Page 251 of Breaking the Pucking Rules

If I’d just stayed talking to those kids…

No, I needed to know the truth. Who the hell knows when she was going to tell me?

“Fuck,” I hiss before reaching for my phone and tapping on the notification.

Trouble: I’m so sorry.

That’s it?

All those bouncing dots, and that’s all she has to say?

“Fuck. FUCK,” I roar, throwing my cell back down, tugging on a pair of sweatpants, and marching to my home gym.

I don’t stand a chance of sleeping now.

The next two days pass in a blur of confusion.

I never hear anything else from Casey, and I don’t catch a single sight of her at the arena.

I know she’s there, working upstairs, but at no point do I go in search of her.

I have no idea what I’d say even if I did see her.

I’mtorn between pulling her into my arms and kissing the life out of her or shouting at her for lying to me and leaving me feeling like she’s ripped something out of my chest.

I fucking hate it.

I’m off my game. I’m fucking awful company to be around—even worse than usual.

My teammates have seen it. My coaches have seen it.

Hell, even Sutton has asked me what’s wrong.

It’s fucking embarrassing.

I’m a professional athlete. I’m a father. And yet I’ve been completely thrown off track by a five-foot-something woman with pretty blonde hair and stunning green eyes.

My gear bag lands on the floor at my feet with a loud thud as I fight to keep my groan inside.

We’ve got our first home game of the season tomorrow, and I’m going to find my ass benched if I can’t sort this shit out.

“Daddy,” Sutton squeals, her tiny feet pounding against the floor as she runs to me.

“Hey, Peanut,” I say, trying to shove everything else aside.

She’s already in her pajamas and ready for bed.

I wanted to get home earlier tonight, but practice ran over, and then I had a PT session.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asks excitedly.

“You know it,” I lie.

I feel less prepared for a game than I have in my entire life.

I just can’t get my head in it.

I’m always looking over my shoulder, expecting her to come and visit Coach. Every tap of heels, I think it’s her. Every sweet female scent, my brain tells me it’s her, even if it smells nothing like her.