Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(59)

“In that case . . . can you do one more thing for me?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.

“Anything.”

“Can you help me get up so I can go pee?”

His broad shoulders vibrate with a deep, echoing laugh. “You bet.”





25




* * *





Change of Heart





Grant



“Don’t say a word,” I grumble, lacing up my skates.

Jordie raises both hands in surrender. “Not saying a thing.” He grins wickedly. “Other than . . . you look so pretty.”

I flip him the middle finger. I got a black eye during our last game. Fucking Vancouver Rebels. Hooligans, the whole team. And since the director of the charity organization thought I would, and I quote, scare the children, I’m now wearing fucking makeup to cover it.

Apparently, between my unkempt beard and the black eye, I’m a scary motherfucker these days. And so when I arrived for the Little Rookies camp today, the director marched me straight back into the dressing room and grabbed something from her purse, all but shoving me into a metal folding chair. I didn’t realize it was makeup until she was halfway through. I opened my mouth to protest, but she went right on dabbing and blending until the bruise under my eye had mostly vanished.

“Dude, get over here.” Morgan, our backup goalie, cackles like a hyena. “Cap’s wearing makeup.”

I grimace at them. “Apparently, my appearance was going to frighten the kids.”

Jordie chuckles. “Yeah, but now you’re a six-foot-four dude with a grizzly-ass beard who also wears makeup, so what’s worse?”

“Fuck off, Jordie.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

We take our places on the ice, which quiets down my teammates, although I’m sure I haven’t heard the last of this. I’m assigned to work with the younger group of kids, so I head over to the far end to get my station set up.

The ice has been configured in stations with foam pads sectioning it off into quadrants, and there are nets positioned in each corner to create more scoring opportunities. It makes me wish a program like this existed when I first started.

Watching a dozen five-and six-year-olds waddle and scoot their way out across the ice in full hockey gear puts a smile on my face. The feeling is so foreign, because I haven’t smiled since Ana moved out two weeks ago.

“Hey, mister!” one of the little boys with two missing teeth calls, gazing up at me.

“Yeah?” I bend down so I can meet his eyes through the cage on his helmet.

“What happened to your face?”

I chuckle. “Nothing, kid, I’m fine. You want to practice shooting the puck or what?”

“Yeah!” he shouts and toddles off toward the net, barely avoiding tripping over his own stick along the way.

I skate behind him, trying not to get hit in the nuts with any stray sticks or pucks.

There’s not much actual instruction with this age level, just some occasional praise and a lot of picking kids up off the ice when they fall. I spend the next forty-five minutes working with the group while my mind wanders to Ana and my unborn baby. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking of the baby as mine.

No matter what some DNA test or piece of paper might say, I know how I feel about Ana and the child growing inside her.

The parents who raised me didn’t do so out of biological obligation, and that didn’t make them any less my mom and dad. As a result, I never felt the need to go looking for my birth parents. I understood the reasoning of why some people feel compelled to, but I’ve never had that urge.

All I want is for Ana to give me a shot at a future, because I’m pretty damn certain we could be the real deal if she’d only try.

Holding her in my arms the other night, and the feel of her belly between us. Watching her fall apart when I brought over the rocking chair her mother used when she was a baby. And then, God, making love to her after—it was an incredible night.

But the idea of her still wanting space . . . the idea of her doing all this on her own . . . it makes me feel like punching something. I’ve tried to be patient, tried to give her space and still be there for her when she needs me. It’s a lot. It’s a damn good thing I have hockey to distract me.

The season is still in full swing, but before long, it’ll be coming to an end. We’ve done well, but it doesn’t look like we’ll make the playoffs, which should disappoint me. But since Ana’s due date is in June, I’m oddly relieved by this fact. I wouldn’t want to try to juggle the Stanley Cup playoffs and a new baby at the same time.

Watching these little ones skate around, I find it easy to remember myself as a kid. I grew up without much, but I always had hockey. And now, now that I’m getting older . . . I want something steady in my life. I want Ana. And our baby.

Realizing that the charity director is trying to get my attention, I skate over toward where she’s standing with a clipboard at the edge of the ice.

“If you could get everyone’s attention and have them gather around,” she says with a smile. “Your voice is louder than mine, I’m sure.”

I nod. “Sure thing.”

Skating toward center ice again, I call out to the guys that it’s time to wrap up. Soon, dozens of miniature hockey players and the other coaches are skating toward the exit where she waits, still holding her clipboard.