I could find you when this is over.
His last in-person words to her, spoken in the middle of a dark train station alley in Yekaterinburg over six weeks ago.
He hadn’t imagined they might come true.
Had intended on leaving them there, a what-if that could never materialize, except in his dreams.
Only, this wasn’t a dream, was it? Because Gustov was playing a game of chess and York hadn’t a clue to his next move.
He’d call it a nightmare.
“Are you hurt?” He cradled RJ’s pretty face, running his thumbs over her cheekbones, meeting her eyes.
She pressed her hands to his. “I’m fine. Are you?”
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on your ranch?” He blew out a shaky breath. “What if I hadn’t been able to get to you?”
Her eyes widened, and shoot—that wasn’t what he wanted to say at all.
No. What he wanted to do was pull her to himself and kiss her, oblivious to the onlookers and even her mother, who was standing three feet away.
Probably not a great idea, even though the woman was averting her eyes as if trying to give them a moment. Especially if he wanted to keep his heart from careening off the edge, taking her hand, and simply making a run for…well, anywhere.
Off the map, forever.
Yeah, if he could, he’d simply disappear with RJ. Change their names.
Erase their pasts.
Live happily ever after as John and Sally Smith.
“What am I doing here? I thought you texted me. I thought you needed me,” RJ said.
Oh, and…okay, yes, he did. Because just being around her made him feel less…less alone. He wanted this woman in his life—and the realization of it could take him out at the knees. Especially if Gustov won.
So he ignored her statement and the hurt in her eyes, cutting his voice low to focus on right now.
Not tomorrows.
Not what-ifs.
Not the fact that he was in way over his head. “So you got the same text I did—the one telling you to meet me at the hotel?”
“Yeah. This morning, early. I…I texted you back and even tried to call, but I got no answer.”
“That’s because I didn’t send it.” He took her hands in his, met her eyes. “I was so worried. When I got off the plane, I got your text, but I had your number, so I knew it wasn’t from you. I knew—”
“Gustov sent it.”
“Maybe. Probably. He stole Kat’s SIM card—probably got the phone numbers off that and used them to text us.”
“Coco? You saw her?” This from RJ’s mother. She was pretty too. Curly brown hair tied back in a bandanna. She wore an oversized flannel shirt, leggings, and running shoes.
“Yeah, actually. She’s with Wyatt, on her way to Seattle.”
The woman’s eyes widened.
York stuck out his hand. “I’m York, by the way.”
“Gerri Marshall.” She took his hand. “Thank you for helping get my daughter out of Russia.”
Oh, that. His mouth lifted in a smile. “Yeah, well, she was doing just fine on her own.”
“Hardly,” RJ said. “So Coco is okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She seems to be on the mend. The past month she’s been staying with the sister of David Curtiss—we met him in Moscow, remember? Sarai is an American doctor and she and her husband live in Khabarovsk...”
Gerri was pressing her hand to her heart. “Where is she?”
“I’m not sure. But I know where she will be.” He stopped there, not sure exactly how much he should say.
“Why would Gustov text us to meet him—and then kill my boss?” RJ said. “I’ve been texting her for the better part of six weeks, and she never once texted me back. Has she been dead all this time?”
“She hasn’t been dead for that long, given the smell and the color of the blood.”
“She was killed to send me a message,” RJ said.
“Or used to frame you for murder.”
“Which means Gustov is here, in Seattle.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. If he’s working with the Bratva, he could have simply had one of their associates kill her.”
“The Bratva,” Gerri said. “The Russian mob is behind this?”
“Members wear a star tattoo on their bodies,” York said. “The guy who attacked us on the train wore a star tattoo, so yes, we think they’re involved somehow.”
“Do you think Sophia figured it out? Maybe the rogue CIA group that framed me is also behind this.”
“I don’t know what to think. Just that…” Okay, fine. York gave in to the urge to draw her close, tucking her body in next to his. “I’m so glad you’re not hurt. I got the text as I was walking off the plane, and all I could think was that I was going to show up—”
“And find my dead body. Like you did Tasha’s.”
He closed his eyes. Yes. That.
She held him back, lowering her voice, soft in his ear. “This isn’t your fault, York. Just so you know that.”
“He’s making it personal.” His voice betrayed more emotion than he’d like. “He knows I…I care about you. He wants to hurt me.”
“Why would he want to hurt you?” Gerri was looking at him, frowning.
And see, this was why he shouldn’t be here, holding her daughter, allowing himself into their lives.
Because he got people he loved killed.
“The assassin who is after us also killed his girlfriend, Ma,” said RJ, pulling away from him but still meeting his eyes. “And he kissed me and sent the picture to York—”
“He kissed you?” her mother said.
She made a face.
York wanted to hit something, the memory of the picture turning his gut. “I’ve been hunting him for the past three years.”
“And now you think he’s in America,” said Gerri.
“I don’t know. But I do know he’s still playing the game. I need to get you both somewhere safe.”
“I want to see Coco,” Gerri said. “Take us to her, and then…well, we’ll talk about safety.”
