2. Mallory

Inever thought that the first time I flew first class it would be with a nine-month-old, bruised ribs, and a court-ordered temporary custody agreement. But yet, here we are. And spoiler alert, if you think the angry stares you get when your child wails in economy are embarrassing, you should see the ones you get in first class.

“Dyllie Bear, these people didn’t pay thousands to listen to your lungs,” I whisper against his ear as I pat his back and pray to any and all powers that be for him to stop wailing.

The man in the pod-like seat across the aisle gives me a sympathetic smile. “He was excellent most of the flight.”

“Thank you,” I whisper back, which he probably doesn’t even hear because Dylan decides to raise the decibel to migraine levels with his next scream.

Someone sighs, annoyed. I think it’s the woman behind me who either has never had a kid or doesn’t remember what it’s like. Or maybe rich babies don’t scream on flights. What do I know?

Luckily we are seconds from landing, which is probably why he’s screaming. His ears are likely popping up a storm. Dylan has had a lot of ear trouble. He’s only nine months but he’s had three severe ear infections. Diana and Felix were discussing possibly putting tubes in his ears.

Now that will be his father’s decision. If he wants Dylan.

My eyes fill with tears and I blink them back because the last thing I need is to look as lost and hopeless as I feel. We have to get through customs and the situation is already precarious. The baby isn”t mine. Dylan”s mother is dead and I was given temporary custody by a foreign court. Also, Dylan doesn”t have a US passport yet. The man Diana wanted to raise Dylan, the man who promised to, swore everything would be fine as he shoved a stack of paperwork, and a first-class, one-way ticket at me.

I look at Dylan”s blotchy, wet face and cradle the back of his head. He”s got silky blond hair. Thicker and lusher than I would have expected him to have. He hasn”t lost any either like some babies do. I know the color is from Diana, but the thickness and texture are from his dad. I had my fingers laced through that hair only once in my life but I remember how thick and soft it felt.

I shake my head to rid it of the memory that has so many mixed emotions still attached to it. It was a mistake. The biggest of my life. It changed the course of everything, for Tate and Diana and me. And I’ve spent a good chunk of each day since that ill-fated night to think about how wrong it was. I don’t think Tate or Diana thought about it much at all.

To be fair, Diana had been busy trying to string together an entirely new life for her and Dylan. And Tate was busy being the prince of the hockey rink. I googled him, for the first time in months, while I sat in the hospital bed after the crash. Tate was having an epic year on the ice. The L.A. Quake were guaranteed a playoff spot, maybe even top of their division. He’s also about to beat some record his dad has held, which knowing Tate the way I do… I did… it’s gotta have him buzzing with excitement and pride.

I know Tate”s personal success hinges on beating his dad. It”s a rivalry he takes seriously and lives entirely in his own head. Mr. Garrison would love nothing more than to see Tate crush his own career, so it”s not an actual rivalry. I”ve always thought Tate”s attitude created a slight level of toxicity. One that he should be grateful isn”t there naturally, like it is in my family.

My dad also played hockey professionally. Not as long or as well as Jordan Garrison, and so I know of what I speak. My father, Chance Echolls, constantly feels threatened by my brother Emmett who plays and at the very same time makes both me and my brother Beckett feel inadequate for not being involved with, or obsessed with, hockey.

Dylan sniffles loudly. I kiss his forehead, warm with the exertion of crying, and the landing gear slams into contact with the ground. Dylan wails again. “It’s okay buddy. That means we’re on the ground again. Your ears will be fine soon. I promise.”

They better be because we don’t have healthcare here, I think to myself. We technically don’t have anything.

My blood chills with the weight of what I have to do. Present Tate, my unrequited former crush, with a baby that is his, but isn”t mine. A child he knew absolutely nothing about. A child I helped keep from him. And then I have to beg him to accept Dylan. Because the poor kid has no one else in this God-forsaken world.

Okay. Yeah. I”m tearing up. I sniff and blink as people begin unbuckling their seatbelts and yanking down their overhead baggage. The kind middle-aged man across the aisle leans in. ”You”re doing great, Mom. Do you want me to hold him while you get your bag?”

I nod, not bothering to correct him about the mom part. This story is too horrendous to burden a stranger with. I wish I was Dylan’s mom because I love him, unconditionally, just like Diana did. And if I was his mom, he would have someone. Right now, he has no one.

I quickly unbuckle as the kind man plucks Dylan from me and puts him on his hip like a pro, then stand and grab my bag from the overhead compartment. I have three extra-large suitcases to pick up and a car seat, but I will deal with that later. I can strap Dylan to my chest for that part. The carrier is in my bag. I quickly take him back and he blabbers something in his baby language. ”He says thank you for the help. You”re too kind.”

