by June Winters
“I know, Mom. Please … I can't do this right now. I can't go into work in a bad mood.”
She forced a smile. “Sorry. It's just—Irie deserves to have a dad. And you deserve to have somebody, too. You need help. You can't do it all yourself. And someday, I really think you should go back to school—”
“I know, Mom, I know.” Paige's chest tightened with an awful pressure. Naturally, Paige wanted the same for Irie and herself. But she had no idea how to begin working towards a better life when every moment was spent struggling just to make it through the day.
Paige looked at her watch. “I should say bye to Irie and get going before I'm late.”
The two women walked into the living room, where Paige's dad was watching over Irie. She held a mini wooden hockey stick in her hand, while Rascal—Mom and Dad's schnauzer—watched the child like a hawk, his stubby tail anxiously swinging left and right.
Paige laughed. “What exactly's going on in here?”
“You have to watch this,” Dad said, looking awed.
Irie centered herself over a foam ball that laid on the carpet. She pulled back with her mini-hockey stick and swung. The ball scooted over the carpet, and Rascal pounced. He snatched the ball up in his jaws and proudly trotted it right back to Irie, placing it right in front of her to do it all over again.
Irie snickered. She had a hilarious laugh when she found something deeply amusing—it came from deep in her throat, like a tickled growl. She teed the ball up a second time, swung, and Rascal raced off once again.
“She must've remembered this from the other day,” Dad said.
“Wait, she's done this before?” Paige asked.
“Yes! That's why she was in such a hurry—she made a bee line for the toy bin and pulled her hockey stick right out. I'm impressed.”
“But who are you more impressed by, Irie or Rascal?” Mom joked as the dog dutifully returned the ball to Irie for a third time.
“Where'd she even get the stick from?”
“That's another thing,” Dad said. “When I took her to the toy store, she yanked it right off the shelf herself. She wouldn't let it go—not without a fight, anyway. She just had to have it. Maybe it's a sign? The kid just might like hockey. Who knows.”
“So Irie likes hockey. That's so random,” Paige reflected with a small laugh.
“I wonder if she'd like to go to a game?” Dad asked, wondering aloud as he stroked his chin. “I could check and see if the Fury are playing tonight. Maybe I could buy some tickets online?”
“Don't you think she's a little young for that kind of thing? It'll be so loud and scary.”
“I'm not so sure, Paige. She's awfully outgoing. And if she hates it, we'll leave. Simple as that.”
“Hey, I won't stop you.” Paige shrugged. “Anyway, I need to get going. Thanks again.”
Paige hugged Mom and Dad and said bye to Irie. Irie began to sob, like always—but when the hockey stick was placed back in her hands, she wiped the tears from her eyes and gathered herself.
Amazing, Paige thought as she walked out to her car. She stopped crying that easily.
With every day that passed, Irie grew a little older, and a new facet of her personality shined through, like a diamond glinting in the light. Were those aspects of Irie also glimpses of her father? A clue about the kind of man he was? Paige didn't know. She knew nothing about the guy, really.
She only knew his name: Lance. Some random guy she met at the bar. A cocky guy with a cock piercing. A guy who was supposed to be a one-night stand to get over her cheating ex … and yet, she ended up trying to raise a daughter by herself.
She sighed.
Lance from Boston.
That's all she had to go on.
Paige turned the key to her beat-up 1987 Honda Civic. The engine whinnied and coughed before it finally fired, belching a plume of bluish smoke into the cold winter air.
Chapter 4
Lance
When the Boston Brawlers' team plane touched down in Tennessee late last night, a light snowfall had just begun to powder the earth. The snow would continue to fall and pile up overnight. When the Brawlers woke up in their downtown Nashville hotel, the city streets outside their window were blanketed under a foot of snow.
At 11:00 AM, the Brawlers held their hour-long morning skate, a game-day ritual to stretch their legs. After showers and a few short media interviews, a group of players gathered around Lance's locker to discuss another game-day ritual: lunch.
