Center of Gravity: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 2)

by Isabella Cassazza

  According to the older employees in Rome, he wasn’t always the tyrant he became after Nonna and Mamma died but changed a lot after he lost them, becoming hard and unyielding and secluding himself from others. It must have been hard to lose his daughter and his beloved wife, and it certainly didn’t help that he was saddled with a child that resembled both. Somehow, he lost the ability to love and to care in the process. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he never loved me as much as he loved them. I’ll never know. It’s not like he’ll suddenly start to talk about his feelings.

  It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is my brooding fake husband. I’m not sure how many times Nonna had to cook for Grandfather before she had him wrapped around her little finger. So here I am, armed with four cookbooks. One for each course. It’s Christmas Eve, one of the rare off days. And since we spent Thanksgiving on the road, we’ll have a big dinner tonight.

  It’s just the two of us, a quiet affair at home. Quiet and rest—something we both need like air these days. The season is brutal, and we still have a long way to go if we want to make playoffs. My grandfather hasn’t interfered much lately, but with him being unpredictable, who knows what he’ll be up to tomorrow.

  I like cooking, but I wouldn’t call myself an accomplished master chef. I can do basic stuff. Italian basic stuff. American, not so much, but it can’t be that hard, can it?

  The big bird on the table and me, we can make this work—together with the cookbooks. And maybe Google. Definitely Google. What’s the worst possible outcome anyway? Dry turkey meat? It can be drowned in gravy, and Matt won’t even be able to taste it. I got this.

  But what if it’s not cooked through? I might add five minutes more to the cooking time in the recipe just to be sure. I need wine at this point. Some delicious Chianti classico or a glass of pinot grigio? My mouth waters. Crap, being pregnant is so inconvenient at times, and yet I wouldn’t want to exchange my little ones for anything in the world.

  I can’t wait to meet them. And neither can their daddy. I’m not sure who was more in danger of hyperventilating when Matt accompanied me to the last two appointments—Dr. Peters, because one of his favorite players was sitting next to him while he conducted the ultrasound, which, thank God wasn’t an internal one anymore, or Matt, who was shifting around on his chair so much I wanted to restrain him with a straitjacket. The exam was supposed to last half an hour—we spent three hours in Dr. Peter’s office. Mostly to answer Matt’s million questions.

  Mister I’m-going-for-the-daddy-to-be-of-the-year-award has already read four pregnancy books during his road trips, while I haven’t even finished one. Even Tyler, who has the patience of a saint, has complained about Matt’s constant chatter about babies and pregnancy. The poor guy must have felt pressured to produce a baby himself. But when Matt started to talk to him about my digestive system and how certain foods impact the babies’ development and later breastfeeding, while I was turning around a corner in the training facility, I had to intervene. Enough is enough, and Tyler’s grateful facial expression was a sufficient indication that I did the right thing. Matt can be intense if he’s passionate about something. One thing’s for sure; he’s crazy-excited about our little ones.

  When Dr. Peters had finally answered Matt’s gazillion questions, they started to talk hockey. Lots of hockey. During which, I zoned out. Literally. I fell asleep on the examination table, unnoticed by both my doctor and my husband. Talk about crazy. I won’t complain, though. Sleep is much needed these days when the twins decide to do something resembling synchro somersaulting in my belly, and I’m woken up at night by constant kicks. I’m over the moon that they’re doing so well, but is it too much to ask them to somersault only during working hours?

  As if to scold me, I receive a kick in my ribs, first to my left and then to my right.

  “Okay, okay. You can continue your nightly exercise regime. I won’t say anything anymore.” I place my hand over my rounded belly and stroke it twice.

  The door bursts open. “Everything all right?” Matt slides to a halt in front of me.

  “Uh… yeah. Everything’s fine.” He must have heard me talking… and was standing right outside to hear me.

  “I heard you talking and… uh….”

  I’m not sure who’s weirder right now, me talking to my stomach or him, literally waiting outside the door and listening to what I have to say.