“I’m just kind.” The guy shrugs. “You look like someone who would do the same.”

If only you knew.

I smile, grateful, and he motions for me to go ahead of him as the flight attendant opens the door and people begin to disembark. I have a new task to deal with and luckily Dylan has stopped wailing. He’s tired now so he rests his chubby cheek on my shoulder as soon as I get him strapped into his carrier. I didn’t bring a lot of his stuff because there just wasn’t room. If Tate agrees to accept him, he’ll have more than enough money to buy Dylan new toys and baby items.

By the time we get to the front of the customs line, I”m almost quaking with anxiety. I mean, I”m not doing anything illegal, but I”ve never crossed into another country with a baby before, let alone one that isn”t mine. The guy glances at us and his face lights up at Dylan”s still-red face with wet cheeks and droopy eyes.

“Rough flight?” he asks and shoots me a sympathetic smile.

I nod. He takes my passport and Dylan’s, which has his back stiffening because Dylan’s is a United Kingdom passport and mine is American. “I’m the nanny.”

I hand him the file folder the lawyer gave me at Felix’s law firm. He opens it and glances at the paperwork inside. “I have to call my boss.”

I nod. There”s nothing else I can do. If they deny Dylan entry I will just take him back to Diana”s sister in the UK. She said she couldn”t take him. Told Diana flat-out not to make her a guardian or Godparent, so Diana didn”t. And when she found out about the accident, and that Felix was not going to adopt Dylan like he”d promised when he asked Diana to marry him, Stephanie cried with me on the phone. ”I”m pregnant with my own kid. I can”t… Jonathan says it would be unfair to our baby. I”m sorry Mal. But if you want him, I will support you in the process. Adopt him yourself and we will help you. I promise.”

That was tempting but also not the right thing to do. Dylan had a biological parent and I had to do what Diana refused to do when she was alive—give Tate a chance to be a dad if he wanted it.

Now I rock from foot to foot as I wait for the customs agent to return with someone who can decide what happens next. My brain goes straight into panic mode. I will not let them take him from me. There will be an international incident if they try. It would be a shame if I survived a car wreck just to die at the hands of customs and immigration, but I will risk getting shot to keep Dylan out of the system.

The customs agent comes back and hands me the documents, with an additional stamped thing he staples into Dylan”s passport. ”He can only be in the country for three months.”

“Okay yeah.”

“When do his parents join him?”

“His dad is already here,” I say. “I’m delivering him and his dad is an American citizen so he’ll get the baby’s US passport. He was just born in the UK.”

“Okay.” The guy doesn’t seem to give a shit, which is fine by me. “If he gets that passport, he can stay, obviously. You file the paperwork online.”

Next hurdle, baggage claim. I immediately head straight for a cart, so I can load up all the bags I have to collect. But I am stopped by the crowd at the exit door from customs. It’s all friends and family of the arriving passengers, and a few drivers holding signs with names. And one of those signs says Mallory Echolls.

I walk over to the guy in the black suit and cap. “Hi. I’m Mallory.”

He looks at me and blinks. “Oh. I wasn’t informed there would be a baby. I… I don’t have a car seat in the limo.”

“It’s okay. I brought one,” I reply and then his words sink in. “There’s a limo? For me? Why?”

He smiles, and I realize this is Los Angeles. The dude has probably driven actual real-life celebrities and now he”s got some country bumpkin with a baby and he thinks I”m adorably naive. ”Mr. Tate Garrison hired me to drive you to the Quake Arena. You”ll arrive after the game starts but apparently, if I drop you at Gate E, the player entrance, they”ll escort you inside and you will be able to watch the game from the friends and family lounge.”

Oh. Wow. I blink and nod and then freeze. Oh shit.

“I don’t want to watch the game,” I say. He stares, more confused than ever.

“Umm… okay well I was paid to deliver you to the arena.”

“He didn’t tell me that he was doing this.”

“Probably a surprise.” The driver is starting to look slightly disgruntled. “Look, I would say call him but if he’s a hockey player and there’s a game… I mean I don’t watch hockey. I’m a basketball fan myself, but I don’t think they answer phones during games, right?”

I nod. Dylan lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh. Okay so this is unexpected but the driver part is a blessing. One step at a time, Mallory, I repeat the mantra I”ve had echoing in my head since I woke up in the upside-down car. ”Okay well, we need a cart. I have lots of bags.”