“I know a place we can go,” Lance said.
Quinton Brooks, the team's surly defenseman, snorted. “Why should we listen to you?”
“Because it's almost my birthday.”
“Celebrating your Quinceañera, are you?”
“No, it's ten years too late for that. I'm turning 25,” Lance said without missing a beat.
Brooks harrumphed. “Well I'll be damned. Boy wonder can do math.”
Brooks joined Lance for lunch anyway. So did team captain Shea; Lance's best friend and now brother-in-law, Radar; goalie Ilya Zarkov; and young, quiet forward, Josh Stone.
The players trudged cautiously through Nashville's treacherous, snow-packed sidewalks. The air was punishingly cold and dry, and a brutal winter wind whipped through the streets and nipped at their pink flesh.
Ilya's Russian accent was always a little thicker when he shouted. “Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“I forget what it's called—”
“But where is it?” Ilya asked.
“Somewhere around here. I think.”
The group groaned.
“Relax, guys. We're close, and I'll know it when I see it.”
“Lance, you better not be taking us on a wild-goose chase,” Brooks griped, “because if I slip on this fucking sidewalk and break something—”
“Don't worry, Brooksy,” Lance cut in with his devilish grin, “it wouldn't be the first time we've seen you bust your ass on the ice!”
Brooks took a swipe at Lance, who deftly ducked the giant's paw just in the nick of time. “Easy, Brooksy, easy!”
While the group continued their march through the snow, Radar peeked at his phone. “Uh, Lance?”
“What's up, bud?”
Radar's brow arched comically high. “What the hell is this crap you've been posting on Instagram all day?”
Lance rolled his eyes. He hadn't yet told his teammates about yesterday's conference call with Kip Sterling, nor had he bothered to check what Sterling Image was doing with his social media accounts.
“Good question. Lemme see that.”
Lance groaned as he swiped through his latest pictures. Cute cats … good dogs … memes that had run their course back when Lance was still tearing up the Junior hockey league … even more cats …
“Good lord,” Lance grumbled. “This is bad.”
Radar laughed. “You should read the comments. Your followers think you've lost your mind.”
“Did you get hacked or something?” Ilya joked. “Was it my people who did it to you? The Russians?”
He sighed. “Long story short, ownership isn't happy with what I've been posting on Instagram. I had to hand over control of my social media accounts to this PR firm.”
The boys were suddenly ruffled and outraged. “What?” “Why?” “They can't do that!”
“They can, thanks to a clause in my contract, apparently. I've got no idea why I pay my agent so much, man. Slick Rick is a scrub.”
The story didn't add up for Radar. “But why are they after you? They haven't said anything to the rest of us, have they?”
“I don't know if I'm allowed to say,” Lance said, casting a look at the team captain. Shea hadn't told the rest of the team about his decision yet.
“Hell, it's alright,” Shea said. “Word's going to get around sooner or later. I'm retiring at the end of the season, boys.”
The group reacted with a mix of surprised gasps, and maybe on second thought not-so-surprised mumbles. They patted
the veteran on the back and all congratulated him on one hell of a career.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shea grunted, though he struggled to hide an innocent smile. “I'm not out the door just yet. Still plenty of hockey left this year, boys.”
Radar was able to fill in the blanks. “So, Shea's retiring, which means we'll need a new captain next season. And the obvious choice is Lance, but ownership doesn't like what you post on your social media?”
Lance nodded. “Yep. So the team brought in this PR firm to clean up my image.”
“And they think they're going to be able to do that with pictures of cats?” Ilya asked, slack-jawed.
Radar clapped Lance on the back. “Ol' Captain Cat Meme here is going to lead us to glory.”
Shea's smile grew. “The PR guy even pulled up the infamous picture of Lance's pin-pricked condom in front of Mr. Tremblay.”
The group of athletes roared with laughter.
