Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Destiny
I have to be the worst parent on the entire planet.
Like do a survey.
Ask people about where I rank after telling them that instead of running around the mall like a crazy mama bear on a rampage, roaring from department store to department store, turning over display tables and ripping off mannequin heads in search of my son who some asshole managed to Houdini mid pursuit, I’m sitting on an outdoor picnic bench, near the ice skating rink, having one of my ex-husband’s latest teammates try to convince me to decorate a Christmas cookie and see if every person doesn’t say the exact same shit.
I’ve failed.
Fuck, I am failing.
But what more can I do?
I flagged down a DPD officer who happened to be on the premises – apparently Christmas Eve brings out all sorts of criminals from the woodwork – told him about the situation, and right as he went to call it in, Wahl mentioned who his big brother is, which not only stopped the cop’s actions, it had him echoing what the well sculpted, 6’0 defenseman across from me already said.
Slater – although he too is known as Wahl in his own circles it seems – will rescue Oakley.
This is literally what he does for a living.
What he’s more or less always done for a living.
And according to both men, he’s one of the best in the whole world at it.
That fact alone should bring me comfort.
After all, who wouldn’t want someone like that saving their child from possibly being sold or trafficked or black market harvested for his organs?
I mean I should feel relief knowing that a man who used to swoop down behind enemy lines to bring fellow soldiers home is out there, right now, hunting for my son like it’s his own. Tracking and trailing and trapping the sonofabitch who snatched my reason for existing literally out of my hand.
Yet it doesn’t.
I actually feel even shittier.
Like my ex is right.
Like I am a terrible mother.
Like I really don’t deserve the bundle of wonderful our adorable four-year-old is.
Maybe I fucking don’t.
I swear, it’s like I never get anything right when it comes to him, which is something my mom claims all mothers feel at least six times in their life.
“Want one of my balls?” Wahl impishly offers at the same time he pushes his paper plate at me. “It’s white.”
Tearing my gaze away from the distance I was staring out into is followed by lifting a curious eyebrow.
“Not white,” he immediately stumbles over his words, southern drawl damn near impossible to ignore. “Well, not white, white. Not like rink white. But like dry erase board white.”
Against my own volition, I mirthfully beam. “You mean blank?”
“Yeah!” His blue frosting tipped fingertips go to give the back of his neck an uncomfortable scratch. “That’s the uh…the word…that um…yeah.”
It’s impossible not to snicker at the streak of blue his action leaves behind. “And now your neck’s not blank.”
“Huh?”
Rather than verbally explain, I lift one set of fingers and wiggle them.
He drops his attention down to his, smacks himself in the middle of his forehead, and grunts, “Fuck.”
“And now neither is your face.”
“Double fuck,” Wahl murmurs right before grabbing the napkin holder. “I’m such a fuckin’ goof.”
“Yeah, but at least you have an amazing ass.”
The flirty compliment causes him to fumble the object right out of his grip onto the concrete where it cracks open, unleashing the thin brown items into a fresh gust of wind.
Another round of mumbles is attached to a slow, shameful headshake, “Thiscantreallybehappenintome…”
Funny how we’re both in that mindset at the moment.
Big difference being I’m missing a literal piece of myself while he’s slightly embarrassed, he’s a bit clumsy.
Which is honestly not that surprising.
Most of the hockey players I’ve known throughout my entire life are graceful on the ice and graceless off.
My ex being no exception.
Unfortunately for Oakley, he inherited that klutziness, but not his dad’s skating skills.
He got mine.
Put a pair of blades on him and the poor little guy looks like a drunk baby ostrich.
It’s precious…you know unless you ask his father who says it’s humiliating that they share genetics.
He says the same monstrous shit whenever he finds out about our latest ER visits too.
See, our sweet baby boy is all butterfingers, all the time.
He somehow manages to hurt himself simply restacking the pillows on his bed.
It’s why I’m personally on a first name basis with one of the ER doctors at Dalvegan Memorial Hospital after only three months of being back here, although, I wish it were for other reasons.
Too bad that dating isn’t exactly something I have time for right now.
And even if I did, his asshole father would go out of his way to make my life a living hell while I tried.
Trust me.
He’s done it before.
I have no doubt he’ll do it again.
Completely losing me isn’t something he’s quite accepted yet and part of me, deep down is terrified he never will.
