by June Winters
So he turned the key to his evergreen Range Rover, and they were off.
“This car's the same color as you and Irie's eyes, by the way,” Paige observed.
He looked at her with a smile that reached those green eyes. “Yeah. That's why I got it. Thought it matched.”
“You bought a car because it matched the color of your eyes …?”
“Well, no, I bought the car because I needed something to drive in the winter. The Lambo doesn't do salt and snow.”
“I wondered if you might show up in your Lambo,” she said.
He laughed. “No chance. I'm not driving you two around in that thing.”
“Why not? Worried Irie will dirty up your baby?”
“Hell no, I'm not worried about that! I'm worried about where the hell Irie would sit! It's not safe enough for her.”
Paige gave an approving nod. “I see.”
A short while later, the Boston Harbor came into view. Lance navigated the car down the wharf, heading towards the water. He pointed at an elegant red brick building that stood at the end of the pier, watching majestically over the water.
“That's my building,” Lance said proudly. He pointed at a set of windows on the very top floor. “And that's my condo there on the top floor.”
“It looks beautiful.”
“Just wait,” he said, eyes sparkling.
***
The lobby of Lance's condo stole Paige's breath away. It was gorgeous, a wide-open space with a marble foyer, with plenty of sunlight filtering in through the building's colossal windows.
She'd never seen anything like it. She couldn't even imagine what it'd be like to actually live here, to walk in and out of that lobby every single day. She felt a twinge of shame at the thought that Lance had actually spent the night at her apartment, which must've felt like a Soviet-era dump to him.
“What do you think?” Lance asked as they entered the elevator. He held Irie snugly in one arm.
“It's beautiful,” she answered, breathless.
“Beautiful enough for you to move in?” he asked with a grin. But before she could respond, he answered himself. “Don't answer that. I'm only kidding. Unless you actually do want to move in, in which case, I'm not kidding. Ha—nevermind.”
“Lance …” Paige murmured. She could feel herself blushing. He was sweet, yes, and she was glad he was still making an effort. But she had to stay committed to her mission. If they liked each other and wanted to keep dating, fine. There was absolutely no reason they couldn't take things slowly.
The elevator doors opened and the three walked to Lance's door. It finally occurred to Paige that he'd planned this, just like he said, and he was walking her right into an ambush.
Lance opened his door, and Paige's jaw dropped. His condo was gorgeous—tall, vaulted ceilings; hardwood floors that gleamed in the sunlight; and an incredible view of the Boston skyline through the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows.
She stepped in, still in awe. “This place is amazing, Lance.”
“Thanks. I told you that you'd love it, didn't I?”
A girl that must've been Lance's sister was flipping through a magazine on the couch. She leaped off the couch—as much as a very pregnant woman could leap, anyway—to greet them.
“Hi Lance! Hi Paige!” Ella said, smiling warmly. “I'm Ella.”
The two women greeted with a hug and then Ella turned her eyes onto Irie. “Why, hello there, darling Irie! Gosh, you're beautiful, aren't you?”
“That's your Aunt Ella,” Lance spoke softly to Irie. He held Irie's arm and made her wave. “Say hi, Aunt Ella!”
With Irie in his arms, Lance took off, showing Irie all around the living space of his condo. The two women took a seat on the living room sofa.
“I can't believe how much Irie looks like him,” Ella said to Paige. “Same eyes and mouth and everything.”
“Yeah,” Paige agreed. And now that she mentioned it, Paige noticed that Ella had the same features, too. “The family resemblance runs strong in you two.”
“That's what you get with the Couture bloodline,” Lance said, as he showed Irie the view from the window. “We've got those super dominant genetics. Alpha genetics.”
Ella and Paige both groaned at his hubris—and Paige began to think, hey, I think I like her!
“Tell me about your little one,” Paige said, motioning at Ella's belly. “When are you due?”
“I'm due in a week and a half,” Ella said with relief, her hands going to her lower back. “And I am so ready for it to be over, Paige. My back is killing me.”
