One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(2)

“Hayden.” He walks next to me as I make my way to the parking lot. “We have some important matters to discuss. You have business meetings you have to attend.”

I ignore him and continue on my path.

“What about the power drink deal? They have a promotional photo shoot scheduled.”

“I’ll be there; send me the information.”

“I really think we need to talk about this.”

Halting, I come within inches to James’s face, bending at the knees to meet his shorter height. My voice is menacing when I speak, my jaw tight with each syllable uttered. “If you want to keep your job, I suggest you leave me the alone for now. Give me fucking space, man.”

Startled, James backs up, hopefully well aware of the kind of damage I can cause despite my usual sunny and outgoing temperament.

I’m a fucking fun guy, easygoing, but when it comes to my sport, my job, I take it seriously and expect nothing but the best from myself. When I lose, I need time to regroup.

Succumbing to my request, James backs off and leaves me to walk alone to my black Porsche Cayenne, one of three cars still left in the parking lot.

Unlock. Toss the suit in the back.

Everything feels so . . . robotic.

Sitting behind the wheel, I let out a long breath and press my forehead against the cool leather.

The season is over. “Fuck,” I whisper and push the start button, the car coming to life.

The windshield is glistening, the leather seats chilly, and since I’m only wearing a T-shirt, my entire body stiffens, aches. I know I should have showered. I know I should have worked out the lactic acid currently burning my muscles. I know what I should be doing as an elite athlete.

But I welcome the chill.

Philadelphia in spring isn’t pretty and isn’t easy on you. It’s chilly and dreary, which is perfect because that’s how I’m feeling right about now.

Letting my car warm up for a few minutes, I take my phone from my pocket and let out a long sigh.

After the game text messages are either fun to read or fucking dreadful. Tonight’s round of messages are going to fall under the category of torture, especially when I get to my dad’s text. I know it’s there, and I can tell you what it’s going to say before I even read it.

Call me.

Two simple words that hold so much weight I dread seeing them come from him. I might be an adult now, twenty-three to be exact, an old rookie in hockey years, but I still fear the wrath of my dad, the lecture I get whenever I get in a fight.

I taught you better than that.

True men don’t fight on the ice; they prove their point with their footwork.

Do you enjoy upsetting your mother?

It’s the same thing every time, and frankly, even though I’m grateful for the time my dad has put into getting me to where I am today, I’m not up for the lecture.

Bringing my phone to life, I press on the green text message button.

Ten. Christ.

Scrolling through, I see a few from Calder, one of my best friends, telling me to call him when I’m done with the press. Some from my friend Racer congratulating me on a stiff right hook—I chuckle at that one—one from my publicist—insert eye-roll—a few from my mom, and the infamous text from my dad.

I can deal with the text from my dad when I’m in a better headspace, so I call Calder.

“Where are you?” he answers.

“In my car, in the player’s parking lot.” My car starting to warm up.

“Rachel made some bread pudding and I have some beer chilled. Come over.”

I strap my seatbelt on. “Does the bread pudding have raisins in it?”

“No.”

“Be there in twenty.”

My keys fall against the marble countertop as I take a seat at the kitchen island of Calder’s house. One of our defensemen, Calder Weiss, knows exactly how to sulk. In private with beer and sweets.

When I joined the Brawlers, Calder took me under his wing, and through the season we grew incredibly close, relying on each other for the good and the bad. This being the bad.

“Saw your interview.” Calder hands me a beer and chuckles. “Steinman is going to have your ass.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He chuckles some more. “But the guys are worshipping you for finally telling that piranha off. Bend over . . .” Calder sips his beer a smile on his face. “Man, that was great.”

Taking a gulp of beer, I feel the faint tug of a smile on my lips. “I’m not sorry.”

“Evidently.”

Rachel strolls into the kitchen wearing an apron, looking domestic and right at home. A month ago, Calder met Rachel at a noodles and donuts restaurant . . . outside of the bathroom. Romantic, right? The best part, Calder was dressed up for his little girl, Shea, as a fairy, so he was decked out in fairy wings and a tiara looking like a real man-lady. For some reason, Rachel couldn’t say no to giving him her phone number.

That’s some game right there.

They’ve been together ever since and I have to admit, I adore Rachel. She’s perfect for Calder and has really taken on the role of a female figure in Shea’s life. You can tell Rachel loves that little girl.

“Are we ready for bread pudding, or do you need more time to drink your manly beer?”

Calder takes the seat next to me. “Bread pudding.”