Ice Daddy

by June Winters

  Paige had experienced enough of that during her shift at The Burger Stand.

  “That game gave me a headache,” she lamented. “Irie and I are probably both going to be cranky monsters tonight.”

  “Oh no! Another sports night at the restaurant?”

  “Yeah,” Paige said, waving her hand. “But oh well. At this point, I'm just glad to be done. Can't wait to go home and go to bed.”

  The garage door began to whir, and Paige and Mom both perked up.

  “There they are,” Mom said.

  A minute later, Dad entered the house holding Irie against his chest. The child was fast asleep.

  “She's completely zonked out,” Dad whispered as he passed her to Paige. An ornery smile creased Dad's mouth. “I took her to the game.”

  “I heard,” Paige said. “And so her first hockey game was a loss, huh?”

  Dad chuckled. “Yeah, but I don't think she minded. She had a great time. You should've seen our seats. Front row!”

  Paige's Mom bristled and folded her arms. “You really think she liked it?”

  “Are you kidding? She loved it. She was mesmerized by it all! And hey. Check this out. Look at what she's wearing.” Gently, so as not to wake her, Dad pulled at the zipper of Irie's winter coat. Beneath her coat, she was wearing a tiny black and gold hockey jersey.

  “Aw, that's cute,” Paige giggled. “I can't believe you bought her that, though. Don't those things cost a small fortune?”

  “I didn't buy it. You think I'd buy her a Brawlers jersey?” Dad asked rhetorically. “I don't think so. I would've bought her a Nashville Fury jersey.”

  “So that's the enemy's jersey?” Mom asked.

  “Yes. And it's got a name and number on the back, even. I forget the guy's name …”

  “How'd she get it, then?” Paige asked.

  “You have to watch this.” Dad reached into his pocket, fishing for his cell phone. “Thing is, obviously, Irie doesn't know what team she's supposed to be rooting for. She just got excited when the players were right in front of the glass. But twice, this happened.”

  Dad skipped through the footage he recorded from the game, in search of a specific moment. “Here we go.” Irie, wearing a bulky set of earmuffs to protect her hearing, was entranced by all the action on the ice. The Brawlers scored a goal, and the players celebrated, hugging and congratulating each other ten feet away from Dad and Irie's seats.

  The child danced wildly in Dad's arms, waving her arms in the air as if she wanted to join in on the goal festivities. Paige and her Mom both laughed, thinking it was a hilariously cute moment.

  “That was the first goal,” Dad said, “but it happened one more time at the end of the game. Check this one out.”

  He skipped towards the very end of the video. The Brawlers scored once more, and this time the celebration was right in front of Dad and Irie's seats. Irie went wild, slapping her tiny palms on the glass with a huge smile on her face and bouncing around until—

  Irie managed to snag the attention of one of the Brawler players.

  Paige's insides dropped.

  That guy looks just like him, she thought for a split second. But she extinguished her hopes before they flared too wildly out of control—it wasn't the first time she thought she'd seen him, after all. She'd 'seen' him before in crowds, at restaurants, seated in her section …

  And now she thought she was seeing him on the ice at a professional hockey game?

  You're losing it, she told herself. Still, she watched the video, the hairs on the back of her neck eerily standing straight up.

  The athlete tried to point out the dancing baby to his teammates, but they were too eager to celebrate the goal with the rest of their teammates. They skated off, without taking notice, leaving him alone.

  The athlete neared, smiling and waving at Paige's daughter. He skated closer until his face was right next to the glass. He took off his glove and put his hand on the glass. Irie stared at the stranger's enormous hand, her mouth drawn open in wonder and awe.

  And now Paige's mouth was, too. She couldn't see the athlete's whole face—not with that hockey helmet on—but the guy was the spitting image of her one-night stand.

  Irie touched her hand to the glass, joining it against the athlete's hand. A half-inch thick pane of plexiglass separated their palms. The athlete gave one last sweet smile and a wave.

  And then he turned around and bolted, joining his teammates.

