Ice Daddy

by June Winters

  But Mr. Tremblay stopped in the doorway again. “Listen. Lance. You need to answer Kip Sterling's phone calls. No matter the circumstances, you can't ignore him. I don't care if you do have a pretty young lady in your room—”

  Paige quietly groaned.

  “—that was part of the agreement, that you are always accessible to Sterling Image.”

  Lance nodded impatiently. “Alright. I got ya. I'll talk to him in a few.”

  Lance tried to push Mr. Tremblay through the door, but again the older man resisted. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and thrust it in Lance's face, a video queued up and ready to play.

  “While you're ignoring your PR reps, who are desperately trying to help you, this is what's making the rounds on social media, Lance.”

  It was a cell phone recording from Zickell's. As luck would have it, the recording missed the first punch thrown—when Lance was brutally sucker punched right on the eye. Instead, the video seemed to depict a drunk and belligerent Lance suddenly swinging on some poor, innocent soul, who went sprawling backwards. A melee broke out, and Lance aggressively fought his way through the crowd.

  Lance groaned. “That's a bad look.”

  “Which is why you need to talk to Kip Sterling. Immediately.” Mr. Tremblay checked his watch. “So get dressed and say goodbye to your girlfriend. I want you in my room in two minutes. We're already pressed for time tonight. But first things first, we need to have an emergency conference call with Kip. Two minutes, Lance, don't be late.”

  Lance didn't have a choice. “Okay. Got it.”

  Mr. Tremblay stormed off.

  Lance locked the door after him and rested his head against the door. “Damn.”

  “Two minutes?” Paige mewled. “That's it?”

  “I'm so sorry, Paige,” Lance said with a sigh as he raced to throw on his clothes.

  “But … that's not enough time …”

  “I know.” Lance took a few precious seconds to sit on the bed and gently stroke her cheek. “Ugh, I want you so bad. I'd give anything to stay here with you.” But he popped off the bed, hurriedly buttoning his Oxford and tucking the shirt into his trousers. “I'm gonna have the worst case of blue-balls the whole flight to Florida. Fuck.”

  “But Lance—I have something important to tell you … it can't wait.”

  He threw the rest of his clothes into his small bag and zipped it shut. “I'm sorry. I really am. I've gotta go. Believe me, I do want to see more of you.” He tossed his cell phone onto the mattress. “Here. Put your number in. Let's keep in touch.”

  Paige exhaled and reluctantly tapped in her phone number. When it was done, she slammed the phone back on the bed. The girl was upset. Lance couldn't blame her.

  He slung his bag over his shoulder and sat on the bed one last time. He wrapped one arm around her with a half-hug. “I know you're mad, Paige, but this is out of my control. Trust me, this is the last thing I wanted right now. The team's been up my ass about this PR stuff … I can explain it all later.”

  She folded her arms doubtfully. “Really? When?”

  “After this game in Florida, we're heading back home to Boston. You should come stay with me! I've got a sweet condo—you'll love it. I'll show you around the city. You don't have to worry about buying plane tickets or anything. I'll pay for it all.”

  She huffed. “I—I can't do that, Lance. I've got a job. I've got responsibilities, people to take care of! I can't just leave everything at the drop of a hat …”

  “So ask for some time off. They'll give it to you. I'd love to show you around.” He gave a sneaky smile. “Plus, just think of it—the two of us, all alone in my condo all weekend?”

  Paige didn't reply. Lance wasn't sure why she looked so lost.

  “Alright. I've really gotta go. Give me a kiss.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, but she didn't kiss him with much meaning. “I'll see you later, okay? Bye.”

  “Yeah. Bye.”

  Lance opened the door, but turned back one last time. “Don't feel like you're in a rush to leave, by the way. Hell, you could spend the night in here if you wanted. Technically, the room's mine until tomorrow morning.”

  “I can't do that. And I can't come to Boston either.”

