"Then I don't know what to tell you, Sammie. Except you need to figure something out and I don't mean while you're out on the ice."
"Yeah. I know."
"Good. Then let's go kick some New York butt." Taylor stood and grabbed Sammie's arm, pulling her to her feet as everyone started lining up to head back to the ice. Coach Reynolds came in, gave them a final last-minute talk to pump them up, then they filed past her.
Sammie hit the ice behind Taylor, following her down to the net with the rest of the line to tap Shannon on the legs before lining up for the puck-drop. Sammie looked to the right, her gaze immediately landing on Jon. He was standing with the rest of the crowd, Clare propped on his hip as he pointed toward her. Sammie couldn't make out what he was saying, not from this distance, but she saw Clare bounce up and down in his arms and clap her tiny little hands together.
"Reigler. I need you here."
Sammie turned back around, her gaze meeting Taylor's. She nodded, forced all thoughts of Jon from her mind, and got into position.
New York won the faceoff, immediately skating the puck into the Blades' defensive zone. Sammie powered through each stride, pushing herself, muscles stretching and burning as she followed and slid into position in front of the net. She leaned forward, swinging her stick from side-to-side, her gaze never leaving the player from New York.
Waiting. Watching.
The woman darted to the left, stopped and moved to the right. It didn't matter, Sammie hadn't been fooled. She moved in, reached out with her stick, and knocked the puck loose before the woman could shoot it.
They followed the puck into the corner, both of them hitting the boards hard enough to shake the glass. Sammie jabbed with her elbow, kicked out with the toe of her skate, dug in with her stick until she got her tape on the puck. She jammed her elbow into the other player's side once more then spun around, moving the puck back to center ice.
She glanced around, passed it to Taylor, followed her down the ice then waited, getting into position, focused on keeping the puck in the zone in case of a rebound—or in case one of the players from New York knocked it loose or gained possession of it. Not that there was much chance of that happening, not right now. Taylor had firm possession as she skated around the net, her gaze scanning the ice as she pulled back with her stick.
New York's goalie slid to the right, her glove hand coming up to block the shot. But Taylor didn't take the shot. Instead, she passed the puck to Dani, who pulled back and sent it flying in, hard and fast.
The red light flashed above the net, immediately followed by the sound of the horn blaring. Cheers and applause echoed around them, still not loud enough to drown out the horn, but louder than it had been at every other game so far this season.
Sammie ran forward, meeting Taylor and Dani and Rachel and Sydney for a group hug before heading off the ice. She dropped to the bench and grabbed a water bottle, shooting a stream into her mouth before handing the bottle to Taylor.
Taylor took a quick sip, swished it around her mouth, then leaned to the side and spit it out before taking another sip, swallowing it this time. She tossed the bottle behind her then nudged Sammie in the side.
"See what happens when you aren't distracted and get your head in the game?"
"Hm." Sammie didn't say anything more than that little sound. She couldn't—if she did, Taylor would figure out the truth.
Her head hadn't been in the game, not exactly. Not the way Taylor had meant.
Her mind had been on Jon. On impressing him.
And on her earlier conversation with Taylor, thinking about what she had said, wondering if maybe her friend had a point. Wondering if maybe she should just sleep with him and get it out of her system.
Not that she would. There was no way she could allow that to happen, not in real life. But as far as lighting a fire under her during the game—yeah, it had definitely worked.
And it kept working for the rest of the game, too, right up until the final horn signaled another win for the Blades.
Chapter Eighteen
Jonathan shifted Clare in his arms, trying not to disturb her as he jammed the key into the door and unlocked it. He pushed it open then stepped to the side, waiting for Sammie to move past him before closing it again.
"I could have carried her, you know."
"You've already got your hands full." And she did, with a large backpack, Clare's small backpack, and a huge tote bag filled with who-knew-what. It didn't matter that he could have carried the bags—and probably should have, since they were probably heavier. But he couldn't pass up the chance to hold Clare in his arms, to feel her small arms wrapped around his neck as she curled against. Warm. Trusting.