  And Irie, suddenly upset, began to bawl.

  And the video ended right when Dad began to soothe her.

  “Pretty wild, huh?” Dad asked.

  Wild. That didn't even begin to describe it. Paige was speechless, and thoughts flew through her mind at a million miles a minute. She wasn't sure if she was losing her sanity, but that guy really looked like her Lance. Could it be? Could it possibly be him? No, right? It was too far-fetched, too convenient, too perfect …

  Dad kept rambling. “So just a few minutes after I stopped recording, this man and woman walked up to us. They looked like event staff to me—both nicely dressed, like professionals. But apparently they worked for the Brawlers, because they'd seen that moment between Irie and the player—and they wanted her to have his jersey! They said she was now his youngest fan.”

  Paige's Mom was tickled by the story. “Wow! That's so cute.”

  “Yeah. He was a hell of a player. Thanks to him, the Fury lost. I was cursing his name until that moment, actually …”

  “What is his name?” Paige croaked at last, sounding groggy and hoarse.

  “I think it was Cousteau. Or maybe it's Couturier? Something like that, some French name. Heck, it's on the back of Irie's jersey. Just gotta look at it later.”

  But Paige wouldn't wait until later. She immediately wrestled with Irie's winter coat, desperately needing to know the player's name. But sleeping Irie didn't appreciate being jostled about so crudely—she woke, letting out a loud and betrayed cry.

  “Paige!” her Mom reprimanded her. “What's your problem? You woke her!”

  But peeling the back of Irie's winter coat away, Paige could finally read the jersey's nameplate. She read the name aloud, “Couture,” and immediately began to bounce and rock her daughter in her arms. “Shh. I know, sweety, I'm sorry. You had a long day.”

  Dad wagged his index finger. “That's right. Couture.”

  “Who does he play for?” Paige asked, urgency rising in her voice.

  “The Boston Brawlers.”

  Paige gulped. Boston. The coincidences were starting to add up …

  “Do you know his first name?” she asked as she pulled her phone from her purse.

  Dad shook his head. “No, I don't. Why? Are you becoming a hockey fan now too?”

  Paige didn't answer. With Irie in one arm, she busily tapped at her phone with her free hand. She typed the words, “boston brawlers hockey couture” into her search browser and hit enter.

  The web page loaded in a flash, spilling information before her very eyes.

  Lance Couture, #21, plays center for the Boston Brawlers.

  His team picture stared back at her.

  “Oh my God,” Paige whispered quietly under her breath. “Oh my God.”

  It was him. It had to be him.

  Her heart pounded and she felt as light as air. On one hand, she was elated, and she knew she was grinning like a maniac. But she had reason to—because this was him, it had to be! She finally knew who Irie's father was! Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream. She wanted to act, she wanted to do something about it now.

  But what was she supposed to do with this information? It could still be weeks before she got a hold of him … her smile began to fade, an expression of worry taking its place.

  What should I even do?

  “Um, sweety?” Dad asked, his brow furrowing. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes,” she answered huskily, unconvincingly. “I'm just—surprised. That's all.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “I w
as too. It was a pretty neat moment.”

  Paige zipped Irie's coat back up and hurriedly gathered her things. “Hey, thanks again for watching her.”

  Mom frowned. “You're leaving already?”

  “Yeah, I've gotta go.”

  Where, she didn't know. But she knew she had to go somewhere. She needed to talk to someone who might be able to help.

  “Why don't you two stay the night?” Dad asked, concerned. “The streets are still pretty bad out there, you know.”

  Mom agreed. “Yeah, Paige, listen to your father! Spend the night with us.”

  “No, thank you! I'm sorry, but I really have to run! Thanks again!”

  Outside, Paige strapped Irie into her car seat. She was still sobbing when they drove off.

  “I know, sweetheart,” Paige cooed, hoping to calm the child. “Was that your Daddy? Did you see him? Did you know?”