Rather than sit by and watch the situation get worse, I get up to assist. Collecting as many crumpled-up napkins as possible is smoothly followed by a round of dumping them in the nearest trashcan along with grabbing a full holder from an empty table.
Stationing myself beside him is attached to suggesting, “Why don’t we start this whole accidentally running into each other thing over?” I retrieve the to-go package of wet wipes from my waist purse and offer him one. “Clean slate? Both literally and figuratively?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.” Wahl flashes me his crooked, knee wobbling grin again. “I’m a fan of fresh ice.”
It’s impossible not to tease, “And hockey metaphors?”
“Comes with the territory.” He nonchalantly starts scrubbing away frosting. “But you know that. You married one of us.”
“And divorced one of you.”
Hurt appears and disappears in a single blink. “”Cause of the jock talk?”
“No, because of the narcissism and constant cheating.”
Unmistakable disdain grows in his expression. “Stastney fucked around on you?”
“Come on, Wahl. All hockey players fuck around.”
“No, not all of us,” he firmly argues on a discarding of the wet wipe to the other side of the table. “And it’s Kolby.”
Being totally taken by surprise results in me leaning slightly away. “What?”
“Call me Kolby.” He lets his crystal gaze carve itself in places it doesn’t belong. “Please and thank you.”
Additional shock leads to a mashup of incomplete thoughts, “But you – and I thought – Don’t you – Everyone else-”
“That shit’s cute when you do it,” the sandy blond-haired defenseman lightly chuckles. “Me? Not so much.”
“I’d argue otherwise,” thoughtlessly rushes past my parted lips.
Shit.
I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
I didn’t intend to say that out loud.
Especially not to him.
Flirting – which I’m not openly admitting to doing – is the last thing that should be happening right now.
I should be fully focused on creative new ways to track my son’s location at all times.
Perhaps installing a tracking chip in his shoes?
Socks?
Directly into his foot or is that overcorrecting?
Heat flushes my cold cheeks encouraging him to resume speaking instead of me.
“When you’re a free agent, yeah. Fuckin’ around is the shit you should be doin’.
You earned that. Every night you go out there and put your blood, sweat, tears, and even teeth on that ice, you deserve whatever sexy little snipe wants to hop on your stick for a ride. That’s called a warrior’s welcome.”
“Not sure that it is.”
“But-”
“Oh, there’s a but to this little STD lesson?”
“But,” he lightly laughs, body slightly angling itself in my direction, “when you’ve signed that contract with someone else…
when you’ve put your signature on that shit…
your name on their jersey…their name on your Stanley Cup…
then it’s done.” Seriousness shifts into place.
“Fuckin’ around stops. You commit to that shit.
You show up for warmies. You show up for pracky.
You show up for two a days and three a days in playoff season.
You show up early. You stay late. You fight for the logo that you agreed to wear and never give up on them.
Not even when you’re bein’ dragged off the ice on a stretcher. ”
For the first time in my life, I’m left completely speechless.
I haven’t heard anyone talk about marriage like that other than my parents who have been married for fifty years. And while they obviously didn’t use hockey metaphors, the message was still the same. Relationships require work from two people at all times.
Not just one.
“You sayin’ Statsney never gave you that?”
“No one has ever given me that,” I quietly confess, attention cascading to the messy contents of my waist purse, needing something to distract myself with. “Doubt anyone ever will.”
Hell, just the idea of it feels like an unfathomable fairytale concept at this point in my life.
“Can’t count it as a loss ‘til that final buzzer, peppermint.”
Whether it’s the phrasing or the attempted nickname that returns my stare to his is unknown. “Peppermint?”
“’Cause of the uh…um…the pant drawings?” He flounders, pointed finger oscillating between gesturing at my lap and the table. “Your line stripes-”
“Isn’t that redundant?”
“Ref stripes?”
“Those are black and white.”
“Festive ref stripes?”
“Not a thing.”
“Should be a thing, though,” he loudly chuckles once more. “Those zebs could use color in their lives.”
Letting myself get lost in the warmth of his laughter feels equally right and wrong.
On one hand, I have no business engaging in any emotion that’s not fear or panic or some flavor of the two fused together, but on the other? Those things seem a lot harder to succumb to when I’m around him.
Next to him.
In his arms.
Ohmygod, earlier, when he held me tight and promised to protect me, I damn near melted like a snowman in the middle of a Texas summer.
Rationally?