  “I’m fine. Just had a little chat with the two aspiring Olympians in my stom—”

  “They kick you again?” He takes a step toward me and lifts his left hand just to drop it again.

  Twice, I’ve been sitting right next to him when the babies kicked me. Twice, his expression of wonder felt like another punch in the gut when I let him feel their kicks on my stomach. My naked stomach. With his hand underneath my sweater. My body tingles when I think of his warm hands on my skin, lingering even after the little ones stopped kicking me.

  Don’t go there, I scold myself.

  “Yeah, they did.”

  “Can I help you?” He looks at the cookbooks and the bird on the table.

  “No. I’m fine. Go watch a movie or something. You need your rest.”

  “I’m good.” He studies the bird recipe.

  “You must be tired after yesterday’s game.”

  “No more than usual.” He’s still studying the recipe. By now he might be able to recite it by heart.

  “You really don’t have to help me.” My voice sounds weak to my own ears.

  “I want to.” His voice couldn’t be firmer.

  No sane person would deny his help now, right? Yet, I do. He needs his rest. But I want his company. “You can read your book here.” I point at the kitchen table.

  “Okay.” He sprints out of the room and returns in record time before I can contemplate how to handle the bird, the cookbooks, and Matt in the kitchen.

  While Matt gets comfortable on one of the kitchen chairs, I get back to preparing the turkey. Thank God the butcher has already freed the bird from its cavity and organs. All that’s left for me to do is to give it a good rub with the marinade and put it in the oven.

  “Do you mind some music?” Matt startles me.

  “No. Go ahead.” It’s weird, but his presence calms me. A lot. Or it could be the music. Swing Christmas classics ring through the room, and I tap my foot to the rhythm while Frank Sinatra sings about a white Christmas—something I’ve never seen growing up. Snow is a rarity in Rome. And Boston hasn’t been kind this year either. Maybe next year, I’ll get lucky. White powder snow covering the harbor and the brownstones, wouldn’t that look romantic?

  In no time, the bird is ready for the preheated oven.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Matt puts his hands around me, preventing me from lifting the turkey from the table. “You shouldn’t lift anything. Let me do it.”

  I turn my head and nearly brush his nose with mine. He smells divine. Musky and warm. And sexy. So damn sexy. My breath hitches, and our gazes lock for a second. If only I could see what’s going on behind his unreadable expression before he lets his arms drop, and the moment is gone.

  Once I’m out of the way, Matt opens the oven door and places the turkey inside.

  “Thanks.” I turn away and read, for the fourth time today, about how to make the perfect biscuits. Baking always has been, and most likely always will be, my least favorite task in the kitchen. I’m more of an improvise chef, and weighing every ingredient to perfect measurement kills the creativity for me. But today I won’t take chances. At the end of this cooking process, I’ll have a plate full of golden-brown biscuits, crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. If I manage to measure with this cup system. All my life, I’ve measured stuff in grams and kilograms. This cup thing, it’s confusing. At least for me.

  “You sure you don’t want my help?” Matt appears next to me and leans against the kitchen counter.

  “I’m good. Why don’t you take a nap? The turkey needs his time, and you’r
e kind of in the way….”

  He lifts his hands and turns away. Crap. He looks… hurt. Rejected. That’s not what I wanted. Why did I say that? I’m so stupid.

  I dive after Matt, coating the kitchen doorknob in flour in the process. Great, now I’m making a mess.

  “Matt, wait!”

  He’s about to climb the stairs when I slide around the corner. God, I don’t even want to imagine how I look right now. At best, it could be described as the cute, disheveled, loose-hair-falling-out-my-ponytail look. Or as the overwhelmed, wannabe housewife look, who’s unable to seduce her fake husband.

  “I could use some help. I… uh… I’ve never made biscuits.” And turkey and gravy….

  “Biscuits were a big thing at our house when I was younger.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. A Matt-smirk. Holy…. If I wasn’t already pregnant, my ovaries would explode right now.

