by Lili Valente
But I’m happy to muddle through it, as long as there’s a healthy child at the end of the road. No matter how it happened, I’m grateful for another chance to be a father. It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, something that, after what happened with Renee, I was certain I would never have a shot at again.
“I’ll pay child support, too,” I add, having zero issue with laying down money every month for the next eighteen years as long as it guarantees me access to my kid. “Whatever you need. But I’d like to have joint legal and physical custody and see the baby as much as possible.”
She nods swiftly. “I want that, too. I want you two to be close. I never had much of a relationship with my dad, so…”
“Me, either,” I say. “Haven’t seen him since I was in first grade. He took me out for ice cream one day after school to tell me he was over my mom’s bullshit, dropped me back at my mother’s house, and never came back.”
Mandy’s forehead furrows sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Though, sometimes I wish my dad had bailed. Having him hang around being awful for years while he flushed his life down the toilet wasn’t much fun.”
“Has he passed?”
“No.” Her lips purse as she hums beneath her breath. “I don’t think so, anyway. We haven’t been in touch for a long time. The Christmas after I turned sixteen, he stole my tip money and left me stranded at a seedy hotel while he got wasted with strangers at the casino across the street. After that, I told him not to bother picking me up for summer visitation, and I haven’t seen him since.” She sighs as she shrugs. “So, I guess Baby will have to get by without a grandpa. Unless your mom remarried?”
My lips twist as I shake my head. “She did, but they’re divorced now, too, and she lives in New Zealand. I see her once a year, sometimes less. But my grandmother and I are close. When I was growing up, Baba was more of a mom to me than my actual mother. And she’s excited about the baby…I think.”
“You told her?” Mandy’s brows lift.
“I’m a Baba’s boy, what can I say?”
She laughs that bubbly, buoyant laugh that makes my heart feel lighter every time I hear it. “Well, that’s pretty cute.” She cocks her head, studying me out of the corner of her warm brown eyes. “I guess you do have a soft side, after all.”
“I do. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I saw that.” Her fingers drum lightly on her mug. “I Googled you on the way out of the wedding. Looks like you get into your share of fights.”
“Only on the ice,” I assure her. “I play the bad guy to keep the smaller players from getting bullied. It’s in the interest of keeping the team safe. Most people honor the unspoken code to avoid seriously hurting each other, but a few dipshits need someone to scare them into being decent. But I’m safe around kids. I promise”
Amanda nods, nibbling at her bottom lip as she rearranges the orange slices at the edge of her plate. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Making parenting plans when we know almost nothing about each other?”
“I know things about you. I remember our conversations pretty well,” I say, clearing my throat uncomfortably. “I’d like to apologize for that, by the way.”
Her lips quirk. “For remembering our conversations?”
“For not realizing how drunk you were.”
She shakes her head. “Not your fault. I do a good job of pretending to handle my liquor.”
“Still, if I’d known you weren’t going to remember things, I wouldn’t have asked you to come home with me. That’s not my style. I don’t like being a drunken impulse someone regrets the next morning.”
“I don’t regret it,” she says, then answers my arched brow with a shrug. “Maybe it’s crazy, but I don’t. And I don’t blame you for anything. I’m a grown woman, and I take responsibility for my own decisions.” She winces. “Though it would be nice to know what I’ve already said to you so I could avoid repeating myself. Think you could fill me in?”
“Of course,” I say, with a smile. “You grew up on Vancouver Island, but moved to the states when you got a full ride to the University of Oregon. You lived in Eugene for years and loved it, despite the fact that your friends all said you weren’t weird enough to fit in.”
She giggles. “True. I’m very boring and normal, but I appreciate weirdness in others.”
Resisting the urge to tell her she’s the furthest thing from boring, I continue, “You’re a nurse and love your job, but you plan to go to medical school so you can tell other doctors to shut up when they’re being stupid and not listening to their nurses.”
Her hand flies to cover her mouth as she laughs again. “Oh my God, did I say that? There’s no way I can afford to go to medical school. I mean, I took the MCAT a couple of years ago and did pretty well, but I only did it because I lost a dare with a friend.”
“You always lose dares,” I say, remembering this, too. “Because you’re addicted to common sense, and you back out before silly gets dangerous.”
“I do,” she says in a bemused voice. “And what about you? Are you addicted to common sense?”
“I’d say I’m a worse case than you are.” I keep my tone light as I add, “Judging by the fact that you thought that hellhole where you’ve been living was an acceptable choice.”
Mandy rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “I didn’t think it was an acceptable choice. It was an affordable choice. Believe me, I’m a common-sense girl. I vetoed every driver that pulled over to offer Diana and I a ride while we were hitchhiking across Ireland after high school. I was so fussy we ended up walking the entire time and only seeing half the things she wanted to see. She’s never completely forgiven me for it, but when she brings it up I remind her how many times I’ve kept her from doing dangerously stupid things and she forgets to hold a grudge for a year or two.”
