Ice Daddy

by June Winters

  Paige frowned. Emily was right; she'd mistaken men in the past for Lance. She had a history. Couldn't be trusted.

  “Look, I get it,” Emily continued. “I'm sure it's super easy to get swept up by this idea that a rich pro hockey player could be Irie's real father.” She pointed at the screen, where Lance Couture and Irie were 'touching' hands once more. “Because that swoon-worthy moment right there? That was beyond cute. That made my ovaries throb, okay? So I can only imagine what it's doing to your emotions.”

  “So you really think I'm just imagining it.”

  “I don't think that's the same guy. Can't be. It's impossible.”

  Paige sighed. If nothing else, Emily's insistence was starting to win her over, but she badly wanted to believe that this Lance, hockey superstar, was her Lance. “Couldn't I get a family court to order Lance Couture to take a paternity test or something?”

  “Maybe?” Emily said, but her doubt seemed to grow by the second. “But don't you have to be able to prove that you at least know the guy in some way before a judge would issue a court order? And since he's a famous athlete, I imagine that's even more difficult. Otherwise, every psycho stalker fan in the country could have a baby and claim he knocked her up, right?”

  Hopelessly, Paige threw her weight into the love seat. “Great. So no matter what, I'm screwed. I don't have any proof that I ever met a guy named Lance—any proof besides Irie, that is. And even if it really was him, the famous hockey player, then he could just say he's never met me and I'm some deranged psycho fan.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't dare cry.

  Emily wrapped her arms around Paige and hugged. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever took you out that night. I talked you into doing something that you didn't want to do. I feel so bad about it, Paige.”

  “It's not your fault. I let myself get sucked in by that guy. I knew exactly what he wanted.” She shook her head. “But at the same time, it's not like I regret it, you know? I love Irie more than anything. I just … I feel so bad for her. I don't even know who her father is. When she's old enough that she starts to have questions, I don't even know what to tell her. I have nothing to tell her about her father. Do you know how that feels? I feel like such a rotten, shameful slut—”

  “Hey. C'mon. Don't talk like that.” Emily squeezed her tighter. “Irie's the miracle baby. We already know this. She was determined to be born.”

  Miracle baby. That's what Paige and her friends jokingly called Irie, but right now more than ever, those words resonated with Paige. She remembered the look on Irie's face as she swung that hockey stick. The look on her face when she held her hand up to Lance Couture. She heard her Dad's words once more—it's a sign!

  Was it really so crazy? That her one-night stand could actually be a millionaire sports star who fathered her baby, who suddenly began developing a love for hockey herself?

  Okay, yeah, when Paige thought about it like that, she knew it was partly crazy. But she also knew she'd be even crazier to not even try to contact the athlete. She'd find a way to send him a message. She'd contact the team, if that was her only option.

  But he'd been in Nashville. Today.

  He might still be in town, even. What if there was a way to reach him tonight?

  She only had one idea where a girl could possibly find a pro athlete.

  Paige jumped off the couch and stood with purpose. “Do you mind staying here with Irie for a little?”

  “Er, sure. But can I ask why?”

  “I'm going to Zickell's.”

  Emily nodded slowly and with understanding. “Okay. Good luck.”

  ***

  I look like shit, Paige thought, glancing at herself in her rear-view mirror as she sped through the snow-covered streets. Her tired eyes seemed to sag from an eight-hour shift of serving tables. The fact that she'd already removed her makeup for the night wasn't doing her any favors either.

  Beneath her parka, she still had her Burger Stand uniform on: a deep, scoop-neck t-shirt, which seemed to advertise her cleavage more than the restaurant name itself. She sniffed at the shirt and recoiled. She smelled like burnt frying oil, sweat, and stale beer.

  I'm a stressed-out single mom who waits tables, Paige thought with a tidal wave of disgust. Self-consciously, she pulled the zipper of her parka higher to hide her shirt.

  She knew that the ravages of time and the stress of single motherhood hadn't been kind to her. If she found Lance Couture at Zickell's—and if he was the same Lance she'd slept with two years ago—he'd surely find her revolting.

