Chapter 21

chapter 21

brYCE

Her expression will be permanently etched into my memory. I couldn’t concentrate the whole night. One fucking goal. One assist. I played like an amateur, and she’s responsible.

She swallows hard like she’s trying to stuff a bird down her throat. “How are you?”

“Like I just sank a hole in one,” I say, referring to our date. My eyes narrow as I watch her fucking squirm.

“Should we go to the hospital and have you checked out? I think you’re hallucinating. You were playing hockey… not golf” She draws out the words hockey before she realizes what I meant.

Damn, she’s cute and sexy all rolled up into one.

“No,” I snap.

“Okay, Captain Grump. I’m just trying to make sure Jolie’s father can take care of her.”

“That’s why you’re here.” Emmaline seems shocked at my words. She wants to call me grumpy, then that’s what she’ll get. “I’m meeting Shearer for drinks. I’ll be back to tuck Jolie in.”

Brooke’s head swivels back and forth between us, changing the subject. “Shearer was fired up. That was a dirty play by his teammate.”

“Nothing new. You should know… when you’re on top, everyone wants to tear you down. He was desperate.” Which reminds me of Emmaline riding me; it was like a racehorse desperate for the finish line.

“Wynward, I bet Dane and Lettie would let Jolie stay the night, and we can all go out dancing. I remember how much you danced your rookie year.” Brooke wiggles her eyebrows.

Damn it, she recognized Emmaline. “I’ll pass. Just want to catch up with Shearer and get to bed early before the afternoon game tomorrow. Besides, Reed wants you all to himself.”

She giggles. “That doesn’t happen much anymore.”

Reed throws his arm around her, still wound up. “What the fuck? It happens all the damn time.”

Brooke pushes to her toes, and he bends enough that they exchange a kiss. “I meant we have to be quiet and lock the door.”

Reed takes a breath. “Okay, Cookie, I bought the presidential suite penthouse so you can scream as much as you want,” Reed says as Brooke turns three shades redder than a tomato. “You all right?” he asks me.

“Fine, now go.”

I pick up Jolie, who’s plastered to Cannon’s side. Caleb, Carly, Colby, and Cannon all give me a fist bump. “Thanks for hanging out with Jolie.” Cannon hugs her. I swear I’m going to have to find a new best friend because this kid has the hots for my daughter.

Kissing Jolie’s cheek, I say, “Emmaline is going to take you to the hotel, and I’ll be back in an hour.” Emmaline takes Jolie from my arms, clearly annoyed.

“Bye, Emmaline. Nice to meet you… again,” Brooke says and lifts a manicured brow at me.

The cat is obviously out of the bag, and if Emmaline’s brother finds out, I’m a dead man. I’ll put up a fight but usually the one who wins the fight is the one who’s raging.

Reed lifts a questioning brow. “I’ll walk them back to the hotel. Tell Shearer we’ll hang out when they come to Atlanta.” Then he asks me, “What auto shop did you take Emmaline’s car to?”

And with a short laugh, he walks his family and mine back to the hotel. Fuck. Rustavelli must have told him about the car. Now Brooke and Reed know that I’m having sex or, at the minimum, had sex with Rustavelli’s sister and my current nanny.

Roman and Snow go with me to meet Shearer at a local hole in the wall bar. I have a drink which is against the medical staff’s orders, but I made the game-winning shot. It has to count for something.

“Thought you were told not to drink,” Rustavelli says.

“God, you’re worse than your sister.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? She’s doing you a favor, so don’t you dare talk about her like she’s pestering you.”

He has a point, but my point is to throw him off our trail. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a trail. Shearer asks, “So… you’ve got two new wingers. ”

“Yeah, this asshole didn’t even defend me. Thank God for Cross,” I say, downing the beer and scowling at Rustavelli. “If you’re not going to score, the least you can do is defend your center.”

“Fuck you, Wynward. You know I can’t get into a major fight, or I’ll be kicked off the team.” Rustavelli runs his fingers through his black hair and laces them behind his neck. He walks around before stopping in front of me. “Never question my manhood again. Cross took care of it and if I thought for a second he wouldn’t, I’d be the first one to jump in. But you can’t expect me to end my career for you.”

