Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

MAY

ZACH

I 'm nobody's fool. Well, not anymore, anyway.

The trouble is, I can't change what's already been and gone, and as much as I'd like to rewrite history, there's fuck all I can do to reverse the bad decisions I've made.

Those that led me to where I'm headed right now, a fucking paternity test center where my latest bad choice has resulted in the need to swab my mouth to find out if I am, in fact, the father of the child my ex-girlfriend is carrying.

Frankly, it's a miracle we've even reached this point since she's spent the better part of four months trying to convince me there can't be anyone else since the timeline doesn't stack up.

I approach the entrance and grip the metal door handle tightly, fueled with frustration as I swing it open and walk through. There shouldn't even be a timeline to work out.

Oh right, yeah, except she slept with the former New York Blades defenseman and official NHL asshole himself, Alex Schneider.

Amie is as crazy as she is stupid if she thinks I'll take her back. I'm here for one reason and one reason only—to find out if I'll be a dad and my Amie-sized mistake will mean she's a part of my life forever, or if I get to walk away for good. If it's the former, I'll step up and be the father my dad has always been to me. But if it's the latter, I'm hightailing it out of Seattle and back home to spend the offseason rehabilitating and keeping my head down and out of harm's way. We didn't make the playoffs which fucking sucked, but at least I have extra time to recover from what has been the worst six months of my life.

I drop onto a cream leather couch in a stark white room and await my fate. Apparently, doing the test face-to-face means the results will be back in only two days. That, and like hell am I taking a home test.

Yeah, okay, Amie. Let's do it from home because I trust you not to tamper with the results.

"Mr. Evans?" a small woman dressed in a white coat calls out across the room.

"That's me," I reply, a slight tremble to my tone. So this is the woman I'm entrusting with the next eighteen years of my adult existence.

One thing I do know for sure: whatever happens, I'm celibate for life.

I swing my truck into my apartment parking lot and throw my head back in my seat.

Two days. Forty-eight hours of torture, waiting to hear the results.

The pocket of my jeans vibrates, and I pull out my phone.

Magnificent Morgan

How did it go, man?

Magnificent Morgan? Really? Otherwise known as Jon Morgan—my best friend, teammate, and the center and captain of the Seattle Scorpions. I need to change his name in my phone, or better yet, put a password on the damn thing so he can't keep updating his contact. He might not be single anymore, but he's still a cocky asshole.

Me

Magnificent Morgan? Stay out of my contacts.

Did you get your mouth swabbed or what?

Yep, now two days of hell.

Popped the question yet?

Yep. Put my big boy pants on and asked and it's a yes!

My phone buzzes again seconds later.

*Picture of Felicity beaming, her ring-clad hand outstretched in front of her.*

I smile down at the image of the gorgeous engagement ring sitting very proudly on the hand of the greatest thing that could've ever happened to my best friend. His life is changed forever. His now fiancée, Felicity Thompson, soon-to-be Morgan, is one in a million, and the lucky son of a bitch nailed her down. Despite the shit show that is my own life, their happiness can't help but seep into mine.

Too bad it won't happen for me because I'll never put myself out there again.

Congrats man. Never doubted you'd lock it down.

Thanks, buddy. We're back in Seattle in a couple of days, and I'll be around with tacos and beers.

Sounds good. I can eat my feelings no matter what happens.

Damn right. Has Amie been in touch?

Not yet, which must be some sort of record.

Not today, but it's still early.

Keep yourself busy. See if you can beat my score on Warzone. You've been trying for three months. What's another two days?

I assume you're forgetting my ranking on FIFA. Anyway, no can do. I'm packing up my shit and getting ready to head back home. As soon as I see you, I'm flying out the next day. Whatever happens, I need to be back and away from here. If the baby's mine, then the news will inevitably break, and there's no way I'm gonna be in town when it does.

Fair enough, buddy. Just take it easy. I‘ve got my phone if you need me.

I close out the messages and pull up my mom's contact—I need to let her know I plan to come back home for the offseason. Thankfully, I closed on a property in Cocoa Beach six months ago, so I don't have to live with my parents. The house was supposed to be a second place for Amie and me to escape and spend time with my family.

"Hey, sweetie, how are you doing?" Her bright voice filters down the speaker.

After the incident last December in New York involving Schneider taking me out against the boards where he gave me a spinal concussion and broke my jaw and tibia, I was holed up in the hospital for several days. Sure, I wound him up saying the baby was mine and not his, but the pre-meditated hit effectively ended his career. He was handed a twenty-five-game ban, a massive fine, and when he came to the end of his contract with the Blades, they didn't renew it. He's now a free agent, and no one wants to take him in.

I had no choice but to break Amie's cheating and pregnancy to my parents at that point.

"I'm good," I lie. Mom's already stressed about me as it is; she doesn't need to know I'm practically vibrating with tension. "All the tests are done, so now we wait."

She blows a heavy breath down the phone. "You need to keep yourself busy, especially since Jon is away getting engaged."

"Yeah, he popped the question, and she said yes."

"Oh, fantastic news! It's about time that boy found someone."

My stomach knots. I might be almost four years younger than him, but at thirty-one, I honestly thought I'd have met the one by now. Instead, I've had a string of unsuccessful relationships. Amie is the first one to cheat on me, but I'm starting to wonder where I'm going wrong and what's so unlovable about Zach Evans. I'm not a hookup guy. I can count on one hand the number of women I've slept with who weren't my girlfriend.

"Yeah, me too, Mom." My tone is as deflated as my slumped shoulders. I rarely let life get on top of me, but there's no denying these past few months have tested me to my limits.

"Oh honey, it's going to be okay. We're here for you whatever happens."

"Yeah, ‘bout that. I'm thinking of heading back home for the offseason—I need to get the beach house up straight and work on it. Thought it might give me the break I need."

"So, you're not selling it?"

I run a palm across my face in thought. "Nah, I don't think so. Yeah, it was for her too, but I love that place. It's peaceful and secluded. I want to get to work on it. It'll be a full summer job."

"Okay, if that's what you want. Just don't push your body too hard—you need to be kind to yourself after that hit. But gah! I'm looking forward to seeing you so much. It will be great to have you back home."

I think about home. Mom and Dad live only a ten-minute walk from my new place, and most of my old school friends are in the Cocoa Beach area. Some of them I've kept in touch with over the years.

This is a good plan. Whatever happens in the next two days, I can at least be around the people I trust most for the next twelve weeks.