Page 12 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ace

Mornings are the only time I get to breathe. Miami’s just waking up, the air still clinging to whatever trace of coolness the night left behind.

I pull my cap lower as I step into the elevator, earbuds already in, ready to zone out for six miles. That’s the plan. Sweat it out, reset, stay sharp.

When the elevator stops a few floors down, I barely glance up. But then I hear a dog. A snort, followed by the kind of huff only bulldogs make.

The doors slide open, and there she is.

Brooke.

She’s in tiny black shorts and slippers that should be illegal. Hair in a messy bun, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. And sure enough, waddling beside her is a fat bulldog with a pink tongue hanging out the side like it’s been through war. My eyes narrow.

“That dog looks suspiciously familiar,” I mutter.

She glances over, eyes widening when she sees me. “Coach?”

“I didn’t know you lived here.”

“I moved in last week. Just taking Buddy out,” she says, giving the leash a tug. The dog ignores her.

I glance at the dog again, then at her. “Buddy, huh.”

She’s not just pretty. She’s dangerously pretty. The kind that makes grown men stupid. I see now why my guys are half-deranged when she walks into the training facility. But that’s not my problem. My problem is keeping the Icemen focused. And right now, I’m the one not focusing.

I run a hand through my hair and shift my weight. “You like the building?”

She shrugs. “It’s...big.”

Yeah. Big. And expensive. I say nothing at all.

We reach the lobby, the automatic doors gliding open. Sunlight pours in. I nod at her. “Alright. Enjoy your walk.”

“Thanks. Enjoy the run.”

I start stretching, watching her retreat. The sway of her hips is enough to short-circuit a lesser man. I look away.

Focus, Ace.

Then it happens.

A sharp, blaring noise splits through the quiet. The kind of sound that gets under your skin. I flinch automatically, ripping my earbuds out. I’ve lived through enough drills to know this one by heart.

Fire alarm.

I glance back at Brooke, expecting her to be annoyed. Instead, her face drains of color.

“What the hell was that?” she shouts.

“Fire drill,” I say, already half-smiling. But that smile disappears when she bolts.

She hands me the leash, spins on her heel, and runs straight back into the building. “My son!”

“What?” I shout. “Hey! Where are you?—”

But she’s gone. Buddy barks once and barrels after her like he’s done this before. I swear and take off after both of them.

“Brooke!”

The elevator’s frozen. Lights blinking red. I push through the stairwell door and start climbing. She’s ahead of me, moving fast despite wearing slippers, yelling her son’s name.

“Brooke! Slow down. Let me?—”

“I need to get Jackson! He’s upstairs!” Her voice is ragged.

“Then let me help!”

We hit her floor. She fumbles with her key, hands shaking, and I push past her gently. She gets the door open just as smoke curls down the hallway. Not heavy. Probably just from the drill system. But it’s enough to make the situation real. Adrenaline hits me like a freight train.

The kid’s standing there in a NASA T-shirt, eyes wide. He’s clutching a handheld gaming console and looks like he just woke up.

“I’ve got him,” I say, crouching.

“I—” Brooke tries to speak, but Buddy’s losing his mind behind her.

“Grab the dog,” I order. “Come on, I’ve got Jackson.”

She nods, scooping the leash and shouting at the dog to move.

I lift the kid easily and head for the stairs, turning my body to shield him from the worst of the heat pooling near the upper floors.

Not real fire. Not yet. But drills are meant to simulate panic.

And panic is setting in all over the building.

“Hold tight, bud,” I tell him. “We’re taking a shortcut.”

Jackson wraps his arms around my neck and doesn’t say a word.

Brooke is on my heels, her eyes darting, her breath coming fast. We take the stairs down four flights. I adjust Jackson’s weight with one arm and hold the door open with my foot. Buddy snorts beside me like he’s leading the damn charge.

Outside, the sunlight hits us again like a slap. Sirens echo nearby. Fire trucks, maybe. Or more noise for the simulation. Either way, I don’t let go of Jackson until Brooke’s next to me, hands on her knees, gasping for air.

“Are you okay?” I ask, touching her shoulder.

She nods without speaking, eyes fixed on her son.

The kid leans into his mom once we’re out in the fresh air, his small hands gripping the edge of her sweatshirt. He doesn’t look scared anymore, just curious, eyes tracking every flashing light and loud noise. This is definitely the kid I saw yesterday at the burger shack.

What a small world!

“This is Jackson,” Brooke says once she catches her breath. “My son.”

I nod, still half-crouched, resting my elbows on my knees. “Hey, Jackson.”

He stares up at me, then glances at Buddy, who has decided to sit on my sneaker like it’s his ottoman.

“Thanks,” Brooke adds, softer this time. “For carrying him. And Buddy. I panicked.”

“You were fast,” I say, straightening up. “Didn’t know you had that kind of speed in slippers.”

She grins despite herself, and it hits me low, quick, and uninvited. There’s something about that smile when she’s not trying. All natural and radiant with a sheen of adrenaline. She’s too young, too complicated, too connected to my team. Still, I look anyway.

