by Mignon Mykel
You want her, and you want to keep her. You’d break your rules for her.
Yeah.
…Something like that.
Frustrated with my train of thoughts, I dragged my hand down over my face as I sat in the locker room, pants and skates on, but only dressed otherwise in my Nike undershirt. The guys all joked and laughed around me; the atmosphere in the room was due to the game starting off strong.
We were between second and third periods and were up by four goals. Charleston didn’t have a hope in winning, not with the way we were playing tonight. Caleb would allow the guys to have fun now, but two or so minutes before we left for the ice again, he’d rein us back in.
It’s what he was good at.
While all the guys talked and joked, I sat—alone with my thoughts—thinking about the woman who was up in the family box with my son. The very one I basically had to beg to bring Anderson back home afterward.
“If it’s okay with you, Sydney said—” Molly started, as I walked into the kitchen, tying my tie.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Christmas, the holidays. So, if you could stick around for the game…” I pulled the tail through and adjusted the knot, my eyes not leaving Molly as she stood in the pantry door, a can of corn in her hands.
She always had something in her hands.
Was always messing with something.
Needing something to do.
“Oh.” She actually looked disappointed, switching the Green Giant can to her other hand.
“Thanks, Moll. I appreciate it.” I didn’t give her a chance to say anything more, by walking down the hall to tell Anderson goodbye.
And while I did want to talk to her about the upcoming holiday—it was only ninteteen days away, where the hell had the time gone—I also just wanted to talk to her. Figure this shit out and be done with it.
It wasn’t affecting my playing game yet, but the fact that all I could think about when I wasn’t playing was her and us and then and tomorrow…
It needed to be talked about.
Finally, Caleb came back into the room, doing the clapping thing he did, and pulled everyone’s attention back to now, to the game. While he talked, and then gave the floor to Winski for a quick pep talk, I pulled my shoulder and chest pads on, followed by my jersey.
It was game time.
Which also meant, thoughts of Molly were put to the back burner.
Thankfully.
For now.
* * *
We were doing what we’d been doing best this entire game—giving Jonny extra coverage.
Standing in front of him, the guy most protecting the man, was Winski. Then, there was me in front of Winski, guarding the center pathway, with Kid Prescott playing left, and Easton Nash guarding the men on the other side.
And Fitz, the other D-man on our line?
Oh, he was in the penalty box.
But the four of us out here were a killer PK group. We could take the man-disadvantage and twist it to be a good thing.
Nash was our flex player; he was on the roster as a forward, but had played defense prior to camp, so he rounded out our current group well.
Our penalty kill percentage was top of the league.
We had this.
Charleston played with the puck, around and around the zone, wasting time. Normally when we needed a penalty kill and we were playing Charleston, Nico—not Nash—was on the ice with us, but he’d just played a hard shift.
Nico and Porter knew this team in and out.
They knew their man-up plays, regardless of any roster changes the team had seen over the last year.
Sometimes it was nice having more than one guy on the ice who had playing history with your opponent.
As it was…
We were still killing it.
Charleston’s MacDonald looked like he was itching to make a shot, so my eyes were on him, even if the puck wasn’t in front of him. The man had tells, worse than a poker player, and I was more than capable of reading them.
Rookie mistake, man.
Sure enough, the puck was slapped across the zone, passing both myself and Winski, and MacDonald lifted his stick, getting ready to meet the puck with a slapshot reply.
I released my stick with one hand, reaching up to try and stop the flying rubber with my glove, but instead of knocking it down, the puck grazed my gloved hand.
Fuck.
Quickly, I turned, the sounds of Charleston yelling, skates scraping ice, fans cheering—or jeering, really—masking out the next few milliseconds.
When you’re on the ice, milliseconds sometimes feel like minutes, and that’s what this situation felt like.
I watched as the puck that just grazed my glove headed toward Winski, who pulled his body together tight—a human shield. His legs together, arms tight to his body. The way the puck deflected from my glove should have slowed down momentum.
It should have altered the angle.
And it did.
But rather than break the trajectory from a straight path to downward, it caused it to go in an upward arc.
Winski didn’t have a chance in hell.
The moment the puck hit his helmet, my stomach clenched.
The moment Winski went down to his hands and knees, I didn’t give a damn where the puck ended up.
The next milliseconds flew by.
Cheering from the fans.
Whistle from the refs—with half a mind, I registered that Jonny stopped the puck.
A linesman yelling and waving for San Diego’s medical trainer, Trent Mulligan.
The guys and I skated near a downed Winski, who was now slowly pushing his skates back to lay on the ice. Once flat, he rocked his skates side to side, out and in.
At least he was moving.
It was moments like this that the arena was eerily silent.
Everyone holding their breath. Waiting to see what would happen.
To see if number 32 would get up and off the ice on his own, or if he’d need help.
The puck had hit Winski in the helmet, hard enough to send him to the ice; he’d be pulled for concussion precautions, at minimum.
But he was moving. That was good.
He’d be okay.