  Paige couldn't believe it herself. It was too ridiculous. But all she could hear were the words her Dad had said earlier:

  “Maybe it's a sign.”

  Chapter 6

  Lance

  The visitor's dressing room was in good spirits. There was nothing quite like a hard-fought victory on the road to bring a tight-knit team even closer. The team's victory song blasted over the stereo as the boys stripped off their sweat-soaked pads.

  While the rest of the team laughed and regaled each other with tales of the game's big hits, goals and fights, the coach waved Lance over and pulled him outside the dressing room. Coach introduced him to two corporate-looking types: a man and a woman.

  He regarded them skeptically. “Uh, hi, what can I do for you?”

  “Actually, we're here for you,” the woman said. “We're from Sterling Image.”

  He was quickly losing interest. “Oh … right … the PR firm.”

  It was the man's turn to speak. “We just wanted to say great job tonight, Lance.”

  “Thanks. What can I say. When the puck's going in, it comes easy.”

  “I don't mean the game. I mean the adorable moment you had with that baby in the stands.”

  “Huh?” Lance squinted. But the memory returned to him in a flash—the cute dancing kid that he waved at after he scored his second goal. “Oh. The dancing baby. Yeah, that was nothing.”

  “No, Lance. That was not 'nothing.' That's exactly what we need to turn your image around. More moments like those—so the whole world can see your sensitive side. We managed to grab a clip of it from the broadcast and, well—here, have a look for yourself!”

  The PR representatives showed him his hijacked Instagram account. The most recent posting was a clip of his moment with the baby in the crowd; specifically, the moment the little girl put her hand up against the glass and touched his. But the groan-inducing caption read,

  “Yeah, when I'm not too busy putting the biscuit in the basket, I'm just making friends with all the little ones around the arena. I even made sure this baby girl went home wearing my jersey! #AlwaysTreatBabesWithRespect #GetOnMyLevel”

  Lance tried not to gag. “Well. That's uh. Yeah, that's really something.”

  The woman patted his shoulder. “This is going to help, Lance. I know that this is all a little out of character for you. But please, keep it up, and keep doing more things like this. You're already doing great.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. Well, I'll see you guys later.”

  Lance retreated back to the dressing room and hit the showers.

  ***

  The Brawlers were scheduled to take an early morning flight out of Nashville, which left enough time to head back to the hotel and organize a team dinner.

  “This time, anybody but Lance gets to pick the restaurant,” Brooks growled as the team congregated in the hotel lobby. “That Zickell's burger I had for lunch sucked.”

  “Fine by me,” Lance said with a grin. “We can always swing by Zickell's for drinks afterward.”

  The boys groaned.

  “I'm just joking,” Lance said.

  “I don't think you are!” Ilya shouted.

  Dressed sharply in suits and overcoats, the Brawlers called for a fleet of cabs and headed straight for a Nashville steakhouse.

  Dinner was practically a Bacchanalian affair. Anytime twenty gregarious and starving athletes gathered on the road, they tended to get stuffed on too much meat and beer. By the end of it, Lance cradled his taut belly. He'd gorged himself on a ribeye steak with mashed potatoes and grilled green beans.

  While the athletes waited for the bill to be settled, cell phones emerged from their pockets and glowed atop the table. They only had a few more hours of downtime in Nashville, and the top item on the agenda was figuring out the destination for the night. The group had already decided they wanted to go to a strip club.

  “You up for the titty bar, Lance?” Brooks asked.

  He hemmed. “Probably shouldn't. With this PR agency breathing down my neck, I've got a funny feeling I'd get spotted and it'd bite me in the ass somehow.”

  Radar elbowed him. “Well, I don't want to go to the strip club either.”

  “Because Ella would kill you?”

  Radar laughed. “I don't think she'd care, as long as I told her about it. She might ask why I'd go to the strip club, since she keeps me plenty happy at home—”

  Lance waved his arms through the air. “Gross, man, that's my sister. I don't want to hear about that stuff.”

  Radar grinned. “Point is, if you wanna hit up that Zickell's place again, I'll go with you.”