  And yeah, sure, that was a lot of if's. But still, she had to wonder. How would this athlete react when he was told that he had a baby daughter? Would he want to be in Irie's life?

  And could the flame of romance ever burn again?

  This isn't about you, she thought, steeling herself. It's about Irie.

  Besides, she knew that disappointment was waiting for her. Emily was probably right; she was only getting her hopes up.

  At last, the restaurant came into view. Paige whipped into a parking spot and jumped out, running as fast she safely could on the icy sidewalk. Her breathing ceased as she grabbed the door's handle and pulled it open.

  Paige took one step in and halted.

  Inside that bar was utter chaos. Shouts and screams filled the crowded bar and a mass of bodies tightly converged in a single point, where fists were thrown back and forth. Glass was breaking all around, bottles were being thrown.

  Paige took a hesitant step in—but immediately stopped the second she saw a bar stool arc over the crowd before it smacked a poor girl in the face.

  Horrified, Paige gasped and slowly began to retreat. There was no sense endangering herself. A pro athlete wouldn't be in the middle of all that insanity, and neither should she.

  But right at that moment, rushing out of the chaos, emerged a familiar face.

  Lance.

  It was him. And she knew in her heart that she'd been right.

  Paige stood in the doorway, waiting for the instant when their paths would finally cross once more. Every second seemed to last an eternity. Would he recognize her?

  A friend of Lance's was hurrying him from behind, pointing him towards the exit. The two neared, closer and closer. As they brushed by, Paige turned with them, her eyes locked on Lance. His face was twisted with still-smoldering rage. His right eye was swollen shut, and blood trickled from a gash on his brow. Her heart sank—she knew then that he'd been in the middle of that bar fight. Maybe he wasn't the kind of guy you wanted around your daughter …

  They brushed by Paige, neither taking notice of her.

  But at the last second, Lance looked up and saw her. Truly saw her. And his non-swollen eye flickered, remembering. Again, time seemed to freeze, and all Paige could sense was the thumping of her pulse in her neck. Does he really remember me?

  His friend budged him from behind. “We need to go, Lance!”

  “Wait. Wait!” Lance dug his heels into the ground and forced his buddy to stop. “Come with me,” he said. It wasn't so much a request but a command.

  Before Paige had a chance to say or tell him anything at all, he grabbed her by the hand and rushed her out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Lance

  With Radar's help, Lance battled his way through the crowd, pushing and wrestling with the locals who wanted to drag him right back into the brawl.

  And there, right at the door, was the girl he'd been looking for.

  He couldn't believe it. With Radar pushing him from behind, he'd almost skipped right by her. But the second he caught her eyes, he knew it was her. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and yet she looked more beautiful because of it. Her eyes were naturally smoky. Her unpainted lips formed a sultry pout. Her braided hair had come halfway undone.

  It was hard to believe a girl could somehow look even more beautiful when she wasn't even trying. But there she was, every bit as stunning as the day he'd met her.

  He grabbe
d her hand and whisked her right out the bar, not waiting to find out if she even remembered who the hell he was.

  “Wait, wait!” she began to protest as they hurried down the sidewalk. “What's going on in there?”

  “Nothing,” Lance said.

  Radar growled, “We're getting the fuck out of here.”

  “Yeah, we gotta go,” Lance agreed.

  But she began to drag her feet. “Guys, I'm not going anywhere until I know what the hell is going on here.”

  Half a block from Zickell's, Paige slowed to a stop, and the two men ground to a halt, too. Her eyes burned into Lance's, and not necessarily in the way he'd hoped for.

  “I don't want to go anywhere until I talk with you first,” she said.

  “Lance,” Radar hissed. “We've gotta go.”

  But Lance wouldn't leave her behind. “Hold up, Radar. Give us a minute.”

  Radar wasn't happy, but he gave the couple some space anyway. He paced up and down the curb with his arm in the air, desperately trying to hail a cab.