If I kept thinking it, I’d convince myself it to be true.
Two minutes later, with Trent on one side and me on his other, we helped Winski back toward the bench, where he and Trent took the tunnel to medical.
Caleb watched Winski walk down the tunnel, then glanced up to the family box. Just one look, and you could feel the history of friendship between the two—it was more than just a coach watching his player.
It was a friend watching, then looking up to where the wives and kids were.
Where Winski’s very pregnant wife was.
“He’ll be good,” I said, not knowing if Caleb heard me.
But then he nodded, glancing back at the bench. “Alright, boys. Let’s finish this game.”
* * *
Molly and Anderson got home before I did, which wasn’t unusual. I also knew she’d have had him go to bed already, because he had school in the morning.
Which was good.
After Caleb got an update from Sydney, who got an update from Callie, Trevor’s wife, the team was a little down—even though we won the game.
Regardless.
I felt like shit.
The puck deflected from my glove.
It should have slowed down.
Instead, it whacked my teammate—my fucking friend—hard enough to have him blackout moments after leaving the tunnel. He was going to be on concussion protocol for at least the next week, and we had a fairly aggressive schedule coming up.
I walked into my house, dropping my suit jacket and tie onto the top of the washing machine as I stepped through the mud room, not even fully registering the sounds of both the washer and dryer running.
Molly was so damn good at keeping the house moving, going, running.
The mo
ment I cleared the mud room, I saw her sitting on the couch, crossed legged as her gaze fixed on the television. She still wore the black leggings she’d had on earlier, but instead of the long blouse she’d paired it with for the game, she was now in a sweatshirt that swallowed her whole. One that I’d seen countless times before, when she’d stay the night with Anderson and I was out of town, or home late.
I was hit with the familiarity.
With the knowledge that if she left…
Hell, Molly was the only constant in mine and Anderson’s lives over the last nine years.
Molly didn’t glance at me as I stepped into the room, but still leaned forward to grab the remote from the table, aiming it at the large entertainment center, and shut the television off.
Even with the sounds hardly registered when I walked in, it was obviously silent now.
“Thanks for sticking around,” I said, breaking that quiet. I kept walking past the couch, stopping at the kitchen counter and leaning forward as I toed off my dress shoes. “He get to bed okay?”
“He did. No fight.” Her voice was still behind me and if I had to guess, she was still on the couch; probably still facing the television rather than turning to angle back at me.
In my socks, I walked to the fridge and reached for a water…
And instead, pulled out a beer.
I didn’t drink after games, not when we had practice in the morning.
I stopped hanging out at O’Gallaghers with the guys years ago—for no reason other than I wasn’t a big drinker and had a kid at home.
But I needed the smooth barley and malt right now.
With the cold bottle in hand, I closed the fridge and grabbed the dish towel hanging on the nearby oven. As I twisted off the cap, using the towel as extra leverage, I turned so I was facing the living area.
Facing Molly.
The bottle cap dropped to the marble countertop with a rounding clink, and as I brought the bottle up to my lips, I watched Molly unfold herself from the couch, turning toward me.
“If you’re good—” she started but I shook my head, bottle to my lips. I took a healthy drink from the bottle, then placed it down softly on the counter.
“Sit down, Moll,” I finally said, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. Leaving the bottle in the kitchen, I walked toward her.
I gave her space though, moving to sit at the other end of the L-shaped sectional.
Before I could figure out how to word this conversation, Molly sighed, bringing her legs back up on the couch to fold at her side. “I understand why you think it’s a good time to lose the nanny. But you think maybe it could wait for after the holidays? It’s a lot. I mean, not for me.” Her brows her up and she placed her hand on her chest. “But for Anderson. You’re different around the holidays, Mikey, understandably so, but I don’t think it’s fair to make it harder on Anderson. Not so close to them anyway.”
I opened my mouth to set her straight…
And realized I couldn’t.
I physically could not tell her that I wanted her.
It was like a vise gripping my throat; the words wouldn’t come out.
“But after the holidays…” She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the coffee table in front of her. Her hair was free of any confines and as such, draped over her far shoulder. Molly reached behind her with her right hand, grabbing for stray strands from her left shoulder, and brought them to the rest of her mass of brown hair. “I get it.” She looked over at me and shrugged again, just one shoulder this time. “I do. Besides, I was talking with Asher—”
“They have a nanny.” It came out quick. Reflexive.
Shit, I didn’t want someone else hiring her.
She was looking already? Fuck.
“I was talking with Asher,” Molly repeated, a bit slower with her brows drawn up—not at all unlike an adult scolding a child for interrupting, “about maybe finishing school. I never did. I met you and Tr—” She averted her eyes again, swallowing hard.
“Right.” I nodded, knowing where she was going with that.
“So, it’s honestly okay,” she continued, still avoiding my eyes. She picked at the black stretchy material at her knees and I found myself watching the small movements.
If she went to school, it would mean she wasn’t nannying.
Would she finish school back in Minnesota? Or would she stay here?