“I still can't believe your ex did that,” Radar said, still laughing. “And hell, I'm the one who was always telling you that she was after your money.”
“Yeah, but are they ever not?” Lance asked sincerely. He didn't necessarily think it was a bad thing that women were attracted to him because of his money—for a famous multi-millionaire, that was just a fact of life, maybe even one of the many perks of being a star athlete.
“Sure, some women aren't in it for the money,” Radar said.
“Like who?” Lance barked back.
But the realization dawned on him in an instant … wasn't that why he was bringing the boys out to this specific bar in the first place? What was it that he liked about that cute girl with the southern accent, anyway? Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't fawned over his celebrity, his money. She hadn't even bothered to ask him about it at all. It was like she didn't care one bit.
The shy forward, Josh Stone, finally spoke up with a wise-crack. “Your sister, for one.”
The teammates erupted once more.
“Walked right into that one, didn't I?” Lance had to admit with a smile.
The Brawlers continued to plod further downtown, the snow crunching beneath their shoes.
“Where's this restaurant at, Lance?” Brooks asked. “I'm starving. We should've taken a cab.”
“Trust me, we're close.”
The brick building came into view. The aesthetically simple signage, hanging above the entrance, read in a jazzy cursive: Zickell's Bar and Grill.
Lance stopped and swung the door open. “Here we are, boys.”
“Zickell's,” Ilya read aloud. “Haven't we been here before?”
“Have we? Huh, I dunno,” Lance lied.
“Shouldn't you know?” Brooks said. “You're the one who dragged us out here.”
“Whatever. Let's eat.” Lance held the door for his teammates. One by one, they filed past. Lance's heart quickened while he waited, excitedly thump-thump-thumping in his chest. Which was kind of ridiculous because he knew there was basically no chance of seeing her here …
But where the hell else would he look to find her?
Lance followed his teammates in and quickly surveyed the establishment. His excitement quickly waned. The weather must've kept the lunch crowd from going out. The place was nearly empty. Only a few suit-and-tie types were sprinkled throughout the dining area, and not a single person sat at the bar.
And of course, she was nowhere to be found.
Lance shrugged. Disappointing, but not at all surprising.
The teammates took their place at the bar. They were huge men, and sitting elbow-to-elbow, they nearly spanned the entire length of the bar. The bartender, a college-aged girl in a white dress shirt and black tie, curiously eyed the athletes as she set lunch menus in front of them.
The boys grew quiet as they perused their options. When everyone knew what they wanted, the bartender swooped in with perfect timing and took their order.
“Okay. We've definitely been here before,” Ilya said with more certainty as he looked around the bar.
Radar laughed. “You guys don't remember? Lance brings us here every time we come to Nashville. And we go through this every time. Only question is what Lance likes about this place so much. He won't even tell me. It's some kind of mystery.”
“So what's the story with this place, kid?” Shea grabbed the back of Lance's neck and gave him a shake. “Meet a girl here once before? Can't get her out of your mind?”
Lance laughed it off. “Yeah, that's exactly it, Shea.”
While his teammates noisily bantered and speculated about his connection to Zickell's, Lance stared off into the distance, lost in thought.
All he could think about was her. He glanced at the far bar stool, the same spot she'd sat at two years ago. He could still remember exactly how she'd looked from across the bar. A petite babe in a black dress. Her tight curves demanded his attention. Her auburn-hair cascaded over her shoulder in springy locks. In the dim light of the bar, her fair skin shone like porcelain.
The more he looked, the more he liked. She was breath taking, really. He couldn't look away.
The only thing that didn't fit was her distinct lack of a smile. That's exactly what made him approach her—the fact that she looked like she was having a bad night. He'd walked up to her, planning on making an ass out of himself—just to see if he could make her smile.
And then, she did.
And something inside him clicked.
Her smile was gorgeous, and her spirit shined right through for just a moment, like the rays of the sun stabbing through a dreary sky full of gray clouds.