  “Do you even know who I am?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he answered with a smug smile. “You're Paige. We met two years ago.”

  She let out a heavy breath of relief. “Thank God. That'll at least make things easier to explain …”

  “Explain what?”

  “I've been trying to find you for two years, Lance.”

  That made him happy. Sometimes he wondered if the sex was as good for her as it was for him. Clearly, it had been!

  “Yeah? Every time the team comes to Nashville, I think about you too,” he said cockily. He neared, his confident hands going to her waist. Sure, he had a flight to catch, and his eye was quickly swelling shut—but they still had enough time for a quickie back at the hotel.

  Paige, however, didn't look impressed. She wiggled from his grasp and pushed his arms away with a sternness that surprised him. “Lance, I have to tell you something. Something serious, okay?”

  “Can it wait?” Radar groaned. A crowd was beginning to trickle out from Zickell's, and Radar was growing nervous.

  “Not really!” Paige huffed. “What's going on back there, anyway? Did you two start that bar fight?”

  “I got sucker punched,” Lance grumbled, “but I didn't start it. Some drunk Fury fan hit me because he was mad his team lost.”

  “But you did hit the idiot back, and now everyone back there wants us dead,” Radar said, “which is why we need to get the hell out of here right now before they find us.”

  “Great.” Paige slapped her forehead. “Listen, Lance. We need to talk about what happened two years ago.”

  But before she could say another word, a shout interrupted them.

  “I see them! They're over there!” someone from in front of Zickell's yelled. The rowdy crowd turned and began to sprint down the ice-covered sidewalk.

  A taxi cab rolled up, spraying a gray slush of melted snow as it stopped. “Right on time!” Radar yelled as he flung the door open and hopped in.

  Lance held the door open for Paige. “Get in, babe. We can talk in the cab.”

  “Babe?” she grumbled as she reluctantly slid into the cab.

  Chapter 9

  Paige

  Lance slammed the door shut and bolted the taxi door lock just as the band of bar-fighters arrived. The drunken crazies pounded the cab windows with their hands and shouted profanities. Lance's friend barked out an address to the cabbie. The driver stomped on the gas, tires spinning, snow and ice spraying the angry crowd. The crowd pelted the cab with snowballs as they sped off.

  Paige watched out the rear windshield as the snowballs fell short of their target. The threat was over. Now she was squeezed safely, if not uncomfortably, in the back seat of a cab.

  “What in the hell was that?” Paige murmured. Squished between the two giant men, she fought to free her elbows.

  “A lot closer than it needed to be,” the friend answered, shooting Lance an unhappy stare. “So this is the girl, huh?”

  He's been talking about me? Paige wondered. Still, she didn't like that guy's gruff attitude.

  “And who is he?” she asked, giving Lance's friend a dirty look.

  “He's one of my teammates.”

  Gruff guy put out his hand. “I'm Radar.”

  “Paige,” she said icily, and the two shook hands.

  “Sorry to be a dick, Paige. But my job is to keep your boyfriend here out of trouble. Usually, that means trouble on the ice … not at the goddamn bar.”

  “He sucker punched me. Wasn't my fault. You saw that,” Lance said.

  “And he's not my boyfriend,” Paige said.

  Radar rolled his eyes. “Whatever you two are. With all due respect, Paige, I don't really know anything about you.”

  Guess he didn't talk about me that much, Paige thought, although the reality check wasn't entirely unwelcome.

  Radar continued. “All I know is, we nearly got mauled by that crowd because Lance had to wait for you.”

  “Mauled? Really?” Lance laughed. “Those guys were a joke. Their buddy swings first, ends up getting rocked, and then they all want to act like tough guys. If you hadn't rushed us out of there—”

  “They outnumbered us twenty to one, Lance.”

  “Yeah, but did you see those guys? Bunch of noodle-armed hipsters. We could've easily handled them.”

