Chapter 7

seven

brYCE

Somehow, I keep my breathing steady, even though it feels like butter churning inside me. It’s her. My pulse races like it hasn’t in close to a decade.

This time, there isn’t a hat hiding her eyes or her auburn hair. It falls over her shoulders like it did that night. It’s Rusti with the body of a woman. My teammate’s sister is the woman from my rookie year. No wonder I felt that zing when we touched.

Breathing in her seductive scent, I’m transported back to the night we spent together. It’s sweet and spicy, like our night. The only one-night stand I’ve never been able to forget. The air is heavy as I admit to being overwhelmed by the to-do list that gets longer by the minute.

Does she remember? We were both drinking, but there has never been a night where I wanted a repeat.

Another night.

Until Rusti.

But why did she call herself Rusti ?

I can’t help but stare. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. And because I’m a mumbling, fumbling mess, I say, “You look different with hair… you had a hat on when you took care of Jolie at the game.” God, it’s like I can’t remember who I am. Tornado-force winds move through my stomach. She ignores the comment so I can’t bring up our night together, not here, not now. I’m here for Jolie.

“So, do you go by Emmaline?” I ask, hoping to gain some insight into why she lied about her name that night. If she hadn’t lied, and I had told her who I was, maybe we could have seen each other again.

“Usually.” She glances at me with a slight shrug of her shoulders before showing me into the kid’s therapy room. “This is where I will talk to kids who might have something weighing on their mind. Today is my first day so I only had time to bring a few things. But I want to make it cozy and welcoming so they will be more likely to open up to me.”

All I do is nod as I survey the space as well as her ass as she bends over, rifling through a stack of papers. Then she hands me a brochure. “I’d love to have Jolie here. She’s been put in a stressful situation.”

I burst out, “How did you do it? How did you get her to hug you? She hasn’t said a word to me since she arrived.”

Embarrassment pinkens her cheeks. “She didn’t speak to me either.”

“But she hugged you.” My tone sounds defensive. I raise my hands and drop them with a thick and burdened exhale.

The skin around her eyes relaxes, and she gives me a soft smile. “Give her time.”

Time is one thing I don’t have. I’m in the middle of hockey season, and that brings on other responsibilities like my contractual obligations to show up at premieres, launches of products, commercials, and Jet Days where we attend lunches with business owners in Atlanta who sponsor the arena and giveaways.

Spotting the digital clock on the wall on the gym as we walk out, I realize I only have twenty minutes to get to the arena. “I have to go. Do you mind if I follow up with you about Jolie?”

“Do you have my number?”

“I do.” She’s in my phone as Rustavelli’s sister . Rustavelli. Rusti. A grin spreads across my face. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” I take two steps backward.

“Okay. Don’t hesitate to call me about… Jolie.”

Emmaline rubs her lips together, and I watch the slight quiver of her mouth and red marks climbing her porcelain neck. She remembers. I’ll never forget the flush on her face and how her cheeks pinkened as she was sated. After a few more backward steps, I turn around and exit Admire Academy with a broad smile stretching across my face. My one-night stand has a real name, Emmaline.

The locker room always smells fresh on Mondays after the cleaning crew has almost forty-eight hours to air out the smell of sweat. Earlier today, we watched a film of our last opponent with the coaches pointing out errors we made and how to correct them. We’re professionals and know what we do wrong, but it’s always good for the coaches to remind us.

After changing into a fresh uniform, a hair and makeup artist comes prepares me for the commercial shoot for the hockey stick manufacturer. Most people don’t realize that a legendary bat manufacturer makes hockey sticks as well. The company is hoping that if I represent them, they’ll become more well-known in the professional area. It’s been an adjustment using a different brand, but they have worked with me to manufacture my sticks to my exact specifications.

I step onto the ice as the camera crew sets up their equipment and hangs the camera on the cable that stretches across the hockey arena, catching the speed and action of me and my blades. As far as shooting commercials goes, this one is quick and easy. Only two hours.

By the time I pick up Jolie from Reed’s, I still have no idea what I’m doing with her. Women have never consumed my mind, yet the only thoughts I have are of Jolie and Rusti. I’m having a hard time thinking of her as Emmaline.

“Hey, how was she?” I ask.

Reed sticks the needle of a pump inside the basketball, pushing the lever and the ball. “There. That should work for a day or two.” He smiles seemingly proud of himself. “Brooke said Jolie didn’t talk, but she laughed with Cannon and loved playing with the baby.”

“Good. Do you happen to remember who we played my rookie year when you and the rest of the Stallions crew came down for Lettie’s show jumping competition?”