He nods, drops his sign, and marches to the carts. Forty minutes later my bags are loaded in his limo, which is actually a blackout SUV, not some eighties stretch job. I had to put one of the bags in the front passenger seat because they didn”t all fit in the trunk, but the driver doesn”t seem to mind. I get Dylan strapped into the back of his car seat and belt myself in next to him. The ride is long because of the traffic, but the driver is nice, and after a little bit of small talk leaves me alone. He”s stocked the back with water and I plug in my phone to one of his charging cables sip water and watch LA”s scenery fly by.

I’ve only ever been here once before, but I was and still am amazed by how flat and grid-like it is. Until it isn’t. Los Angeles can feel like blocks and blocks of concrete buildings and boulevards and then suddenly, bam, there”s a breathtaking ocean. Or bam, there are rolling hills and jungle-like canyons. It”s chaotic and beautiful, overwhelming and zen. It”s one extreme or the other, which is why I”ve never met anyone who says Los Angeles is just okay. They either love it or hate it.

Tate loves it, which when he first came back to Silver Bay after his rookie season, surprised me. He’s a small-town Maine boy through and through but loved LA. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about it was why I agreed to go when Diana wanted to visit him. She wanted sex. I wanted to see what made his eyes light up.

“Okay, so I was told to deliver you to this gate. They’re expecting you,” the driver says as he pulls into the parking lot for the arena, which is in downtown Los Angeles. “I will unload the bags while you talk to security. They should have a badge for you, and the kid I guess.”

“Not the kid,” I mutter as I unbuckle my seat belt and reach over to undo Dylan’s harnesses. “The kid is a surprise guest.”

“Oookaayyy…” He clearly thinks something is utterly sketchy about this now, and I don’t blame him.

I leave the driver to unload my stuff and walk to the big dude in a black security shirt at the barrier at the entrance. “I’m Mallory Echolls.”

“Right. Guest of Tate Garrison.” The guy nods. “Sadly you missed the whole game. The third ends in two minutes, but you can still go in and wait for him in the lounge. He will be expecting you.”

He glances up at the sleeping blob that is Dylan. I’ve strapped him to my chest again in his Baby Bjorn. “I forgot to mention I was bringing a guest,” I say.

“He’s too little to get his own badge anyway,” the guy replies and slides a badge at me.

I take it with tentative fingers. “I don’t want to go to the lounge. Is there somewhere private I could wait for Tate?”

“I… I mean…”

Who turns down VIP access to a friends and family lounge? No one. I remember when my dad was still playing it was like a wonderland. There was a gleaming free bar for the adults and a candy table for the kids filled with bowls of colorful sweet treats. There were TVs on every wall, expensive comfy furniture. And I’m saying no. Why? Because too many people will ask questions when they see me with a baby.

A baby that undeniably looks a lot like one of their star players. Add my last name to that list of red flags. My dad and Uncle Beau played hockey and although they weren’t record crushers or even Stanley Cup winners like the Garrisons, they are still active in the league. My dad is the General Manager for the Brooklyn Barons and my uncle coaches for the Quebec Nationals. And die-hard fans on message boards still talk about how Jordan Garrison once punched Chance Echolls in an off-ice incident.

“Where do the players park? Can I wait there?”

He twists his face up like I’m insane. “You want to wait in the garage? With your baby? Instead of the lounge?”

“Yes please.”

He stares. The driver rolls my bags, with the car seat balanced precariously on one of the suitcases, over to me. The security guy’s eyes widen at the pile of bags. He pulls up a walkie-talkie. “I’ll get someone to help you to the restricted level where the players park. And I’ll let Mr. Garrison know.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

After a few minutes, a guy appears with a flat trolley. He stacks my luggage and ushers me into an elevator with him and my stuff. It opens onto a floor with a security guard who nods and asks me if I want a chair. He doesn”t have one but he can find one.

“No thank you. I’ve been sitting for a very long flight. I need to stand.” I smile shakily. The fact is I’m too nervous to sit. This is it. Tate is going to know the truth in a matter of moments.

I am about to blow his world up forever. Having a son might be a good thing, in the long run. I fully believe Tate will become a great, responsible dad. But right now it will feel like I’m ruining his life. He will hate me and that may not go away, ever. I own that. I accept it. I would accept anything if it meant Dylan gets to be safe and happy with a family who loves him. And the Garrisons will love him. I know my parents hate them, but I don’t. I see how much they love each other. Dylan will be fine once Tate accepts him. “Please accept him, Tate,” I whisper to myself.