“Oh, trust me, I remember that feeling. This will be your first one, right?”
Ella snickered. “Yeah. I couldn't believe it when Lance told me that he already had a daughter. I thought for sure I was finally going to beat him to some kind of life achievement.” She gave a listless sigh.
Paige giggled. “You two have a little sibling rivalry, from what I hear.”
“Oh, you don't even know the half of it.”
Paige looked around, appreciating Lance's taste in furniture. “Lance, I love what you've done with your place.”
“It's badass, isn't it? But I had nothing to do with it—Ella's my interior decorator. Speaking of, we've got something to show you.”
“Something to show me?” Paige asked.
“Yep. C'mon.”
Lance beckoned for the women to follow him. He led them down the hallway and held the bedroom door open.
“Check this out, Paige. This used to be Radar's room. Once he moved out, I turned it into a guest room. But now I've got a different use for it.”
Paige stepped into the room and immediately thought she might cry.
Lance had the room completely ready for Irie. The walls were painted a soft periwinkle, with accenting peach window curtains. Framed watercolor paintings of cutesy animals adorned the walls. A wooden crib sat nestled between the windows. A potted ficus, soaked up the afternoon sun and brought the room to life with a vibrant splash of green. Irie had a wardrobe, a playpen, a wooden rocking horse, a fully stocked diaper changing station, and of course, a hockey set just like the one Irie had at her Grandma and Grandpa's.
“Oh my God, Lance!” she gushed.
“It's Ella's brilliant work, not mine,” he said humbly. He put an arm around his sister. “She's a real pro.”
“Don't sell yourself short, Lance,” Ella told him. She turned to Paige. “He helped a lot. He did all the painting and heavy lifting, of course.”
Lance set Irie down, and she stamped about her room happily, as if she knew it belonged to her. She climbed onto the rocking horse and began to sway back and forth, laughing and cooing.
“Looks like Irie loves it. So? What do you think, Paige?” Lance asked with his charming smile.
“It's so adorable, you guys. It's perfect for her.” She hugged Ella first. “Thank you, Ella.”
“Of course!” Ella answered. “Happy to pitch in for my niece.”
Then she hugged Lance, and he squeezed her tight in his strong arms and wouldn't let her go. She didn't want him to, either. “Thank you so much, Lance. This means a lot to me.”
“You don't have to thank me. I needed to do this.”
When she finally separated from Lance, he wiped at her cheek.
“Paige, you're crying.”
She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. It's just—you know—we've been so cramped in that apartment of mine for so long. Ugh, sorry, I'm being an emotional wreck.”
Lance hugged her again. “Hey. It's okay. Don't worry.”
Paige was sure her mascara was running. “Do you have a tissue?”
“Sure. Come with me.”
Lance took her down the hallway to the other bedroom, leaving Ella to watch Irie.
“This is my room.” He took a tissue from the box on his nightstand and passed it to her.
She dried her eyes and looked around the room. It was immaculate. “Wow, you're so neat and tidy. I wouldn't have gu
essed.”
He laughed. “You would've guessed right the first time. I'm actually kind of a pig.”
“Oh,” she said dryly.
“But I'm willing to change.” His hands went to her waist. His eyes hardened with determination. “Paige, I'll do whatever it takes to get you and Irie with me.”
“Lance …”
He leaned in for a kiss. Paige didn't stop him, her hands flat on his muscular chest. His lips touched hers, and he kissed her softly, reverently, meaningfully. A jolt arced through his lips to hers, leaving the electric taste of a lightning storm in her mouth. She lost herself in his kiss again—those luscious, sensuous, dangerous hockey player lips.
Their heads turned when Ella suddenly appeared in the doorway, holding Irie in her arms. “Oh sorry!” she muttered, and she was gone in a flash.
But Lance and Paige stayed separated. He smiled at her. “Paige, I wanted to ask you something.”
She stared into his eyes. Her answer was already on the tip of her tongue: I'll do it. I'll do it! I'll move in with you, and we'll make a happy little family with Irie, absolutely, yes, yes, yes!