  “Why not?” Lance asked as he checked his watch. His two minutes were up, and his whole body anxiously jittered and leaned for the exit, as if some nervous force was pulling him out the door. He needed to get going now—Mr. Tremblay would kill him if he was late.

  She drew a deep breath. “Because …”

  He cut her off before she had a chance to say whatever was on her mind. “I'm sorry, Paige, but I've really gotta go! We'll talk later, okay?”

  He hated to leave Paige so abruptly, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wild with ire. But he truly had to go. He shut the door behind him and then he was gone, sprinting down the hall to his general manager's hotel room.

  She'll understand, right?

  Chapter 12

  Paige

  The apartment door creaked as Paige quietly entered, careful not to wake Irie. The glow of the television was the only light in the living room; the volume set to a faint whisper. Emily was wrapped in a blanket and sprawled across the love seat, her legs dangling over the armrest.

  Emily woke with the sound of Paige's footsteps. She sat up and rubbed her groggy eyes. “Hey,” she said, her voice sleepy and confused. “What time is it?”

  “Just past midnight.” Paige took a peek into her bedroom, where Irie was still peacefully asleep in her crib. “How was she?”

  “Fine. She didn't wake once.”

  “That's good.” Paige lowered herself to the floor and sat with her back resting against the love seat. The small sofa was the only furniture she owned. “Thanks again for staying with her, Em.”

  “No prob.” Emily took a second to gather her thoughts and orient herself. At last, she spoke. “Man, you were gone for a while, weren't you?”

  Paige let out a sardonic laugh. “Yeah. I was.”

  “So, um, how'd it go? Did you find the guy you were looking for?”

  Paige could tell by the way Emily asked the question that she didn't believe it was even a remote possibility that she'd find her hockey player … truth was, Paige still couldn't quite believe it either.

  “I did, actually.”

  Emily bolted upright, shaking off her groggy confusion in a split-second. “What? You did? Really?!”

  “Yep.”

  “And?!”

  Paige bobbed her head. “It's him, alright. He's Irie's father.”

  “We're talking about the Lance Couture, right? The hockey player? He's Irie's father?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Paige. Paige! Holy shit!” Emily grabbed Paige's shoulder and sank her claws into it. “Are you kidding me right now?! Because if you are, it's not funny.”

  “I'm one-hundred-percent serious.”

  Emily squealed. “You found him at Zickell's?”

  “Yep. Apparently, he was looking for me, too. Imagine that.”

  “Oh my Gawd!” Emily leaped off the sofa with the grace of a cat and landed in the center of the room. Trying not to wake Irie, Emily quietly did a dance—hips gyrating, index fingers stabbing at the air. But soon, she realized the cheer of her infectious dance wasn't exactly spreading, and her excitement began to fizzle. “Okay, wait. If it's really him, why do you seem so blasé about it? Is he … is he not willing to man up?”

  Paige sighed. “I didn't—I didn't have a chance to tell him about Irie, actually.”

  Emily's jaw dropped. She rushed over and shook Paige by the shoulders. “Are you mad? Why not?”

  “I tried! I tried … but he was in such a rush to get out the door, damn it!”

  Paige told her friend the story from the beginning: the whirlwind reunion at Zickell's, the crazy bar fight, the action-packed escape in a taxi cab. And then back at Lance's hotel room, where she tried to tell him about Irie while she patched up
his busted eye, or at least she wanted to tell him, but she grew trigger-shy every time she had the chance. And then he kissed her, and um, one thing led to another, and then he was tearing her clothes off …

  Emily gasped. “Paige McMillan, please tell me you did not fuck that hockey star again without telling him he has a daughter.”

  Paige sighed. “No. I didn't fuck him. I would've slept with him, but … right when he put the condom on, his general manager started banging on his door.”

  That, of course, was a whole other story on its own. How embarrassing it was to have that old man staring at her while she was naked under the bedsheets!

  Once Emily was caught up on all the details, the two friends silently stared off into space.

  “Okay,” Emily began shakily, “so you didn't tell him. But, er, maybe it's not the worst thing in the world?”