“She’s a firecracker.” I shake my head as I motion for the check. “We’ve met several times. If I’d seen you with her…” I let the words trail off, wishing I hadn’t started the sentence. The “what if” game is pointless at this stage of the game, and I don’t want Mandy to think I regret spending the night with her.
“I was thinking about that,” she says, her smile fading. “If I’d introduced you to Diana before I put her in a cab, things would have ended differently.”
“Because you wouldn’t have gone home with someone you might have run into again somewhere down the line?” I study her over the rim of my mug as I finish the last gritty sip of my coffee.
Her lashes flutter as she nods. “No, I wouldn’t have. But not because of you. Because of me. I was two months out of an ugly breakup. I was looking for someone to help me forget, you know? Not for the start of something new.”
I nod, the revelation making her ghosting the morning after sting less than it did before. “I get it. I know all about ugly breakups.”
“We should exchange horror stories someday.” She swipes a finger through the syrup at the edge of her plate and pops it between her lips, making me jealous of her finger this time. “But not now. First, we need to cover the really important stuff. So, I know you prefer French toast to pancakes, but what about sausage and bacon? Which is the superior breakfast meat, in your opinion?”
“Bacon,” I say without hesitation. “I used to make my own, actually. I had a smokehouse in the backyard at my grandparents’ farm growing up.”
“Curing your own meat…” Her eyes widen. “That’s very manly.”
I tip my head in silent acknowledgment, making her laugh.
“All right, Master of Bacon,” she says, eyes sparkling. “What about football? American or European?”
“European, though I confess I don’t watch much of either. Or any sports, really. I prefer doing things to watching other people do them.”
Mandy hums as she nods. “Also very manly. I’m sensing a theme.”
I grin. “What about you?”
She shakes her head. “No, not very manly at all
, sadly. I don’t cure my own meat or know how to change the oil in my car or understand how March Madness playoff brackets work. And when it comes to sports, I absolutely prefer to watch.”
“Watching is good. I certainly appreciate people who like to watch.”
She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, remaining quiet for a long beat that prompts me to ask, “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Her focus shifts to the empty plates between us. “I just remembered something about you. Something I noticed the night we met.”
“What’s that?” I ask, brow furrowing.
“You have this way of making totally benign things sound…absolutely filthy.” Her breath rushes out as her cheeks flush pinker than they were before. “Is that on purpose, Alexi?” she asks, looking up at me through her long, dark lashes. “Or are you accidentally naughty?”
I hold her gaze as I shrug. “I’m not sure. But I’m happy to keep having hard, deep, all-night-long conversations with you until we figure it out.”
The smile that spreads across her face, growing wider until her grin becomes a low, throaty laugh, assures me my gamble paid off. “Sounds good,” she says. “I enjoy all night long conversations.”
I’m on the verge of pushing my luck and promising I can definitely go all night, when the check arrives and our waitress says, “Thanks so much, you two. You can pay at the register on your way out whenever you’re ready.”
Mandy scoots her chair back, clearing her throat as she moves. “Thanks so much. Everything was wonderful.” She stands, but as she reaches for her purse, she sways, gripping the back of her chair as her eyes slide closed.
I’m beside her in a second, my arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” She leans into me, her hand on my shoulder. “Just stood up too fast and got dizzy, that’s all. I keep forgetting that everything is different now.” She tilts her head back, meeting my eyes as her lips part. “But I’m fine. I promise.”
“You’re sure?” Instead of setting her free, I draw her closer, until her breasts brush against my chest and the gentle swell of her stomach presses against my hip. On instinct, I reach down, laying my palm over the small bump. Hope, fear, and a completely inappropriate rush of awareness flood through me as her hand comes to cover mine.
“I’m not supposed to be showing yet,” she whispers. “All the books say first-time mothers don’t get a bump until they’re four or five months along. I’ll probably be as big as a house by the end.”
I curve my hand, molding my fingers to the evidence of the life growing inside her. “You’ll be beautiful,” I say, my voice rough.
She sighs, and her eyes do that sexy, melting, soul-sucking, self-control-shattering thing they did the night we met, the night I took one look at her dancing under the flashing pink lights and every other woman in the room disappeared.
As her arms slip around my neck and her chin lifts, bringing her lips so close I can smell the maple syrup on her breath, I know I’m not going to be able to resist tasting her. Right here, in the middle of the restaurant, with dozens of people watching while I pull her close and stroke my tongue between her lips.
But the moment I bend my mouth closer to hers, someone clears his throat behind me.
I turn to see a guilty-looking busboy holding an overflowing black bin full of dirty dishes. “Excuse me, sir. Sorry, but these are crazy heavy,” he says, fingers whitening against the black plastic.
“No worries.” I pull away from Amanda, making room for him to pass between the tightly packed tables in the courtyard. “Sorry to be in the way.”
“Yes, so sorry. We were just leaving.” Mandy grabs the check from the table and darts around me, waving the slip of paper in the air. “I’m getting this. My way of saying thank you for the movers and the pool house and everything else.”