A security guard walks over to tell us what I already suspected. Just a drill. False alarm. No smoke. No danger. Jackson’s face drops in disappointment, like he was expecting explosions or at least a fireman with a big hose. I shake my head.

“Well,” I say, stretching my neck side to side. “Glad it was nothing.”

“Yeah. Same.” Brooke brushes her palm down Jackson’s hair. “Thanks again. For everything.”

I nod and start to turn. I’ve got a run to finish and a schedule to keep. She’s got bedtime routines and video game empires to build.

“Hey,” she calls after me. “When are you getting your photo taken?”

I stop and frown. “Photo?”

“For your avatar.”

“My what?”

She’s grinning now like she knows exactly how this conversation is going to go. “In the game. You’re part of the team, right? The kids are gonna want to play as the grumpy coach.”

“I don’t need to be in the game.”

“You’re in the game.”

“I didn’t sign off on that.”

“You did, actually. Buried in the paperwork. Trust me.”

I exhale slowly, turning halfway. “After the next game.”

“Can you do it sooner?”

“I’ve got a full week.”

“You’re not that busy.”

I level a look at her. “You’re mouthy.”

She tilts her head, not backing down. “You’re grumpy. Like a tired Gandalf.”

That gets a sharp, unexpected laugh out of me. I shake my head and glance at Jackson, who’s watching the back-and-forth like it’s a tennis match.

“Bye, Brooke,” I say finally.

“Bye, Coach.”

Jackson waves and then runs ahead, Buddy plodding along beside him.

I watch her walk after them, one hand on her hip, shorts barely legal, dog leash tangled, hair wild from the run through the stairwell. Every inch of her radiates chaos, youth, and heat. She doesn’t fit into any of my plans. She’s too loud. Too sharp. Too damn confident.

And yet.

What an infuriating, sexy woman.

Later that night, I can’t shake the thought of her. Brooke. That damn smile. The way she made me feel like I’d just stepped off a battlefield and onto unfamiliar ground.

I need to clear my head. So, I grab my phone, toss it on the couch beside me, and boot up the game. Call of Duty. It’s simple. Familiar. A few rounds, and I’ll forget about the ridiculous interaction from earlier. Forget about the way she looked when she called me “grumpy Gandalf.”

I log in, my username flashing on the screen.

IceVice —no surprise there. It’s a nod to the icy demeanor I’ve had for years. Nothing’s really changed. I settle into my chair, my fingers already warming to the controls. My mind shifts from thoughts of Brooke to the immediate game in front of me.

Focus. That’s what I need right now.

I’m not even five minutes in when my screen goes dark. A sniper’s bullet whizzes by, barely missing me. I freeze for a second, scanning the terrain, searching for the source of the shot. I move forward cautiously, only for another shot to ring out, this one hitting my health bar hard.

I curse under my breath and look around, trying to locate the sniper. It’s a cat-and-mouse game, one I’m used to.

Then, the message pops up on my screen: “PixelVixen killed you.”

I narrow my eyes.

PixelVixen? No way she is back online.

I quickly check the leaderboard, and sure enough, there she is. Right at the top of the list. My stomach tightens.

I move again, slower this time, more methodical, trying to outsmart whoever this is. But the shots come again—fast and precise. Another death. Another “PixelVixen killed you.”

I’m losing it. I roll my eyes and decide to bite.

I won’t let her take me down so easily. I adjust my position, changing up my strategy, only to catch sight of a flash of movement on my left.

Another sniper shot. But this time, I’m ready.

I pivot and dive to the side, managing to land a return shot.

“PixelVixen killed you.”

Fuck.

The death screen flashes for a second, and I can’t help but laugh out loud.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.

The name PixelVixen feels like an inside joke now, something that’s both frustrating and strangely… appealing. Every time I get killed, her name stares me down. I’m getting annoyed, but there’s something else too—a bit of admiration. She’s good. Damn good. And she’s making me look like a rookie.

I take a deep breath and check the leaderboard again.

PixelVixen is still ahead, her score climbing higher while mine remains stagnant.

I wonder if she knows it’s me on the other side.

If she’s even paying attention to the fact that I’m being completely outplayed by a woman who is apparently a sniper goddess.

Then, a message pops up from her:

“I missed you on these streets.”

I reply, tapping the controller harder than I should.

“You’ve got some skills.”

She responds almost immediately: “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

I snort and shake my head. She has no idea how much she’s getting under my skin. She’s playing me, and I’m letting her. I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen for a moment. I type out another response, my fingers moving quickly.

“What’s the deal with your username? PixelVixen? You trying to show me up?”

“Maybe. Just having some fun with you. You should get used to losing.”

I laugh quietly, a grin tugging at my lips. She’s not wrong. I’ve been losing a lot lately. And the worst part? It feels good. Like she’s winning more than just the game.

“You’re a handful,” I type, grinning to myself.

“I know. And you love it.”

Her reply sends a jolt through me. Every message feels more like an invitation than a simple exchange. More like we’re flirting in some strange, digital way.

I sigh, trying to focus on the game again. But my mind keeps wandering back to her.

“Alright. Let’s see if I can actually beat you now.”

“We’ll see. Try to keep up.”

She snipes me again.