  Paige gave a disbelieving laugh. “Oh really?”

  “Well, sure,” Emily muttered. “I mean, he seems to like you, right?”

  “Sure, he thinks I'm a great lay.” She rolled her eyes. “But does he feel anything about me beyond that? I doubt it. He's a pro athlete. Those guys are notorious for being dogs.”

  “But look on the bright side! You finally know who Irie's father is. And he is a legit professional hockey player. You know, everything else aside, that is pretty freakin' cool.”

  “Yeah. Irie's father is a pro hockey player. Too bad her mom's nothing to be proud of.”

  Emily reared back. “Hey, where did that come from?”

  Paige buried her face in her hands. “I'm so ashamed of myself, Em.”

  Emily squeezed her with a tight hug. “Aw, Paige, why?”

  “Why? Why? Because two years ago, I slept with a random guy from the bar and got pregnant. I was completely irresponsible—”

  “Yeah, okay, you got pregnant. But he did wear a condom—it's not like you let a total stranger go raw-dog on you!”

  “Raw-dog? Ew, Em!” Emily sure had a way with words sometimes.

  “Were you unlucky? Yes. Irresponsible? I don't think so. Tons of one-night stands act far less responsibly than you did that night, lemme tell ya.”

  Paige huffed. “Okay, sure, and maybe people would agree with you … but then, after two long years of looking for him, I finally meet him again. And what happens? Not only was I too much of a coward to tell him about his daughter, but I ended up right back in bed with him! Seriously, what's wrong with me? How depraved am I?”

  Emily shrugged. “He's a stud, Paige. Not to mention a famous hockey star. If it were me, I would've done the same.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably! Might as well get a little more of that athlete dick before you drop the bomb on him, right?”

  “It is a bomb, isn't it.” Paige curled into a ball with a whimper. “I fucked up. Ugh, I can't take it anymore.”

  Paige whipped out her cell phone and started busily composing a message—before Emily caught on.

  “Dude, what are you writing over there? A novel?”

  “I'm texting him. I'm going to tell him about Irie right now.”

  “Are you insane?! Don't do that! Not over a text message!” Emily tried to snatch the phone away, but Paige managed to fight her off.

  “I can't keep this from him any longer, Em. He deserves to know. And Irie deserves to have a father.”

  “Of course he does. And of course Irie deserves to have a father. But a text message? Really?”

  “Do you have a better idea? Because I choked in person.”

  “How about in a few days, when you take him up on that offer to go to Boston?”

  Paige huffed and set the cell phone at her side. “You know I can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “There's so many reasons—where should I start? First and most importantly, if I went to Boston, what would I do with Irie?”

  “Leave her with your parents. Aren't they always volunteering for more babysitting time?”

  “That's so callous. Fly out to Boston to tell him he's got a daughter—a daughter I conveniently left at home in Tennessee? If he even believed me, instead of assuming that I was lying and trying to get his money, he'd think I was the world's most cruel-hearted bitch for keeping his daughter from him.”

  “Eh. Good point.” Emily mulled it over some more. “But you can't bring her to Boston either, or you'd look crazy and desperate.”

  “I'm glad you agree,” Paige said, picking up her cell phone and waving it in the air. “Which is why I'm ready to press send on this text message.”

  “Don't! Not yet. Please wait. Let's just talk this through first. Let cooler heads prevail.”

  Paige set her phone down again with a roll of her eyes. “Reason number two. Even if I managed to get my shifts at the Burger Stand covered on such short notice—which will never happen, by the way—I wouldn't be able to afford my bills after.”

  But Emily was only half-listening. She tapped and swiped at the screen of her own cell phone, ferreting out information. “Whoa. Lance Couture just signed an eight-year contract last off-season worth eighty million dollars. This guy makes ten million bucks a year. You can forget about getting your shifts covered, because your Burger Stand days are over, sister.”

  “It's not about his money,” Paige groaned. “Reason number three, I doubt he'll want anything to do with me once I tell him that I have a daughter, so why go to Boston to embarrass myself?”