  Matt hasn’t told me much about his family, but when we were on the road over Thanksgiving, I overheard him talking to Tyler about how much he loved his mom’s biscuits growing up. That’s why I wanted to make them for him. He called it the only beautiful memory he had of her. Before she left the family to be with another man.

  “So, you’re an expert biscuit maker?”

  He chuckles. Yes, please. I need more of that deep rumble that makes the little hairs on my arms lift and sends jolts down my spine.

  “Now, I wouldn’t say that. But I’m sure we can figure it out together.”

  Together. To-gether. It sounds right. Him and me. Us. A team. A family. One day. Hopefully.

  “Maybe we can start a Christmas tradition?” The words are out before I can think them through, but to my surprise, he doesn’t recoil. The contrary actually.

  “Yeah. Once the little ones are old enough, they can help.”

  Crap, now my eyes well up. “That would be beautiful,” I choke out and turn around, so he can’t see the tears.

  “Is—what’s she called again, a scary witch?” Matt leans back in the cushion and rubs his belly. I’m not sure how he can still be awake with all the food he consumed. I’ve eaten only half of what he had, and my eyes are ready to fall shut, but I don’t want to miss a single moment. Together, we rocked the food, and I loved every minute of working with Matt. We laughed when the gravy’s texture resembled a soup in the beginning and laughed even harder when it looked like syrup after we added too much flour to thicken it. Our dinner wasn’t perfect, but I’ve never tasted anything better in my life. Because it was made with laughter and heart.

  I wish I could imprint Matt’s smile forever in my brain. It’s wide. And warm. So warm. And genuine. I’ve never seen him as relaxed as tonight. It makes me happy to see him without his usual cautiousness. I feel honored that he can relax around me. His happiness has become my priority. His and the babies’. Even if we won’t work out as a couple, I’ll always cherish this memory of us sitting on the couch, listening to another round of Christmas classics with only the lights of our tree illuminating the room. It’s cozy. Homey. Romantic. And peaceful.

  I wish time would stop and we could sit here forever in our own personal Christmas bubble without any interference from the outside world.

  “La Befana?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, in the version of the story I’ve been told since I was a child, she isn’t scary at all. She’s a poor creature. According to the myth, she was in search of the star that led everyone to the crib in Bethlehem to visit baby Jesus, but because she started her journey too late, she missed the star and never found the stable. She’s still searching and brings presents to children around the fifth or sixth of January, thinking that one of them might be baby Jesus.”

  “She doesn’t bring presents for Christmas?”

  I shake my head. “No, remember she’s still searching for baby Jesus between Christmas and the beginning of January.” I wink. “And she only brings presents to those who have been good. The others get pieces of coal, as a reminder to be better the next year.”

  “Pieces of coal?” His expression is priceless. “That’s cruel. So, were you always good?”

  I swallow. “I got tons of presents.” But I didn’t want material things.

  “There are really no presents on Christmas day?”

  “Well, Santa Claus, or Babbo Natale, is becoming more and more popular, and he brings them on Christmas Day. Santa brings presents only to good children too, doesn’t he?”

  Matt nods. “What’s he called in Italian again?”

  “Bab-bo Na-ta-le. Which means Father Christmas.” I say it extra slow for him again. “Try it.”

  What he says sounds more like “Pappo Nadaele,” but since he skips over the long A’s in “Nataaale,” it’s hard to tell.

  I laugh, but not because I want to make fun of him. I laugh, because he looks so cute trying to form the words with puckered lips. Matt and cute, who would have thought these two words would ever make it in the same sentence?

  “I’ll never be able to pronounce that. It sounds so much better when you say it, anyway.”

  “No, please don’t be discouraged. You just need to practice. Are you ready for dessert now?”

  He nods. “Don’t get up. I’ll get it.”

  I lean back on the couch and wait for Matt to return, rubbing my stomach now. Night has fallen, and the lights of the airport shimmer in the distance, illuminating the sea. This view never will get old.