“And I need to see Wyatt,” RJ said. “He has the information I need to give to Senator Jackson. She’s on the Armed Services Committee, Tate thinks she can clear my name.”
“How are you going to get close to her?”
“My brother Tate is engaged to her daughter. And she’s doing a rally in Seattle tomorrow.”
He let himself smile. “Yeah, that could work.” Please, let it work. “Let’s go.” He took her hand.
“We can take my truck,” said Gerri. “It’s back at the hotel.”
“No. If Gustov was watching, he might know your license plate number. We need to keep this easy—we’ll Uber it to the hospital.”
“The hospital—?” Gerri said.
“It’s…well, you’ll find out when we get there.” He started to lead them out of the stall, but RJ put her hands on his shoulders. Looked at her mother.
“Go watch the fish mongers.”
Gerri glanced at York. “Good thing I like you.” Then she winked and walked away, down the aisle.
“What—”
But RJ had turned to him, something sparking in her eyes. “You found me,” she said.
Then she kissed him.
And this kiss wasn’t the faux kiss she’d given him in the park in Moscow when trying to hide from authorities. Or even the one on the train, more of a release of the pent-up fear between them. No, she had a confidence in her touch, as if hearkening back to the RJ he saw standing under the streetlights, hoping to intercept the general, save his life. This RJ didn’t need rescuing, but frankly was reaching out to rescue him, because if it were up to him, he’d probably—well, he knew himself too well to let himself reach for her.
To let himself want her.
But crazily, she wanted him.
And he knew he shouldn’t, but he gave himself over to her, tired, for once, of holding himself back, of punishing himself
for his mistakes, of believing he couldn’t have this.
A life.
The house and the family and the wife and dying happily in his bed at the age of ninety.
As she moved her arms up to play with his hair, she molded herself to him, and he just hung on.
Turned them so that he could rest his hand against the wall, use it for support as he deepened his kiss.
And sure, there were fish flying around, but he ignored them and tasted the relief, the desire, the hope she gave him.
This was worth coming back to America, regardless of the cost.
He finally leaned back from her. Touched his forehead to hers.
“Syd, what are you doing?” he whispered.
“I’m welcoming you back to America, soldier.” She pressed her hand to his heart. The one pounding through his chest.
He took her hand. “The war isn’t over yet.”
“I know. But there’s the two of us now.”
And shoot, but those words sank into his bones and lit them on fire.
The two of them now.
He leaned back. “There’s something I need to tell you, RJ.”
She glanced at her mother, then back to him.
“Coco has a son. And he’s very sick. That’s why we need to go to the hospital.”
“She has a son?”
He nodded, and the words And his father is your brother hedged his lips. But he’d already overstepped once. Maybe he should let Wyatt tell the rest.
“Yeah. And I need to make sure he’s safe.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m responsible for him.”
She frowned, considering him for a long moment. Then she nodded.
But oddly, she dropped his hand as they headed back out of the market.
Wyatt was a father. More importantly, he was a father to a little boy who was probably scared and maybe in pain and alone and—
With everything inside him, he was going to be the best father on the face of the earth. Teach Mikka how to skate and shoot and if he wanted, play goalie. Read him stories, play zoom with him, tickle him, rock him to sleep.
His son would know him. Have the dad the kid deserved, starting with the fact that nothing was going to get between Wyatt and the Seattle Children’s Hospital.
Not customs.
Not a rainstorm.
And especially not his rather irate and unreasonable coach, Jace Jacobsen.
Unfortunately, Jace had spotted him at Sea-Tac Airport while loading up the team bus. Of all the bad timing…
Maybe if Wyatt had seen Jace making a beeline for him as he stood on the sidewalk waiting for his Uber, he still might have been able to dodge him.
The storm had delayed all the incoming flights, landing them one after another. They rode through it for nearly six hours, clanging and bumping through clouds and wind pockets.
At least it gave him a reason to hang on to Coco.
Will you marry me? The words had traveled out of his heart nearly to emerge from his lips a number of times, but frankly, he didn’t want to do it on a rust bucket An-12.
He wanted to propose over candlelight and dinner, do something right for a change.
In fact, he was going to do it all right, starting with making sure his son had the best medical care in the nation. According to his text from York, they’d landed in Seattle hours ago, and Mikka was already checked in.
“Marshall!”
The voice brought Wyatt around, and he drew in a long breath as Coco put a hand on his arm. “Who’s that?”
“My coach,” he said as Jace strode up to him. He looked better rested than Wyatt, had probably ridden in first class instead of on a ratty, lumpy jump seat.
Wyatt felt like he’d ridden the entire way in the luggage compartment, his ears still buzzing, and he could hardly move from the pain in his hips, thank you.
Jace wore a suit jacket, his earbuds hanging from around his neck, and radiated a sort of anger reserved for when he was contemplating pulling Wyatt from the game.
“Hey, Coach.” Wyatt kept his voice easy.
“Do you have any idea what it did to me to leave you behind in Russia?” Jace snapped. “Sheesh—in Siberia, Guns. I had nightmares all the way home of how I was going to tell our General Manager I’d lost our best goalie.”