  “If that's the case? That's when you know for sure this guy is an immature dick-wad who is spooked by commitment and just wants to get laid. And then you file for a paternity test, and he'll have to bust open up that fat wallet and start paying all the child support payments he owes.”

  Paige went silent. “I hope that's not the case,” she reflected after a long pause. “I think that's why I couldn't tell him tonight. I just have this crazy, irrational hope for us—that we were meant to be together. I know it's nuts, but I can't help but hope for it the same. And somehow, telling him about Irie would change everything before we even have a chance. Like you said, it's a bomb.” A wave of disgust swept over her. “Ugh. I'm being selfish. I'm not allowed to think like that because I'm a mother now. My first priority should be Irie, not whether a guy likes me or not.”

  “You are watching out for Irie, Paige. Hoping things work out with her father is the furthest thing possible from selfish. Would you still be thinking about Lance if you hadn't gotten pregnant? If you never had Irie, would you care about Lance at all—even if you knew he was a pro hockey player?”

  Paige had to stifle a laugh. She knew Emily was right. “Probably not, no.”

  “Didn't think so.”

  Paige thumbed the 'send' button on her cell phone. “I still don't know what to do. I want to tell him just to get this over with. So we can both move on with life and figure out what comes next.”

  “It's late, Paige. You've got to work in the morning. I suggest you sleep on it and give it some time before you do anything.”

  “Yeah … maybe you're right.”

  Emily stepped into her shoes and slipped on her winter coat. “Speaking of sleep, I need some. I should get going.”

  The two friends hugged. “Thanks again for staying with Irie. And talking me through my insanity.”

  “Anytime.”

  When Emily was gone, Paige went to the bedroom and watched Irie sleep in her crib.

  Sorry I wasn't strong enough for you, baby girl.

  The image she couldn't get out of her head was Irie at the hockey game, seeing her father for the very first time. It was such a moving scene. Too moving, really—it tugged at her motherly heart strings and hijacked her sense of reality. It filled her head with fantasies of the three of them together. Lance, Paige and Irie. A happy little sports family.

  But deep down, she knew it was incredibly unrealistic. The most important thing was telling Lance as soon as possible.

  But Emily was right. It was late, and instead of fretting over what to
say to Lance and how exactly to say it, she should get her rest. She had a morning shift, after all.

  Paige powered her phone off for the night, the text message unsent, and got ready for bed.

  Chapter 13

  Lance

  Lance hurried down the hallway to Mr. Tremblay's hotel room.

  “Come in,” Mr. Tremblay said. He had an iPad propped up on the hotel room dining table, and two chairs arranged in front of it. “Take a seat, Lance.”

  Lance knew before he sat that it was another conference call. The whole setup made him feel like he was being put on trial. Lance took a seat, and Mr. Tremblay sat next to him. The tablet showed a Skype video feed, with both Kip Sterling and the Boston Brawlers team owner, Jim James. A wealthy businessman of few words, Mr. James didn't like to get involved in the day-to-day. Seeing him at all, outside of team events, generally meant you'd done something wrong.

  Lance swallowed and gave a small wave at the tablet's camera. “Hey there, guys.”

  Mr. James didn't say a word. Lance suspected he wouldn't talk at all either. He was there to silently observe.

  Kip Sterling skipped the greeting. “Let's get right down to business then, shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  “Lance, to be perfectly honest, I'm a bit disappointed,” Kip began. “Earlier, I thought we were making progress with you. When my team and I saw the moment you waved at that baby in the stands—that was perfect! I pumped my fist and said to myself, Yes! He gets it! That footage gave us a nice moment to share on your social media, and it was viewed over 110,000 times. Not bad for a few hours.” Kip sighed. “And then this happened.”

  The bar fight scene from Zickell's began to play on the screen.

  “Yeah, I've seen the video,” Lance said. “I don't need to see it again.”

  “Maybe you should watch it again,” Kip said, “because in the hour since that video was posted, it's already been viewed over a million times.”