And right now, heavier than he thought. She was still sound asleep, had been since they left the restaurant where they had gone to eat after Sammie's game.
Sammie shot him a look that told him she knew his real motive for carrying Clare but she didn't say anything, just moved into the living room and dropped the bags next to the sofa. She looked around, her brows lifted in surprise.
"You've done some decorating."
"Not much. Well, just a little." A few pictures. A fake plant—because he had no idea how to take care of a real one. A soft throw tossed over the back of the sofa, along with some colorful throw pillows. Those had been Mac's idea, something Jonathan still didn't understand.
"It looks nice. Cozy."
Okay, maybe he didn't need to understand. He'd be damned if he admitted that to Mac, though.
He tossed the keys onto the small table by the door then moved further inside, still holding Clare in his arms. "I, uh, I tried to baby proof everything. You know, plugs in the sockets and all that sh—stuff. I didn't know if you wanted to look around and check things out, see if I forgot something."
Amusement flashed in Sammie's eyes as she nodded and made her way around the living room, bending down to check things. He followed her into the dining room then the kitchen, watched as she checked the latches on the cabinets—which were a colossal pain in his ass. He didn't care, though, not if made Clare safer.
And not if helped set Sammie's mind at ease.
She was nervous, he could tell just by looking at her. She tried not to show it, tried to pretend this wasn't bothering her, but he knew it was.
Hell, she wasn't the only one nervous. This was a big step—for both of them. He still couldn't believe she had agreed to let Clare spend the night here. And part of him was terrified that he'd do something wrong, that he'd screw something up.
He moved past Sammie into the hallway, hitting the light switch with his elbow as he went. "I got her a bed too. With those rail things, so she doesn't climb out."
"Rails won't stop her."
Dread filled him and he spun around to face Sammie. "But I thought—"
"They're to keep her from falling out while she's sleeping, but she doesn't really need them. As for climbing—she started climbing out of her crib when she was fifteen months old."
"Oh. Is that normal?"
"It was for her."
"Did you want to see the bed anyway? Just to make sure it's okay?"
"I'm sure it's fine, Jon. But yeah, lead the way."
He nodded and walked down the hall, stopped to push open the door to the second bedroom. It used to be his office, until a few days ago. Now his desk and computer were jammed into his own bedroom, and his former office had been transformed into a room fit for a princess.
Kind of.
He flipped the switch on the wall and soft light filled the room, coming from the pink-and-white lamp resting on the wooden dresser. A child-sized rocking chair made from the same pale wood as the dresser rested in the corner, surrounded by a battalion of stuffed animals. A matching bed, miniature-sized, was placed against the wall, covered in a bright pink camouflage comforter with matching pillowcases.
"What do you think? Is this okay?" He turned to Sammie, anxious to see what she thought. She covered her mouth with one han
d, but not before he saw the smile spreading across her face.
"Is it that bad?"
"No." She shook her head, still smiling. "No, it's not bad. It's just—pink camo?"
"Um, I wasn't sure what else to get. Everything was either pink with princesses and unicorns or blue with spaceships and sports stuff. I couldn't find any hockey stuff, or I would have bought that. And I wasn't sure about the whole princess thing so—" He stopped rambling, wondering if he sounded as nervous as he felt. "I can take it back, it's not a big deal."
"It's fine, Jon. Really. I'm sure she'll like it."
Relief swept through him. Maybe Sammie was stretching the truth just a little bit, but she seemed to be okay with it so he wouldn't let himself worry about it.
Not too much, anyway.
He followed Sammie back into the living room then stood there, not sure what to do next. She looked like she was torn between leaving and staying, like she was maybe having second thoughts about this whole thing. He couldn't blame her, not really. Yes, he was Clare's father—but he'd been out of their lives for so long, had totally fucked everything up.