And then he realized, she wasn't so impressed with him.
He still remembered the strange sensation he felt when he met her that day. This sense that he was meeting someone important for the very first time.
Which was sort of funny, considering he never even got her number. They only spent a couple hours together.
The hottest couple hours of my life, Lance thought with a bittersweet fondness.
He could still remember the coolness of the hotel's silk bedsheets on his bare chest as he spread that girl's legs, sprawled out before her, and licked at her pink, glistening folds. He could still taste her creamy tang on his tongue. God, she was delicious, like honey—hot and sticky and deliciously sweet.
That night, he gave that girl everything he had. It was the best sex he'd ever had. When they were finally too exhausted for more, and the sheets were damp with their fluids, Lance hopped in the shower for a quick rinse off. But when he emerged with a bath towel wrapped around his waist, he was surprised to see that he was alone.
She'd dressed and left. No goodbye. No note. Nothing.
Normally, that'd be perfect. He'd been with plenty of women, and the hard part was always getting rid of them afterward …
But something about this one got to him. He didn't know what it was. All he knew was that no girl had ever gotten quite so stuck in his mind like her. The girl he met one night in Nashville.
Paige.
Chapter 5
Paige
Paige had hoped it'd be a slow day at The Burger Stand. Sure, it was a Friday, and Fridays were almost always crazy busy—but then again, the streets were slick and dangerous, and traffic was an absolute nightmare. The freezing cold wind would surely cut down on the foot traffic, too.
And for the first few hours of her shift, she got exactly what she hoped for: a slow but steady pace. Not too busy, but not so slow the day drags by. Perfect for a Friday, really.
Things were going great—until the sports fans began to trickle into the restaurant. They were decked out in their blue-and-yellow Fury jerseys and apparel. And that's when Paige knew—it was going to be a long night.
She hated hockey games at The Burger Stand. The restaurant ran a special called Fury Nights, where all beers on-tap sold for a single dollar. Inevitably, she ended up with a section full of drunken hockey fans, gawking at the big-screen TV all night, and ordering nothing but $1 beers.
&
nbsp; No food and cheap beer meant a small bill.
A small bill meant a small tip.
A small tip meant … sigh. Better not to think of all the bills hanging over her.
“Couture shoots …!” the TV announcer screeched.
That was another awful thing about hockey nights at The Burger Stand: during Fury games, the restaurant blasted the audio of the game over the speakers instead of music. You could only have sports announcers yelling at you for so long before you ended up with a pounding headache …
“Couture SCORES! His second goal of the night, and that one should put this game out of reach! The young all-star for the Brawlers continues to impress. He's mobbed with hugs from his teammates, and the fans here in Nashville are as quiet as can be …”
The drunken Fury fans in Paige's section murmured, hissed and swore. Someone pounded his fist on the table, and a fork clanged and clattered as it toppled to the floor. A few more $1 beers were ordered to wash down the pain.
The game was finally over. Slowly, the hockey fans tucked their tails between their legs and went away.
Paige left work with $32 in tips and a throbbing headache.
***
It was dark when Paige pulled up to her parents' house. She knocked on the door and her Mom answered.
Mom waved her in. “Hi, sweety, how was work?”
“Fine, Mom.” Paige forced a smile. “How was Irie?”
Mom sighed. “Well, I guess we'll find out when your Dad gets back with her. They should be home soon.”
“Where'd he take her?”
“After you left, Irie kept hitting that ball with her stick, and your Dad wouldn't let go of that idea of his about the hockey game. You know how he gets. Anyway, he looked up their schedule, and got all excited when he found out there was a game tonight. Then he found some tickets online and started calling it a sign.”
Paige and her Mom both laughed at the absurdity.
“But I agree with you,” Mom said. “She's just way too young for that kind of environment, you know? The lights, the sounds, people screaming and acting like barbarians …”