But instead of asking her the question she wanted to hear, he pulled three tickets from his pocket.
“Would you come watch my game tonight? I've got a ticket for you, Irie and Ella. Front row, right where all the action is.”
“Um.” She blinked at him, and then blinked at the tickets. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”
He beamed. “Great. Great. That's perfect. Man, that makes me so happy. Listen, I hate to rush out of here now that I've finally got you and Irie here—but I have to get going or I'm going to be late for warm-ups.”
“Oh, er … okay.”
“You can hang out here for as long as you need. Maybe Irie needs a nap? When you get hungry, let Ella know, she'll take you out to dinner, okay? Then she'll take you and Irie to the game.”
Paige didn't quite know how to answer. “Oh, um, alright.”
The hockey player grabbed his things and was off in a hurry.
Did I just get burned by him again?
Chapter 34
Lance
Coach was staring at his wristwatch the second Lance walked into the dressing room. “Aaaaaand he made it, with less than ten seconds to spare.”
Lance, and everyone else in the room, breathed a collective sigh of relief. The punishment for being late? Missing the game. Which really would've put a damper on his night, all things considered.
But Lance was in an exceptionally good mood. The day had been a roller-coaster—from thinking Paige hated him to seeing the look on her face when he showed her Irie's bedroom. And who could forget the sweet little kiss they'd shared in his bedroom?
He wanted her so bad, and he wanted her for the rest of his life.
And he wanted her to know that, too.
Tonight would be the night—all he had to do was make sure that the Brawlers won this game.
Lance took the center of the room. “Listen up, boys! We're winning this game, alright? I've got my girl sitting front row, with my daughter and my sister, too.”
The team shot confused glances around the room. “Wait, did he just say his daughter?” “Uh-huh, that's what I heard.” “Something you wanna tell us, Lance?”
Lance shook his head. “Yeah, I just told you. I've got a daughter, alright? Her name's Irie, she's fifteen months old, and she's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen. So this is a big game for me. Don't let me down. Battle hard out there. I need this one, boys.”
The boys grunted and grumbled in agreement, and then an unquestioning cheer broke out among them: “For Coots!”
Then the door to the dressing room swung open. In walked Mr. Tremblay with the real, flesh-and-bones Kip Sterling in tow.
“Oh, great,” Lance muttered. “Just the guy I needed to see.”
“You have a moment, Lance?” Mr. Tremblay asked. “Kip and I need to have a word with you.”
Lance stood from his stall, sneering at Kip. “Let's do it.”
The three men went to Mr. Tremblay's office at the top floor of the arena. Lance took a seat.
“As you can probably guess,” Mr. Tremblay began, “Kip filled me in that a woman claims she had your baby.”
Lance shook his head. “Her name is Paige. And she's not just claiming it. I know it's my daughter.”
“You're sure?” Mr. Tremblay said, his eyes widening.
“Positive.”
“But do you have the paternity test results?” Kip asked.
“Not yet. We took the test today.”
Kip sniveled. “Oh … well I suppose that's a start, at least.”
“But I'm telling you, that child is mine. Everyone who sees her knows it. And I knew it from the second I saw her. I'm telling you, there's a feeling a man has in his heart when he looks at his own child—”
“Oh, Lance!” Kip interrupted, doubled over in laughter and pounding his fist on the table. Apparently, he found that sentiment hilarious. Then he said rather abruptly, “Ten percent.”
“Ten percent what?” Lance asked, his eyes narrowing at the PR man.
“That's how many men are estimated to be raising what they think is their child, but is actually the offspring of another man.”
“Ten percent?” Lance repeated skeptically. “That number sounds pretty damn high to me, don't you think, Kip?”
Mr. Tremblay agreed. “Yeah, Kip, I have to agree with Lance. That can't be right.”