What if he fucked this up, too?
"Did you want anything to drink? A soda or coffee or—"
"No, I should probably get going."
"Are you sure? Because—"
"I'm sure. It'll be easier—" She stopped, looked away and cleared her throat. Jonathan didn't miss the sudden moisture welling in her eyes, even though she tried to hide it. He didn't think, just closed the distance between them and ran his hand along her arm.
"Thank you. For letting her stay."
Sammie nodded, stepped back, hesitated as she looked at Clare, still sleeping in his arms. "I wouldn't let her sleep too long, or she'll never get to sleep tonight. And make sure she brushes her teeth—you'll need to help her with that—and nothing to drink too late. And make sure you put her in her pull-ups before bed."
"I know. You have everything written down for me."
Sammie nodded, took another step toward the door, stopped again. "And you have my number so don't be afraid to call me. Even if it's the middle of the night."
"I know."
"Okay." She nodded, hesitated, nodded again and moved closer to the door. Jon followed her, surprised at the small knot of fear lodged in his gut.
"Don't you want to say goodbye to Clare?" He started nudging Clare, shifting her in his arms so Sammie could kiss her goodbye. Except Sammie was shaking her head, a look of panic on her face.
"Hey, Little Bits. Do you want to say goodbye to Mommy?"
"Jon, I wouldn't do that—"
But Clare had already roused from her sleep and was looking around, confusion marring her face. Her sleepy eyes met his, looked away as she turned toward Sammie and saw her near the door—
And promptly had a meltdown of epic proportions, kicking and screaming and reaching for Sammie.
Jon tightened his grip on her, honestly worried that she'd thrash her way right out of his arms, she was kicking so hard. He looked at Sammie, desperate for help, totally unsure what to do.
Sammie rushed forward, catching Clare as the little girl lunged toward her. Jon stood there, feeling empty and lost and—
And guilty.
He knew it was an illogical reaction, knew he had nothing to feel guilty for—at least, he didn't think so. Had he done something for Clare to act this way? Could she somehow sense—
No, of course not. He was being an ass. Logically, he knew that. But emotionally, deep down where the demons still dwelt, he wasn't so sure.
Could Sammie tell? Maybe. She moved closer, Clare clinging to her like a lifeline, and reached for his hand, her fingers threading with his. "It's not you, Jon. Okay? I knew this might happen."
"But what happened? What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing. You did absolutely nothing wrong. I think it's just separation anxiety."
"What?"
"Separation anxiety. She started to do the same thing the other week, after we went for hot chocolate. Remember?"
He stared down at his crying daughter, watched as tears streamed down her flushed and sweaty face, and shook his head. Clare had never acted like this before.
"When we were leaving, and she said she didn't want to go with me. Remember?"
"But she didn't act like this."
"Not this bad, no, but she was on the verge. Until you calmed her down." Sammie tightened her hand around his and led him toward the sofa, pulling him down next to her and settling Clare more comfortably against her. The screams had ceased, the crying no longer sounding as desperate.
A strange emptiness filled him when Sammie released his hand to rub gentle circles on Clare's back. And didn't that make him a selfish ass? What kind of man would begrudge his own daughter her mother's touch?
He shifted on the sofa, putting distance between them, and watched as Sammie comforted his daughter. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."
"She'll be fine. Just give her a few minutes to calm down, and we'll try again."
"Try again?" Jonathan didn't try to hide his surprise—or his fear. "You want to put her through this again? No. I can't."
"It's just a stage, Jon. And before you get the wrong idea, no, it isn't easy to walk away. It hurts, more than you can imagine. Trust me." Sammie's voice cracked, breaking something inside him.
"No. No way in hell. I'm not—"
"It doesn't last long. A few minutes. I probably should have just left."
"She—does she do this a lot?"
"It's happened a few times this past month. When I've left for work. Or for a game or practice. Like I said, it's a stage."