  Radar and Paige both groaned. She knew it was a long shot, but she'd still held out hope that Lance might be the guy she saw on her Dad's cell phone footage; a sweet and caring athlete who turned to mush when he saw a cute baby in the crowd. Because that was somewhat promising, right?

  Instead, he was a stereotypical jock. A tough-talking meat head. The kind of guy who got into bar fights.

  Desperate to bring Lance down a peg or two, she searched through her purse for a napkin. She found one and passed it to Lance without a word.

  “What's this for?” he asked, confused.

  “You're bleeding pretty bad there, Rambo. One of those skinny hipsters must've got you pretty good with his noodle-arms.”

  Lance deflated like a balloon with a leak. He took the napkin and began to dab at his brow. The napkin turned red as it soaked up his blood.

  “Ha!” Radar howled. “I like her already. I'm starting to see why you always wanted to go back to Zickell's—”

  Paige's ears perked up. What?

  “Alright, alright,” Lance said, “shutup already.”

  Aw, Paige thought. He's embarrassed. That's kinda cute.

  The group grew silent as the cab navigated the streets, splashing through a river of melted slush. And the realization hit Paige; how suddenly surreal her life was. She'd gone from not knowing who Irie's father was a few short hours ago to being crammed between two professional hockey players in the back seat of a cab.

  And one of them happened to be the father of her child. Which was something she still had yet to explain …

  “So,” Lance said, as if he could read her mind, “you said you had something you wanted to tell me?”

  But her throat tightened. It was one thing to tell Lance that they had a daughter together, but to do it in front of someone else? In the back of some dark, grungy cab, for God's sake?

  “Let's talk in private,” she muttered.

  Lance set his huge hand on her thigh and squeezed. “I like the sound of that.”

  She plucked his hand from her leg and removed it with cold, machine-like precision. “Not what I had in mind. Don't get any ideas.”

  The cab arrived at their hotel and the three hopped out. The group entered an elevator and Lance pressed the button for floor twenty-one.

  “I figured I was due for some good luck when they told me we were staying on the twenty-first floor,” Lance told her as the elevator shot upwards. “That's my lucky number. That's why I wear number twenty-one.”

  Paige didn't reply. All she could think was, Well, I guess you're about to get lucky, if you always wanted to find out you had a da
ughter you didn't know about.

  They reached the twenty-first floor, and the athletes' paths forked off in different directions.

  Radar checked his wristwatch. “I'll see you in an hour, Lance. Don't be late. Nice meeting you, Paige.”

  She and Lance began the walk down the hallway for his room. His arm grazed hers as they walked. The space between them was shrinking, and soon, Lance had his hand on the small of her back, guiding her to his hotel room.

  Part of her wanted to roll her eyes. He couldn't keep his hands off her, could he?

  But the other part of her couldn't be mad at him. She didn't find his touch unpleasant. He was Irie's father, after all. It was only natural they'd always have that connection. Irie bound them together forever, whether he knew it or not.

  And maybe another part of her would always hold out hope that he could become the man she wanted, no, needed him to become …

  They stopped at his room. Lance dug through his wallet for his door key card.

  “Your friend, Radar, said don't be late. Don't be late for what?” she asked while she waited.

  “Our flight.”

  “You're leaving tonight? Already?”

  “Yup. We're on a road trip. Florida is our next and last stop.”

  She frowned. That meant she had less time to tell him all about Irie.

  Of course, his mind was somewhere else entirely. “But don't worry. We've still got time tonight.” He opened the door and gestured her in first.

  She entered the room with her arms tightly folded. “Just so you know, I'm not going to sleep with you.”

  “You've already said that to me once before, remember?” Lance gave his stupidly charming smile, the same one that had swept her off her feet two years ago. And maybe it could've worked on her again—if not for the raw, busted-open wound above his eye.

  She rolled her eyes. That night was completely different … and her life now was completely different … and the only way to begin to explain that was to just come out and tell him about Irie.

  But she rushed to the bathroom instead.

  “Hey, where are you going?” he called out.

  “Looking for a first aid kit. I can't take you seriously while you've got blood trickling down your face.”