Chapter 1

Three Years Four Months Later

"D on't sulk," Maddie says, giving me a pointed look. "I gave you all the notice I could. I am literally telling you the day after I found out."

"I mean, in that case, you could have told me yesterday," I grumble.

Amelia sits on my lap; she's so into watching Blippi on the television that she barely knows I'm holding her as he talks about excavators and dump trucks. Things I sure as hell didn't think my toddler girl would love, yet here we are. Between construction sites and Highland cows, I don't know which the kid loves more.

"I'm not pouting, I swear," I mutter, lying through my teeth. I am pouting. How could I not be?

Maddie has been Amelia's nanny since she was a week old. She basically taught me how to be a dad. I didn't know how to change a diaper or prepare a bottle. I sure as fuck didn't know what to do during those nights when she was sick and cried for hours at a time or when she had an ear infection and needed to be rushed to the hospital. But Maddie was there, and she held my hand through it.

Maddie is the oldest child in a family of six. Growing up, she helped to raise her siblings, and she was young—just twenty years old—when she started for me three-plus years ago, but she's the best. Most importantly, I can trust her with my baby.

"You are," she calls from the sink, washing sippy cups and putting them on the drying rack. "You can't hate me. I've cried too much already, thinking about not seeing Amy day in and day out." She sniffles. "For over three years, I've been here every day."

I rub Amelia's back gently before tucking her hair behind her ears. Long blonde curls spiral down her back. I'm sure everyone thinks this about their kid, but she really is the cutest child on earth. And the coolest too.

Being a single dad and a professional athlete isn't easy. It's hard to juggle all the balls and keep them in the air at the same time, but Maddie helps me do it. She travels to a lot of our away games so that I don't have to leave Amelia here in Maine, in case she gets sick and needs me. She practically moved in here, so she's around when I have those early morning practices. That way, I don't have to wake up a sleeping toddler. She prepares dinner most nights of the week and picks up the slack when I can't get to everything—and all while taking online college classes.

Aside from cleaning—because I have a house cleaner for that—she keeps things running smoothly.

Now, she's graduated college, and she's leaving for her dream job somewhere out west. She's got a bright future for sure. But, Christ, with preseason starting next month, finding a new Maddie in time isn't going to be easy, especially when I don't trust anyone with my kid.

Wiping her hands off on a towel, Maddie makes her way over toward us, collapsing onto the seat next to me before reaching for Amelia and pulling her into her arms. "I don't want you to be mad, Logan. You've done so much for me, and I know this puts you in a hard spot." She swallows anxiously. "A really hard spot."

I can't be mad at her. I have no right. After all, this woman made it so that I had the ability to continue playing in the NHL after becoming a single father overnight. I was so fucking overwhelmed with no idea what I was doing as a parent. That was when Coach told me his niece was looking for a job and would make a helluva nanny. She somehow balanced everything—basically mothering Amelia, traveling with me, and attending college. I have no clue how she did it; all I know is that she did. And for that, I can't be angry.

"I'm not mad at you, I swear," I tell her, resting my head on the back of the couch. "You're just going to be hard to replace—that's all. Amy loves you; you've become family to us." I give her a small, reassuring smile. "I'll figure it out though. I'm happy for you, really."

Her eyes grow misty, and she pulls her glasses off. "Don't make me cry again." She squeezes Amelia tighter. "I'm still going to visit."

"I know," I say, knowing that after she moves out west, we won't be seeing her much.

Everyone always says they'll visit, but then life happens. She's going to be busy, and that's okay.

"The good news is, I don't leave for a few weeks." She gives me a devious smirk. "Which means I'm picking my own replacement."

"I get the final say though," I say even though I know she'd likely never choose anyone that I wasn't okay with anyway. She loves my daughter like her own.

" Blippi is over," Amelia says, poking her lip out. "Put him back on."

"More Blippi ?" I reach for her hand, waving it up and down. "Or an ice cream with your extremely funny and good-looking dad?"

" Blippi ," she says, looking at me.

"That didn't go how I planned," I mutter.

"No, wait. Ice cream and Blippi ." She flings herself forward onto my lap. "And Daddy!"

Maddie stands. Leaning toward Amelia, she kisses the top of her head. "See you tomorrow, hon." She looks at me, amusement all over her face. "More Blippi . You're in for a fun night."

"You're the one who introduced her to him," I grumble. "Now, I know all of his songs. People can make fun of the dude all they want, but he's gotta be rolling in the dough."

"We can get you one of those hats and some geeky pants and suspenders." She shrugs. "Get you a show of your very own."

"If things go to shit with hockey, I'll keep that in mind," I toss back as she heads for the door. "See you tomorrow. Try not to come bearing more bad news."

"You said a bad word, Daddy. Go put a quarter in my jar," Amelia says, widening her eyes at me. "You said shit ."

I fight a smile, but it's really damn hard. "Now, we both have to put a quarter in, kid. So, how about we just call it even, and neither of us puts one in? Because I'm pretty sure you have no money."

"Fine, Daddy." She gives me a serious look. "But next time, I'm making you put dis many quarters in." She holds up five fingers.

"Wow! How much do you think the NHL pays your old man anyway?" I hang my mouth open. "Geesh, you're trying to take all my money." I bop her nose with my finger. "Now, let's go pick out our ice cream."

She slides down from the couch, her little feet padding along the floor. When she gets to the freezer, I cringe when she yanks the door open. For a teeny three-year-old, the kid is strong.

"Easy, girl." I laugh. "I don't want to have to buy a new freezer. With the amount of ice cream you made me buy and that dang swear jar, it's been a costly week."

Grabbing the cones from the pantry, I open the utensil drawer and get a scoop. "What flavor tonight, Princess A?"

"The ones with the fishies in it, Daddy." She grabs her step stool, pushing it toward the sideboard. "A big scoop. Not a baby scoop because I am not a baby."

"Yes, ma'am." I smile, grabbing the pint of Ben I just need some time to figure out what's stopping me from being able to crank the words out the way that I used to.

Or … any words at all.

My phone makes a dinging noise, and I pull it from my pocket to see my friend Poppy's name.

I met Poppy over a year ago at a kickboxing class. Neither of us had ever done it before, and somehow, we hit it off instantly. Poppy can come off kind of hard, and she's known to be a smart-ass, but she has the kindest heart. She's also married to a professional hockey player, who is the center for the New England Bay Sharks here in Portland. Even though her husband is loaded and she is a big-deal dancer, you'd never know it because they are both extremely humble.

Poppy: How goes the writing?

Poppy: You crushing that word count? Making that keyboard your bitch?

Poppy: Is that author slang? Or do I just sound stupid?

Me: Not so much. Took a break for a beverage. Now, I'm thinking about cheese-stuffed breadsticks from Maria's.

Poppy: Say less.

Poppy: I should tell you to sit your ass back down and write, but I'm a selfish, hungry bitch. I want some of those meatballs.

Me: Meet me there in twenty?

Poppy: 10-4. Over and out.

Me: You do realize we aren't communicating through walkie-talkies, right?

Poppy: Don't ruin the moment. See you in fifteen.

Me: I said twenty.

Of course, she sends back the clock emoji, telling me to hurry my ass up. Looking down at the clothes I slept in, I head for my room. One thing I've always loved about being a writer is that I can stay in my pajamas all day long. Only soon, I might have to actually wash my hair and look presentable if I can't actually write a damn story.

Dressing hurriedly, I drag a brush through my long, dark hair and pull it into a ponytail. As I head toward the door, I shoot my computer a glare.

"This isn't over," I grumble before opening the door. Because … cheese-stuffed breadsticks.