Best goalie. He liked that. “Sorry.” He put his arm around Coco. “This is my…uh…” Girlfriend? The mother of his child? “This is Coco. She grew up with me—she’s—” Oh, he didn’t have a clue how to explain her presence in his life.
Wait. Yes he did. The best thing that ever happened to him.
“Hi,” Coco said, saving him and putting out her hand. “I’m actually a long-time fan of the Blue Ox and Wyatt’s family.”
Jace shook her hand, but his gaze flickered over to the way Wyatt held her.
“I don’t understand,” Jace said. “Do you live here—are you picking him up?”
“No, I was in Russia. We flew over together.”
Jace frowned. “And that’s what I can’t figure out. I thought ours was the last flight out. How did you—”
“Hitched a ride on an Aeroflot cargo plane. We got to the airport right after you took off. Listen, Coach, I gotta run—”
Jace shoved a barrier hand on his sternum. “Not so fast. We’re on our way to practice. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I fully expect you to get on this bus. Right now.”
Practice. Wyatt glanced at Coco, who suddenly wouldn’t look at him.
“I have something to do—”
“We have an exhibition tomorrow with the Seattle Thunderbirds, and I know it’s not a match, but it’s for charity. And part of the publicity clause in your contract.”
Oh nice, Coach, pull out the contract.
Coco was pulling away. “I think our Uber is here.”
Maybe Coach read his expression because he raised an eyebrow. “The crowds show up to see you, Marshall.”
“What about Kalen? Can he—”
“Sure. I can play Kalen. Are you ready for that?”
Wyatt’s entire body stiffened. “What does that mean?”
“I think you know what it means. I start Kalen, and I’m looking at him for the starting line.”
“Nice. It’s one practice, Coach—I’ll be at the exhibition tomorrow, I promise.”
Coco was leaning into the open door of a Subaru.
“Practice starts in one hour. At the Thunderbirds practice center.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Wyatt, but you need to get your head back on straight. You’re a Blue Ox, and we expect you to act like it.”
Jace turned and strode back to the bus.
“Wy? You ready?” Coco stood by the Subaru, her door open.
He walked over and squeezed into the car, his knees against the vinyl seats.
“Seattle Children’s Hospital,” she said.
He looked out the window as the driver got on I-5 and headed north.
Are you ready for that?
Jace’s question seeped into his aching bones. Every muscle in his body burned, right down to his mitochondria, and his hips could make him curl into the fetal position.
I’ve been breathing hockey since I was seven years old. It’s who I am.
“Are you okay?” Coco said. “Are you sure you should miss practice?”
“And leave you and Mikka alone at the hospital?”
She touched his arm. “What about…I just…”
His mouth tightened.
“We need to look at this realistically,” she said finally. “You have a job that causes you to travel. You aren’t going to be able to stick around in Seattle if Mikka is sick. And if he’s not…well, he needs to live somewhere stable.” She took a breath. “We can’t travel with you, Wyatt.”
Her words dug a hole through him.
What if it crumbled? What would you have left?
He wasn’t ready for it to crumble. Coco was right, but her words su
ddenly took him out and he was sprawled on the ice on his back, struggling to get back on his feet.
What had he been thinking?
“Let’s just get to the hospital.”
Hockey is all I have. It’s my whole world.
He blew out a breath even as they pulled up to the hospital.
What if he had to give up his career to take care of Mikka?
Inside, Coco headed straight for the information desk and presented her name. The receptionist looked it up. “Here for Mikka Stanley? You’re listed as the mother.”
Coco nodded. “And this is his father.” She gestured to Wyatt.
His father. The word wrapped tentacles around his chest and squeezed.
The woman printed stickers and handed them over. “If he’s here longer than a day, we’ll issue you wristbands.”
Wyatt slapped the sticker onto his chest and followed the woman’s directions through the lobby with the cartoon drawings of forest animals and woods to the bank of elevators.
They got off on a floor with lime-green carpet, a children’s play area, and a reception desk.
Coco inquired about Mikka.
The whole thing felt surreal. One day Wyatt was worried about stopping shots on goal, the next he was a father. And now he was following Coco down the carpeted hallway of a children’s cancer ward, trying to steel himself against a deep, bone-chilling horror that one of these gaunt children could someday soon be his.
But he would do this. Be there for every surgery, every needle poke, every waking moment his son needed him.
Because he was his father.
Coco stopped at an open door and knocked, then walked inside.
Wyatt’s entire world skidded to a halt.
What—?
His mother stood at the bed, holding Mikka’s hand, waging a thumb war. The kid was laughing, dressed in a pair of new pajamas with trucks on them, his brown hair tousled, his stuffed lion clutched under his other arm.
His mom looked up.
Wyatt had nothing. He stood there, stripped, unable to move.
Especially when her gaze softened on Coco and she moved around the bed, her arms open. “Coco. Sweetie. I missed you.”
Coco, too, seemed undone, unmoving even as his mother folded her into her arms.
RJ was leaning against the window, frowning, and by the wall, York had shoved his hands into his pockets, looking rueful.
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