She hustles toward the front of the restaurant, hips swaying temptingly in her tight jeans, making heads turn as she passes. But Mandy seems oblivious to the fact that she’s hot as fucking hell and easily the most beautiful woman in any room.
But that’s part of what makes her so stunning—the fact that she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that she possesses the kind of beauty capable of bringing men to their knees.
Even when she was still a stranger, I was helpless to resist her. Now that I know she’s as sweet and funny as she is sexy, all I want to do is get lost on a desert island with Amanda Esposito, the sex toys of her choosing, and not a stitch of clothing. I want her in my bed, writhing beneath me while I make her come again and again, on my mouth and my fingers and my cock, until she remembers how fucking good I can make her feel.
Until you make her feel like shit—like she’s in hell on earth and you’re the one who put her there.
Until you make her feel the way Renee felt when she left your ass for good.
I ignore the thought, the way I ignore all mental activity that attempts to take my power away. On the ice, my ability to keep my focus positive and productive means the difference between winning and losing, between having a career that will live on in the history books and being another forgettable defender.
In real life, the stakes are even higher.
I can’t go back to being the man I was after Renee left. I barely survived despair the first time. There were nights when I tortured myself listening to the sobbing messages she’d left on my cell, messages swearing I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Nights when I barely made it to morning and the sharp edge of a razor started to look like a way out, a tool I could use to cut a hole in the pain and slip away from it all for good.
That man was no good to anyone, especially himself, and he wouldn’t make a good father. And I’m determined to be a good father, the kind of present, invested parent neither of my parents could be bothered to be. I want to be a man my child can count on, no matter what, and the best way I can be that man is to establish a relationship with Amanda that is courteous, sane, and friendly.
Because a friend isn’t going to run away to Canada and take my baby with her, making sure I never see the kid as retaliation for a love affair gone wrong. And a friend isn’t going to rip my heart out of my chest if things don’t work out.
She might try—she might rage and cry and swear she hates me more than every villain from every story she’s ever read—but she won’t have the power to bring me that low. She won’t be able to walk away and leave me at the bottom of the box, bleeding from wounds that no one can see, but which hurt more than any stick I’ve ever taken to the face.
No matter how much I want to do more than just “get along” with this woman, I need to be the man I am on the ice—the man who plays a part for the good of the team, the rational player ruled by his head instead of his heart. That’s the only way to make sure no one gets hurt.
So I keep my distance as I follow Mandy out to the truck, and refrain from reaching for her elbow to help her inside. Hopefully, if I keep my distance and my hands to myself, I’ll be able to get through this without losing my mind, my heart, or any other vital organs.
Chapter 7
From the texts of Amanda Esposito
and Diana Daniels-Nowicki
*
Amanda: I’m sorry for interrupting your honeymoon. If you’re busy abusing Tanner’s virtue or being romantic, ignore me, and we can talk when you get home on Tuesday.
*
Diana: Hey! Don’t be silly! You’re not interrupting. Besides, this isn’t our real honeymoon. It’s just the practice honeymoon. What’s up?
*
Amanda: You promise I’m not interrupting the fun?
*
Diana: Not at all. I disposed of the last of Tanner’s virtue a few hours ago. He’s so worn out he’s taking a nap. So I’m hanging out by the fire, reading a thriller, and plotting all the ways I’m going to make fun of him when he wakes up.
A professional athlete really should have more stamina than a professional photographer,
don’t you think?
*
Amanda: He really should.
*
Diana: Right? I’m going to have to get him some vitamins or something.
Or maybe acupuncture. I always feel more alive after I’ve been stabbed with needles for an hour or two.
*
Amanda: Sicko.
*
Diana: Takes one to know one. Speaking of sick, how are you feeling?
Still trying to kick that flu bug?
*
Amanda: That’s actually why I’m texting…
It isn’t a flu bug.
I’m actually sort of…
Well…
I’m sort of pregnant.
*
Diana: WHAT???!!!!!
SORT OF PREGNANT? SORT OF?
I’m calling you right now. Pick up the phone.
*
Amanda: No, don’t call! Seriously, Dee, I can’t talk right now.
*
Diana: You must talk! You can’t drop something like this on me via text!
Jesus! How did this even happen!
*
Amanda: Well, when a man and a woman like each other very much, and a penis and vagina make special friends…
*
Diana: Don’t make jokes. This isn’t the time for your comedy stylings, Esposito.
And don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. You haven’t even been dating, have you? Unless you’ve got love life secrets you’ve been keeping from your best friend.
Oh God, you’re not back with Wonderdick are you?
PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY TELL ME YOU’RE NOT HAVING WONDERDICK’S BABY.
*
Amanda: Of course not! Is that what you think of me?
That I’m so pathetic and desperate for love that I would go back to a sociopath who lied to me for four years?
*
Diana: No, of course not! I don’t think you’re desperate or pathetic.
I love you and think you’re the prettiest and the sweetest and the best.