"Then maybe we should wait. She doesn't have to stay here. I can pick her up tomorrow morning." There was no way Jonathan could handle seeing his daughter go through that again, whether it was a stage or not. Yes, Clare was already calming down, the tears drying on her face as she watched him with those big brown eyes so much like her mother's.
Sammie didn't seem to hear him. Or if she did, she chose to ignore him, because she shifted Clare to his lap then leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head.
"You be a good girl, and I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
Clare nodded then snuggled against Jonathan, her gaze focused on Sammie as she stood and headed for the door. Jonathan tensed, holding his breath, watching as Sammie moved away. She reached out, grabbed the door handle and—
Clare started crying again, reaching out with her small arms as she called for "Mommy" over and over again. And oh God, it looked like Sammie was going to open the door and walk out, despite the tears in her own eyes.
Desperate fear gripped him and he shot off the sofa, his arms tight around Clare as he hurried to the door. "Sammie. Wait. Don't. I can't do this."
Maybe that made him a coward—hell, that wouldn't surprise him—but he didn't care. He couldn't put Clare through this. And he couldn't put Sammie through this because he could see how much it was tearing her apart too, even though she was trying so hard to hide it.
And he couldn't put himself through this, couldn't be responsible for causing Sammie and Clare more pain. Hadn't he put them through enough hell already?
Jonathan reached out and grabbed Sammie's hand, his grip desperate as he pulled her closer. "Please. Don't. I can't do this."
Sammi blinked away her own tears and stepped closer, squeezing his hand but not letting it go as she reached out with her free one and brushed the curls from Clare's face. "Sweetie, you're making Daddy sad. Don't you want to stay with Daddy?"
Jonathan froze, Sammie's words echoing in his ears. No, he hadn't heard her right. It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Nothing more than a slip on her part. His lungs burned from lack of air; he unfroze long enough to pull in a shaky breath, his gaze shooting to Sammie's.
No, he hadn't been hearing things. And if it had been a slip, Sammie seemed to be aware of it. He searched her gaze, waiting to see regret in her wide eyes, but there was none.<
br />
She looked away, studying Clare as she rubbed her back, her soft voice barely audible over Clare's sniffling tears. "You are. It's stupid not to say it."
"I—" Jonathan swallowed, cleared his throat, swallowed again. "Thank you."
Sammie shrugged, her gaze darting to his then sliding away. A small flush stained her cheeks, reminding him of how easy it used to be to embarrass her. How he would tease her when they were younger, just to get that same reaction from her.
And then, when they were older, how he could do other things to make that same flush appear on her round cheeks.
Jonathan placed Clare in Sammie's arms and quickly stepped away, needing to put distance between them before he did something stupid. He moved over to the sofa, leaned down to grab the bags Sammie had dropped there earlier, and tossed them over his shoulder. "I'll help you load up."
"But I thought—"
"It's too soon. I was rushing things. Clare isn't ready. I don't think I am, either."
Sammie stood there, holding his daughter in her arms. Madonna and child, he thought. Innocent. Sweet. And deserving so much more than what he could ever give them. Hadn't he fucked up enough? He should have never come back. If he were smart, he'd walk Sammie to her car and tell her goodbye, and never see her again.
But fuck, he wasn't smart. He was a fucking selfish bastard because he wanted Sammie back. He wanted Clare. He wanted both of them, even though he didn't deserve either one of them.
"I think you are. You just have to be patient and give it time."
Was Sammie talking about Clare? Or something else? Christ, he wanted to think she was talking about something else—about her, about them—but he was afraid to read too much into it. Afraid to hope.
He started to shake his head, only to stop when Sammie pushed past him and headed back to the sofa. She sat on the end of it and yanked the soft throw from the back, spreading it down then sitting Clare next to her. She wrapped the throw around Clare then nodded toward one of the bags hanging from his shoulder.
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 13