“Well, of course, it's difficult to get a truly accurate number, and some estimates are as low as one percent while others are as high as thirty percent.” He bristled, quick to sweep the shakiness of his data point under the rug. “But whatever the true number is, I'm quite sure those men would say the same thing you just did: that they know in their heart that the child is theirs. When in fact it is not.”
Lance sighed. “Look, man. I'm starting to get the feeling that this is something weirdly personal for you. I don't know what you've had to deal with in your own life, Kip, but—”
Mr. Tremblay waved his hand in the air. “Let's keep things professional, Lance, not personal.”
“Agreed.” Kip cleared his throat. “Lance, for your sake, I hope that paternity test shows you what you believe to know in your heart. Unfortunately, as far as the Brawlers are concerned, I'm afraid it doesn't make much of a difference.”
“The hell?”
Kip grabbed a wireless remote and clicked a button. The overhead projector flashed a series of bar graphs and pie charts onto the wall.
“After I first spoke with you about your situation, I immediately ordered several rounds of focus group testing to determine the best path forward.”
“Thank God for your focus groups,” Lance quipped.
Mr. Tremblay butted in. “Lance, please!”
Kip continued. “The result was overwhelming: even if the baby was yours and you welcomed it into your life, the news of a 'secret baby' would have a massively negative impact on your reputation.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Of course it would. Because that's all we care about, right? Our reputations?”
“This doesn't mean you can't have a relationship with the baby or her mother, of course. Our research simply shows that letting the media know that you were an absentee father for a baby you didn't know about will only do further damage to your image. If the baby is yours, and you wish to keep it in your life, I would suggest a slow trickle of information. No announcements, no press releases.”
“It's no one's business,” Lance said, shaking his head.
“Exactly.”
“No—I mean—look. I don't care what the media says about me. Alright? But I'm not going to hide my life in fear of people finding out about it.”
Mr. Tremblay stiffened. “But, Lance—”
“I know, I know: but what about the captaincy? Look, you know me; you know I've wanted the C since I was a kid. But I'm not perfect, guys. I'm a damned good hockey player. That's what I am. I
'm not some polished Hollywood actor, or some silver-tongued politician, or some puppet you can dance around the stage.”
Mr. Tremblay slunk in his chair. “But Lance, I've told you that ownership has concerns about—”
“I hate to say it, Mr. Tremblay, but if ownership doesn't like me for who I am … tough. I'm not going to hide my family for the sake of our corporate brand. If that means I have to give up the C? Okay. Fine. I don't want it. What kind of pushover would I be to put the team before my own family, anyway? Give the C to somebody else because I don't want it if it means I can't be myself.”
Lance shook his head, changing tracks. “Mr. Tremblay, you were one tough SOB when you played the game. I've heard the stories from your playing days. I heard about the time your coach scratched you from the game-time roster because you showed up to practice smelling like liquor—and so you went into his office and destroyed it with your stick.”
Mr. Tremblay smiled. “Heh, yes, but …”
“It was different back then. I know. Things didn't spread like they do today with social media. I'm just saying, I'm not this picture-perfect guy. No one is. And painting this fake life where everything is perfect, well, it just isn't me. I won't do it.”
Lance turned to Kip. “So, with all due respect, Kip, I don't think I'll be needing your services anymore.”
Kip shook his head. “Don't be ridiculous. That'd be a very big mistake, Lance.”
“I'm sure,” Lance said sarcastically. “Listen, if I ever need to clean up my image again, I'll be sure to hit up Sterling Image so you guys can save me with your outdated cat memes.”
Kip's face turned bright red at the insult. “That is not all we do …!”
“You're right—how could I forget the focus groups?” Lance stood from his chair. “You're fired, bud.”
Kip scoffed. “You can't fire me.” He turned to Mr. Tremblay. “I was hired by Mr. James—tell him he can't fire me!”
But Mr. Tremblay stalled, and Lance pounced. “Mr. Tremblay, you can tell Mr. James that I flat-out refuse to work with Kip anymore. If Mr. James has a problem with it, he can do whatever he thinks is best. You guys can trade me if you want. I don't care. I'm that serious.”