I wasn’t ready to lose her yet, and certainly not half a country away. “Where have you looked?”
She frowned, looking at me again. “Why?”
I shrugged. “Just curious. You’re not…” I took a breath and went with it. “You’re not moving back to Minnesota, are you?”
“Ha.” Her laugh was unamused, even if her eyes danced a little. “There’s nothing in Minnesota but cold winters. I like San Diego.”
Nothing in Minnesota…?
“Wouldn’t your family want you to go home?” I asked, knowing fully well I was fishing for information.
The woman got half of her summers off when Anderson and I spent the month of July in Quebec.
She got Christmas break off, whether Anderson and I traveled to Canada for the holiday or not.
What was she doing during those times, if not going back home?
Molly just shook her head, and I knew she was going to deflect. “The semester starts mid-January. So, if we could figure something out by then, that’d be great. I have friends here and even if I’m not watching him, maybe you’d allow me to take him to games or movies or something.”
I was frowning, trying to piece things together, but nodded all the same. “Yeah. Of course. He’d like that.” I would too. Why couldn’t I tell her that?
Then Molly was standing again, and I had to jump into action. Standing too, I reached for her arm. Unlike the other day, my hand made contact and I swallowed hard at the jolt that went through me.
“Will you go Christmas shopping with me? I was planning on going tomorrow. We don’t have a game and Cael’s giving us the day. I think he wants to check in on Winski, to tell you the truth,” I gave her a smirk, trying to joke.
Hell, I wanted to check in on Winski.
“I don’t know, Mikey…”
“Please? Let’s be honest. You probably know what my kid wants more than I do. What he needs.” That, and I would love to take her to lunch. Try to tear down her guard.
Get her to open up.
Molly’s face contorted in thought.
“After school, he can go to the Prescott’s. Hang out with Brandon.”
“You just said you thought Caleb was going to be out.”
“He’s not going to drag is twenty kids to Winski’s place. Not with Callie ten months pregnant.”
Molly was smiling now, those dimples in her cheeks, and was clearly amused. “Four kids. Eight months.”
God, I loved her smile. “Whichever. Please, Moll?”
Her smile fell, and her sigh was exasperated…but still, she answered, “Fine.”
“Great. I’ll get Anderson to school, then how about you meet me here at ten?”
“How about I meet you at the mall at ten?” Molly countered.
Not exactly what I was aiming for, but if it was going to be a make or break stipulation… “Sure. Ten. At Westfield Horton Plaza.”
Molly was frowning again. “That’s on the other side of town, Mikey. And I don’t know the last time you’ve been there, but there are far better malls.”
“I wanted to stop at the Gaslamp Quarter. Quicksilver and Urban Outfitters.”
“Urban Outfitters is at Fashion Valley.”
I could tell I wasn’t winning this argument. So much for stopping for lunch in the Quarter. “Fine. Fashion Valley. Ten. Outside of Macy’s.”
Chapter Seven
Molly
I was half-tempted to show up at the mall in my CrossFit clothes.
Why did I agree to this? Why did I say, “Sure, yeah, let me cancel my plans for the day and hang out with you?”
Just a morning CrossFit class, then perhaps a long soak in my tub, followed by popcorn and Netflix in clean gym clothes—because life wasn’t comfortable unless in leggings and a sport bra.
But nope.
No soak—instead I took a fast shower.
No sport bra—I put on a damn real bra.
With an underwire and everything.
Fucking Mikey.
I didn’t bother drying my hair though.
Mikey didn’t need that much time and attention.
Besides, I didn’t exactly have time for it, either.
When I pulled into the parking lot outside of Macy’s just a few minutes past ten, I saw Mikey’s car at the back of the lot.
So of course, I parked a few rows away from his pretty white Tesla.
It was a gorgeous day for December in San Diego, I thought, crossing my arms over my chest as I walked. I probably could have grabbed a sweater to wear over my oversized long-sleeve shirt, but I got warm quickly, especially on Cross Fit days.
My knee-high boots had the slightest of heels; enough of a heel to make a faint click as I walked through parking and toward the mall.
There, standing to the right of the automatic sliding doors, in a brown—freaking brown—hoodie and dark-washed jeans, was the one I was here for.
Nope. Here for Anderson.
Why did Mikey have to be so…pretty?
His hair was a mess of waves on the top of his head, the brown slightly darker now that it was winter. He wore sunglasses on his face, so even though I couldn’t see him looking at me, I could feel him watching me.
Knew that he’d spotted me.
I could apologize for being late…
But I wasn’t going to.
“Hey, Moll,” he greeted me when I was within twelve feet of him. His voice was a smooth tone that washed over me.
I was assaulted with memories.
So many damn memories.
And not one of them had to do with my late best friend.
His strong back, muscles rolling, as I watched through the door.
His hands, gripping mine and holding them to the bed as he hovered over me.
His lips at my neck.
That smooth, sexy voice in my ear…
I swallowed hard. “Mikey.” I didn’t stop by him; didn’t want to take in the smell of his fancy cologne.