Marek (Cold Fury Hockey #11)(23)

Lilly, though…her eyes light up in happiness to see me.

Me.

It’s the first time that’s happened, and my rage cools instantly.

“Look, Daddy,” she says in that sweet voice of an angel. “Mommy’s reading to me.”

My heart swells with something I’d describe as close to pure euphoria. I’ve felt it before but in different degrees. Felt it just last year when we won the Stanley Cup.

Felt it when I got drafted into the NHL.

Felt it when Gracen told me she loved me for the first time when we were making out on the front porch of her parents’ home after a date.

Sure as fuck felt it to my toes the first time we’d made love.

My eyes focus on Lilly, and I know my smile is genuine, because it’s all for her, and she deserves it. “Looks like you’re almost ready to go to sleep, huh?”

I get a cute, shy nod from her. “Want to read me a book?”

And just like that, my rage returns.

It feels like hot embers burning in my chest, because while I want nothing more than to read her a book right this very moment I’m pissed as hell all over again that Gracen’s been reading her books for over three fucking years and I never got the chance to.

I think back to my conversation with my parents yesterday. The utter grief as we talked things through. All that they lost and missed out on, and those embers flame so hot sweat breaks out on my forehead.

My smile is tight and my voice gravelly with all this emotion raging through me. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Okay,” she says with a toothy grin.

Gracen blanches slightly when I turn my gaze on her. There’s no smile left, and my voice is razor sharp. “I need to talk to you when she’s asleep.”

She swallows hard and nods at me, and I try not to be bothered by the tiny bit of fear in her expression.



* * *



—

Galeti and Joan Fabritis are the best parents in the world. It’s no exaggeration either. My dad was born and raised in Lithuania, but received his higher education in the States. A few years after finishing grad school, he became a naturalized citizen and insisted people use the more Americanized name Gale.

He met my mom in college and fell instantly in love with the sassy midwesterner from Wisconsin who cursed like a sailor when cheering on her beloved Packers. Dad learned to love the Packers too.

They lived and worked in New York City for years. They married young, but put off having kids so they could concentrate on their careers. By the time they were ready, they were in their late thirties and were really, really ready. They’d done all their partying, traveling, and working hard to climb the ladder of success, so when I came along they were devoted to me. Dad moved them to the suburbs of Wilkie, an hour and a half drive north of the city. My mother became a full-time mom and Dad commuted to the city for work. They wanted another kid, but it wasn’t in the cards for them, so Marek Graham Fabritis became their entire life. Some might call me spoiled from the lavish attention they’ve given me over the years, but I call myself just insanely fucking lucky to have the best parents in the world.

My parents were both so successful at their careers doing financial planning they were able to take early retirement. My dad still dabbles for a few clients here and there, but he pretty much just plays with his money now.

Oh, and he and my mom follow me around the country watching me play hockey.

Both my parents recognized my talent and love for the game when I was very young. They put a lot of time and money into me, encouraging me to develop and nurture my passion for being on the ice. While they worked hard, there was at least one of them at every one of my games growing up. When I went to college in Boston, it became a little trickier, and they couldn’t travel to watch me as often as they’d liked.

But three years into my career as a professional hockey player, Dad walked away from Wall Street and I purchased season tickets for them. They became my personal traveling fan club. They’ve always been there for me.

Always.

It’s why when I made that call to them yesterday, I was already grieving the loss they’d be feeling, because there were never two people who were more suited to be grandparents than Gale and Joan Fabritis.

Drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter, I look at the digital clock on the oven and will it to move faster so I can get this over with. I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour another inch into my glass. No way I’m getting drunk, but I’m finding the liquor is quelling my rage somewhat. I can hear the floor above me creaking while Gracen gets Lilly tucked into bed. It goes silent again and I can envision Gracen sitting on the edge of Lilly’s bed, singing to her. She does this every night, and it’s always the same five songs.

Lilly’s favorite lullabies, she told me.

Sometimes it only takes one song before she’s out. Sometimes it takes all five before those eyes close. On the rare occasions it takes more than five songs, Gracen starts at the top all over again. I know this because I observed it that second night I’d returned from my beach trip with Holt to avoid Gracen and Lilly. I lurked outside her room and listened. When Gracen came out, quietly closing the door behind her, she gave me a sheepish look.

“Sorry…my singing is pretty bad,” she muttered.

“She likes you to sing to her?” I asked curiously, because my voice was awful and I couldn’t imagine singing those songs to Lilly.