roof.
Sabrina wrinkles her nose. “If you ask me, those two were the worst for each other. But Lane is lucky to have met you. I’m so happy and want to hear all about how you fell in love.”
Before I can respond, a tall man with silver hair and Lane’s intense green eyes approaches.
Even if I didn’t recognize him from old hockey photos, the sheer weight of his presence would give him away.
This is Lane Sheridan Senior, a hockey legend.
When a man like him enters a room, you automatically know it.
“So you’re the girl who married my son,” he says. I can’t tell if I hear concern or challenge in his commanding tone.
Does he want me to skate laps to prove I’m worthy of a hockey family? Present my medical history and financial data? Prove my identity?
“I’m Nina Bruun.” I shake his hand and repeat, “And it’s ... complicated.”
He grunts dismissively, instantly reminding me of my father’s warnings. Not that he’s checking me out or anything like that. More like his perspective and priorities are a little off-center ice.
“I saw online that you have a bakery,” Kai says excitedly as if knowing there might be treats in his future.
I turn to tell him about it when Lane’s father interrupts. “And you’re having financial trouble. Have your eyes set on the wheel of fortune that comes along with success. Girls like you are a dime a dozen. You come along, take advantage of a professional athlete and—”
Sabrina interrupts. “Coach.”
Even she calls him that?
Anger prickles up my spine at his comments. Is he accusing me of being opportunistic? Deceitful?
“You’re at work,” Sabrina adds.
“I’m just saying that we all know what this looks like.”
“You are out of line, sir,” I say straight to his face with surprising force.
Lane’s father’s eyes widen with surprise that I’d dare speak back to him. Like it’s an offense on par with arguing with a referee after they make a penalty call.
If you ask me, he’s the one who belongs in the sin bin.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, but none of that is true.” Well, except the struggling bakery part, but that’s certainly not why I went on the hypnotist’s stage against my will, I might add.
“Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say.”
This guy just tripped a wire I didn’t even realize was live with dynamite. Tipping my head to the side in question, I brazenly ask, “Including Suzie Bass?”