  Lance cracked a smile. “You don't mind?”

  “Not at all. But I would like it if you told me what your deal with that place is.”

  Lance smiled. He was slightly embarrassed to admit it. “Just a girl. Met her there.”

  “When?”

  “Couple years ago.”

  “And what's so great about her?”

  Lance laughed. “Great lay.”

  Radar gave him a playful shove. “Moron.”

  “Hey, you can't tell me that you didn't think about specific girls back in your bachelor days.”

  Radar paused to think it over. “Actually? I honestly don't think I did. With girls, I was always one and done. I never had any sort of desire to see a girl a second time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, dude.” He paused. “Only with Ella. But that was obviously different.”

  Now Lance felt compelled to be a little more honest. “I don't even know, really. I barely know anything about her. I just want to see her again. That night we had together was so hot, man. Hell, I know it's stupid.”

  “It's not stupid. It's surprising, but I don't think it's stupid.”

  “God, she was a great lay,” Lance said again, eyes rolling back in his head.

  Radar gave him one last shove.

  ***

  While half the team went to the strip club, and the other half returned to the hotel, Lance and Radar made one last trip to Zickell's. The bar and grill was dead at lunch—but now, bodies were crammed and the joint was hopping.

  The sight of so many people got Lance's hopes up. But after a quick tour around the restaurant, he returned shaking his head at his teammate. “Nope.”

  The two Brawlers stood, nursing their drinks and shouting small talk over the music. Lance stared into his beer, a bubble of resentment rising inside him. The disappointment of coming back here to come up empty-handed again was the wake-up call he needed. It was stupid, wasn't it? He was stupid! Thinking he'd somehow run into some girl he knew nothing about.

  God, the more he thought about it, the more pathetic it made him feel. He was Lance Couture, professional hockey star worth millions of dollars. He could have any girl he wanted. What the hell was the point in getting caught up over some random girl from Nashville that he didn't know anything about? It wasn't like him at all, and that scared him.

  Lance chugged the rest of his drink. He was ready to go home as soon as Radar was done with his drink. This place was noisy and packed a
nd really, the entire atmosphere was grating.

  And then a voice came from behind him.

  “Hey, you're Lance Couture, aren't you?”

  Before Lance could turn around and greet a fan with a polite smile, a hand appeared on his shoulder and spun him around.

  A sudden force impacted his eye with a pop.

  A stranger's fist had bludgeoned his face. Rage immediately boiled in Lance's veins. He rolled with the punch, and before he could think better of it, instinct won out. He countered with a hard left hook and caught the drunk square on the chin.

  The stranger's jaw twisted as he flew off his feet and sailed backwards. His helpless body launched into the crowd around him, knocking those bystanders to the floor like a bowling ball exploding through wooden pins.

  Glasses fell to the floor and smashed with a crash, and bottles rolled on the floor. Shouts and screams erupted as the bar floor turned into a war zone. Someone began tossing bar stools dangerously through the air.

  Radar grabbed the lapels of Lance's coat and pulled.

  “We need to go. Now.”

  Chapter 7

  Paige

  As soon as Paige left her parents' house, she called her best friend, Emily, and told her to hurry over. She had big news about Irie's father and needed help figuring out what came next.

  Emily wasn't quite buying it. She squinted at the cell phone footage, closely studying it for the tenth time. “I mean … sure … I guess I can see why you'd think that. He kinda looks like him, in a way. But—”

  “He looks just like him,” Paige corrected her friend as she paced around the living room of her small one bedroom apartment. Irie was peacefully sleeping in the bedroom. “And his name is Lance. And he plays for Boston. Lance from Boston, Emily! It has to be him.”

  “I understand why you'd get your hopes up.” Emily spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “But to me, it just seems like a few random coincidences strung together. And hey, remember all the other times you've sworn up and down that you'd seen the guy? And then you'd point him out to me and he looks nothing like the guy we met that night, except for maybe having blond hair?”