“Ownership put a fighting clause in your contract?”

Under his breath, he mutters, “Yeah.”

Damn, that complicates things because I know I’m going to forgive Emmaline for pushing me in a closet. Forgetting about her will be impossible since she’s my daughter’s nanny. Her bare feet on my floor. Flour on my counters. Her scent lingering on the couch. Those damn Jujitsu moves.

“How’s your sister?” I ask Shearer to throw Rustavelli off the trail. “Didn’t she cheer for the Stallions?”

“She moved here a few years ago. Practicing law and dancing for the Fireflies.”

“Dating anyone?”

“Me or my sister?” he asks. “Did you change teams?”

Roman almost spits out his beer, laughing so hard.

I roll my eyes. “Well, if you’re not dating anyone, Roman here is available.”

He punches me in the arm, and I end up coughing into my hand, roaring with laughter .

“I’m not dating anyone, but I’m straight.” He glances at Roman. “My sister is engaged to a stockbroker. He’s not a bad guy but always wants to drink fine wine and meat that isn’t cooked. Orders his fucking steak rare.”

“Fuck. That’s bad.”

“Yeah, Rustavelli, you want your sister to marry a professional athlete. I can’t even invite them over to watch a freaking game. He has to comment on my lack of décor and my poor taste in snacks.”

Shearer is the rare Kentucky-born professional hockey player. Basketball is king on that campus with football not far behind. Brooke’s dad was our coach and although there’s a dozen of us in the pros over the last eight years, Shearer is the only one from Kentucky.

“I’m not letting my sister anywhere near us narcissistic assholes,” Roman grumbles.

“Speak for yourself,” I say. She’ll be in my house every single day. Near me.

“Emmaline works for you, but you know better than to make a move on her.”

“I do.” I do know better, but we’ve already crossed the line. The question is whether we decide to be a couple and tell everyone. I’m not hiding. Or whether we put our attraction aside for all our sakes. It’s scary as hell to dive into a relationship but the feelings are real.

Shearer buys another round and asks if we want to go downtown. I’m not feeling well. The headache is back with a vengeance. Of course, I don’t tell them. “Sorry, I need to get back to the hotel and check on my daughter and give Emmaline a break.”

“Yeah, I’ll text her and see if she wants to meet us,” Rustavelli says.

I don’t respond. Instead, I focus on the pickup app and order a car. “Shearer, Stallions forever. See ya tomorrow on the ice.”

“Yeah, man. Let’s catch up at the Stallions reunion next summer.”

A few months ago, Brooke mentioned her dad was putting a reunion together for all the guys he coached to celebrate the success of the program. Now that he brought I up, I do remember receiving an email to add to my calendar. My life has changed so much in the last month, but I hope to attend.

I take a swallow of the IPA and slap Roman on the back, then hug Shearer. “I’ll be there.”

“No hug for your favorite winger?” Rustavelli asks.

“You’re not even my favorite right winger,” I quip.

He hides behind a fake smile. I recognize it a mile away. I’ve put that smile on for years. Should I have said it? No. But it’s the truth. Flynn from my college days or Jusic from my third and fourth years are the highest on my list of right wingers.

“There may be a way for you to move into that position though. I’ll let you know when it’s time. My ride is here.”

“Already?”

“Yep.”

Lie.

The cold air gives me whiplash when I leave the bar. I start walking and adjust my pickup location to the diner across the street, figuring I need food. The ground seems unsteady under my feet, and I’m aware that I’m staggering but can’t seem to straighten. After ordering a greasy burger to go, the service I use when I’m out of town is a high-end pickup company for athletes and celebrities pulls up to the curb.

It’s only a ten-minute ride to my hotel. Nashville traffic from the bar scene to downtown is like rush hour in Atlanta. When he drops me off, the hotel employee opens the door for me.

“Do you need help, sir?”

Why would I need help? “No.”

Three people stop me on the way to the private elevator. I sign my name but hell, they won’t be able to read it. The fans look odd. Their faces are blurry.

I wave the key card over the lock repeatedly when I get to the penthouse floor, and it doesn’t click, so I knock. Emmaline opens the door and catches me as I fall into her capable arms and smell her beachy shampoo. Why does she have to smell so good?