  “Here we go. Smells delicious, by the way.” Matt startles me, placing the cake on the coffee table in front of me.

  I push myself up from the couch’s softness using one hand for leverage. In a couple months, I’ll have a hard time doing this on my own. But I’m not worried when I have Matt on my side. He’ll take care of me, no matter what.

  I blush because of his compliment. “Yum. It smells divine. Now let’s see how it looks inside.”

  The moment I cut into the cake, I know something went wrong. Instead of crunchy crumble, we have smeary softness. My face falls. “I’m so sorry. That’s….” I want to cry. God, I suck at being a housewife. I followed the recipe step-by-step, and look what I got—squishy strawberry and dough.

  “Hey, it’s not a problem. You’re not a dessert chef, or whatever they’re called.” Matt kneels down in front of me.

  “Pâtissier,” I sniffle.

  “I’ll never be able to pronounce that either.” He chuckles, but then his face turns serious. “Don’t cry. I might have something to brighten your mood.” He wipes away a tear from my cheek, and I lean into his big hand, closing my eyes. It’s calloused and hard, but also reassuring and comforting.

  Our eyes meet when I open mine again. He holds my gaze while time stands still. I’m tempted to lean forward, but I don’t know how Matt would react, and scaring him away is the last thing I want to do. His eyes widen, and his breathing accelerates, but he doesn’t move. I open my mouth, willing him to take the first step. Instead, he pulls away, and the moment is gone.

  He clears his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

  I fall back against the couch and close my eyes. He felt it too. I’m pretty sure. But something is holding him back. Reading him is impossible. He sends so many mixed signals. If he were a traffic light, there’d be constant mass collisions.

  A few minutes later, he returns with two white containers in his hands.

  “What’s that?” I sit up again.

  “Wait and see. Close your eyes.”

  I shake my head but do as told when he raises an eyebrow. My fake husband doesn’t take no for an answer when he’s set his mind on something.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Something cold lands on my tongue. Mmm… something familiar. “That’s… Crema di Firenze.”

  Matt chuckles. “Yup.” God, I love his deep rumble. I need to record it on my phone. That could be a thing, right? Deep male rumble for sale?

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I persuaded Giovanni to produce a few contain
ers. It took him a while to get hold of the recipe. But he contacted the owner of the ice cream parlor in Rome, and when your name was mentioned, recipes were exchanged. I think he gave them a cake recipe in return or something. He switches to Italian when he gets enthusiastic and, well, you already know my Italian is nonexistent.”

  I want to throw my arms around him and kiss the life out of him. But we aren’t a couple. Not yet. But this evening gives me hope. Our newfound understanding just has to outlive the magic of Christmas Eve.

  Chapter 18

  Matt

  “Now try to drive with your eyes open and push the accelerator this time,” the driving instructor says.

  I watch Emilia’s knuckles from the back seat as she holds on to the steering wheel for dear life. It’s her second driving lesson, and she refused to go alone, insisting that the first one had been a nightmare and she didn’t want to continue. But I reminded her of our agreement, so here we are. After arguing with the driving instructor for fifteen minutes, I’m in the car for moral support.

  To say Emilia’s nervous would be the understatement of the year. She’s a wreck, and I’m about to stop this lesson. It’s one thing to be nervous but another to be mortally terrified of something. It doesn’t help that rain is pouring down, making it difficult to see even with the windshield wipers on the highest speed.

  I hold my breath as Emilia puts the car in Drive. Nothing happens. She’s shaking, struggling to push down the accelerator.

  “Enough.” I place my hand on her shoulder. She jumps in her seat, pushing down the accelerator in the process, and the car surges forward before she lifts her foot and we stop abruptly. “Turn off the ignition, Emilia.” I place both hands on her shoulders and knead them. The muscles underneath my fingers feel like stone, and her hands are shaking when she follows my instructions. “Good job. Now let’s get outside.”