Reed grabs a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, which is covered with custom wood cabinets. Their home is welcoming and comfortable. Big, comfy couches, lots of pillows, and lots of plants. He twists the plastic tops off and throws them into the trashcan, which is also hidden in the cabinets.

“The Los Angeles Vipers. I remember Rustavelli was a rookie and on the second line behind Josh Kinnard. Why?”

Ignoring his question, I say, “My brother’s birthday strangles me every year, and I was fucked up. Was I being an asshole that night?”

What if Emmaline, a.k.a. Rusti thought I was a douchebag? What if it wasn’t as good for her as it was for me? She made all the right sounds, and her body reacted to me like a well-trained rider of a bucking bronco. Where the fuck was Rustavelli? Why did he let his sister go to a bar where professional athletes prey?

“You were depressed until you saw the redhead. When you came back, you seemed lighter, not as depressed. Of course, that may be because you were sucking face with her. Wish you would have gotten her number because the girls fucking loved her.”

I have it now. Eight years too late.

The gears inside my head are turning, clicking, going backward, then churning forward as I try to recall more than the dancing and sex. Obviously, Reed didn’t recognize her at the hockey game when she took care of Jolie. At this point, I’m going to keep the redhead’s identity to myself.

Her brother and I have put our past arguments on the ice behind us. Rustavelli, along with Cross and me are a phenomenal tandem on the ice. I can’t risk him finding out and disrupting our team chemistry.

“Maybe now that I have a little girl, I can do something more constructive on his birthday and the day he passed.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. But yeah, now that you’re a family man…” He tips his water to me. “You need to celebrate with tea parties.” A laugh bounces out his throat.

“Fuck you.”

“There’s our grump, but don’t knock it until you try it. Carly has me wrapped around her little finger and Christina too, but right now, I just hold her all the time. No teacups or tiaras, yet. We better go see what Canon and Jolie are into. Brooke took Carly and Christina to the doctor.”

We gallop down to the basement where Cannon and Jolie are jumping on the couch. She has the most innocent laugh. They jump two or three times and then fall on their backs on the large, comfy couches. Jolie’s little body bounces up, and her arms flail like a goose trying to get off the ground.

Reed interrupts the fun. “Cannon, where are Jolie’s shoes? Her dad is here.”

Suddenly, Jolie’s eyes are void of emotion in direct contrast to the laughter that filled the room only moments ago.

Cannon grabs Jolie’s hand and drags her behind him and into another room. “Aww, they’re fast friends,” Reed says as they come out with her dress shoes.

“Hey, Jolie,” I crouch in front of her. “Did you have a good time?” I know she did. I heard her.

Two blinks. Thank God.

“Can you tell Cannon thank you for playing?” I ask.

One blink. No. But Cannon runs into her like a truck and puts his arms around her. “Mommy said you might go to my school,” he says, earning him a close-lipped smile from Jolie.

“Tell Brooke thank you for keeping her today. My head is swimming from information overload. How do you know what’s best for your child?” I turn my back to Jolie and whisper, “What if I mess her up?”

The thundering footsteps of Cannon and Jolie echo through the basement as they race up the stairs.

Reed chuckles. “I hate to tell you but life as you have lived it… is over. But I promise you’ll be happier than you ever were.”

“Fuck. I like my life,” I grunt like my words are sliding against sandpaper.

“Sometimes the life you want isn’t the life you need. And don’t forget I know who you were in college when you were with Andrea. You’re not the same now,” he says earnestly in a concerned tone.

“I liked you better when you were a brooding asshole,” I joke, but we both know I don’t mean it.

Jolie and I leave the Crosses, and we head to Dick’s Sporting Goods. This little lady needs some sweatpants and t-shirts. But of course, she blinks once to everything.

“Jolie, please talk to me. You can have anything in this store you want. Just point to what you want.”

What little girl doesn’t want to go clothes shopping? Based on Francesca’s looks and Jolie’s wardrobe, I assume she shops all the time. Out of nowhere, Jolie has a meltdown. Screaming at the top of her lungs, garnering attention from shoppers, employees, and security. It occurs to me that Jolie might say I’m not her dad. Hell, I know she won’t. She may not even know my name.

I swing her up into my arms and tuck her head against my chest as I practically run out of the store, buckle her into her car seat that Reed helped me put in the car, and a grumble comes from my chest. I look at her red eyes and her wet cheeks. “Jolie, what am I doing wrong?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and buries her head into the side of the car seat. I slam the back door, hop into the driver’s seat, and peel out of the parking lot without any new clothes.

What in the hell am I going to do with a mute daughter who hates me?