One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(38)

Scanning the crowd, I read the homemade posters declaring their love for him, watch the grown men grip tightly onto the rails of the barricade to catch a glimpse, or unapologetically use their children as pawns to get closer to the professional hockey star.

This is very odd, such a strange sensation realizing for the first time that the guy you’re seeing is . . . famous.

This is the first time I’m seeing Hayden worshipped for who he is, for the talent he possesses. It’s eye-opening. I’ve known him as Hayden, the man who treats me like a queen, the man who makes me laugh, who makes me swoon. But I’ve yet to experience this Hayden. The superstar all the people outside have waited patiently to see.

Will I like that Hayden?

I’m so used to the relaxed, laid-back, chill Hayden.

But when he picked me up from my place today, dressed in an impeccably tailored navy-blue suit, the top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt undone, and freshly buffed brown loafers, I was . . . taken back, enamored, spellbound. Just like every person here.

He looked like a different man, so professional, so grown up, but then I fixed my eyes on his and saw it, the sparkle he gets whenever he first sees me. His face lights up, the corner of his eyes crinkle, and he fills me with so much joy it almost feels impossible to breathe. All from one simple smile from him.

It’s the ingrained look I’ll keep forever in my memory.

“I promise we won’t stay very long.”

“Hayden”—I press my hand to his forearm—“I’m in no hurry to leave. I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.” Leaning over the console, he kisses me, his lips lingering for a second before groaning and pulling away. He starts to tug on the short strands of his hair but thinks better of it when he remembers the product he put through it this evening. “Maybe we can make out in the back for a few seconds before we go in?” He looks hopeful, like this actually might be a good idea.

It’s not.

Because there are already camera lights flashing at his car, trying to catch a picture of him in his natural environment.

“Not a chance in hell, Romeo.”

“Figured you were going to say that but might as well try.” Pocketing his keys, he says, “Don’t get out, let me open your door for you. The least I can do is look like a gentleman in front of all these people.”

“You don’t have to look like a gentleman when you already are one.” I give him one last kiss before he pulls away.

Hopping out of the car, he shuts his door and waves to the waiting fans while rounding the hood, screams erupting, fans shaking the barrier, cheering for their homegrown hero.

He’s so beloved, and it fills my heart with pride. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s infatuated.

Opening my car door, he takes my hand in his and whispers, “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With a deep breath, I hop out and allow Hayden to guide me through the barricaded area and straight to the screaming fans hanging over the rails, holding out jerseys, T-shirts, hats, and hockey sticks for him to sign.

From his pocket, he takes out a black sharpie and starts making the rounds, keeping me close to him. He starts at the beginning, shaking hands, smiling into cameras, sighing autographs, graciously talking to the fans and asking them about their night.

He’s smooth.

He’s controlled.

He’s in his element, doing his job, and making one hell of an impression.

If I weren’t a fan already, I would be now.

The patience he has while talking to his fans is endearing.

And when he gets to a kid, not only does he bend down to give them a hug, he spends extra time talking to them, asking them questions about their favorite players, favorite games, favorite part of the sport.

Women are melting at his feet, moms oozing with joy for their children . . . and jealousy toward me as they eye me up and down.

But I don’t take offense. I don’t even flinch when I’m sneered at because I know it comes from a deep-rooted and understandable place of envy.

There is no questioning I know I’m lucky. I’m quite aware of the kind of man Hayden is, not just because of his athletic talent, but because of the real man he is, the one who will spend his time away from the gym and honing his skill to send me notes while I’m at work. The man who surprises me at work with candy bar bouquets to brighten my day. The man who will spend an entire night watching chick flicks because I’m in the mood. The man who effortlessly cooks me dinner after I’ve worked a long shift and then massages my feet after the dishes are done. He’s an absolute dream. And I only hope I provide him the same. I hope I’m his dream.

“Who’s the girl?” a reporter calls out, grabbing Hayden’s attention.

Glancing up from the hat he just signed, he ropes an arm around me and brings me in close, despite my effort to give him some distance. “My girlfriend,” Hayden answers before grabbing the next piece of merchandise.

And from those words, more lights start to flash, but this time, they’re pointed directly at me, light after blinding light going off.

Leaning into me, Hayden whispers into my ear. “If you tilt your head down and let your gorgeous hair fall forward, it won’t be so blinding.”

I take his advice, my face still heating from his compliment, and follow behind him, my head tilted down, using my hair as a curtain from the onslaught of media. We spend a good twenty minutes outside, Hayden investing his time, making a lasting impression with every one of his fans.