Page 22 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ace

The streets are just waking up when I step outside, laces double-knotted, air still cool and sharp against my skin.

I’ve got a long run ahead of me and I need it—something to bleed the tension out of my shoulders, get my mind straight. Not that it ever works for long. I’m stretching against the post near the stairs when I hear the familiar thud of little feet and the deeper, slower pace beside them.

Jackson’s already mid-hop down the last step, grinning like it’s a full-blown holiday.

“Hello!”

Brooke follows behind him, clutching a leash that tugs impatiently toward the corner.

She’s in pajama pants and a loose sweatshirt that slides off one shoulder, hair pulled into a messy bun that somehow makes her look more put together than anyone I’ve seen this early.

She yawns as she adjusts the strap across her chest, half-laughing as the bulldog strains forward.

“Sorry. My nanny had a shift. It’s just me and the chaos this morning.”

“Chaos looks good on you,” I say before I can stop myself.

She gives me a look, playful but hesitant. “Taking the beast for his constitutional. He’s been doing laps in the living room since five.”

I laugh, ruffling Jackson’s hair. “Your boy has more energy than my entire team.”

“He gets it from his dad,” she says, then immediately glances away. That silence settles too quickly.

“You free tonight?” I ask, light, casual. “Dinner?”

She stops mid-step. The bulldog huffs, pulling gently on the leash. She doesn’t answer right away. Her face does that thing I’m learning to recognize—the one where she’s weighing what not to say.

“Can we talk about this more?”

“Is this about what you told me?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

She nods. “I want you to think about it. Really think about it.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

She walks off, Jackson beside her, their dog waddling ahead like he’s on a mission from God. I watch her disappear around the block before I press play on my playlist and start my run.

By the fourth mile, the sweat’s sliding down my back, and the ache in my thighs has become familiar. I’m not chasing pace anymore. I’m chasing clarity. My thoughts circle the way they always do lately. Brooke. And whoever it is she is dating. The mess of it all.

I can’t help the way my lips pull into a dry laugh.

The absurdity of it. Years ago, when my brother had stolen the girl I was going to marry, it felt like the end of the world.

I had to talk myself down from breaking a stick across my brother’s spine.

And now? Now I’m willingly walking into something where she wants to date me… and someone else.

And I’m not out.

I’m willingly walking in.

There’s only one person I know who might actually understand the mental pretzel I’m in. Someone who’s been in her own nontraditional mess and lived to give advice about it.

I text Daisy.

Need a reality check. You around?

Daisy Always. Make it breakfast, and you’re paying.

Of course I’m paying.

We meet at this little corner place with too many succulents and servers who pretend they invented brunch. Daisy’s already at the table by the window when I walk in, tapping her nails against her water glass. She grins when she sees me.

“Uncle Ace,” she says in that sing-song voice she uses when she’s about to be either brutally honest or a complete pain in my ass.

I order black coffee and eggs. She gets oat milk everything and avocado toast. Then she folds her arms and leans in.

“So,” she says. “Tell me which one of the Icemen managed to cause emotional turbulence in your boring, manly life.”

I breathe out slowly. “I like someone.”

“Ooookay…”

“I think she is dating someone else.”

She almost chokes on her milk. “You mean someone who likes someone?”

I arch a brow. “Yes. Is that weird? It is weird, right? No offense…but I am too old for any of this…”

She touches my hand…” Your texts are never vague. When you say reality check , that’s code for talk me off this emotional ledge before I climb into someone’s bed and ruin everything .”

I huff a dry laugh. “She’s into more than one person. And I’m pretty sure I’m one of them.”

“Do you know who else she is with?”

I hesitate. “ I never asked.”

She pauses, then blinks. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“I’ve been around long enough to know what I want. I’m not here to compete. I just— It's been a really long time since I actually liked someone. When I'm with her, it's like I’ve got a shot at something real. Even if I’m sharing it.”

Daisy sips her drink, quiet for once.

Then she says, “The easiest way to not burn the whole thing to the ground is a conversation. No guessing. No side-stepping. Set expectations and boundaries. All of you. Together.”

She sets her cup down gently.

“Poly, open, fluid—whatever the setup is—none of it works without transparency. Jealousy can be managed, but only if no one’s playing games or hiding behind what-ifs. Talk. Ask what she wants. Tell her what you need. Anything else is just romantic landmines.”

I stare into my coffee, the advice echoing louder than I expected. She’s right.

I either run from this or walk into it with both eyes open.

And if I’m walking in, it better be with the truth. From all of us.

I text her an hour after breakfast with Daisy.

You and Jackson want tickets to tonight’s game? We’re playing the Vancouver Titans. Seats behind the bench.

The dots appear almost immediately, disappear, then come back again. My phone buzzes.

He’s already putting on his jersey. Yes. See you there.

By puck drop, I’m on the bench, headset in place, clipboard in hand, and already barking directions. It’s a tight game.

The Titans play rough, fast, more showboat than strategy, which makes them exactly the kind of team that screws with our rhythm. I glance up at the second period and spot her.

Brooke’s sitting behind the glass with Jackson in her lap. He’s bouncing. Full-on bouncing. When he catches me looking, he waves with both hands and practically glows through the plexi.

She looks good. Better than she should in a damn hoodie and jeans. Her smile’s small, but it reaches her eyes, and that’s enough to settle something that’s been tight in my chest all week.

Third period, we take the lead by two and hold it. As the final horn sounds, the guys flood off the ice in a pile of back slaps and sweaty grins. I pull my headset off and turn to see Jackson already on the steps, racing toward the player exit.

“Ace!” he yells like he’s part of the coaching staff.

I scoop him up before security can say a word. He smells like popcorn and cotton candy. He’s gripping a foam finger in one hand and a mini jersey in the other.

“You liked the game, little man?”

He nods hard. “You yelled a lot.”

“Gotta keep the boys in line.”

“I like yelling too,” he says, grinning.

“Good. You’ll make a hell of an assistant coach.”

The guys come out of the tunnel, still laughing, trading chirps. Deke slaps my shoulder and tosses Jackson a signed puck. Jackson’s eyes light up like Christmas and Fourth of July merged into one.

Brooke joins us outside the locker room, her expression softening when she sees him in my arms.

“He didn’t stop talking about the Zamboni for an entire period.”

I hand her Jackson. He latches onto her neck like a koala.

“You want to grab pizza with us?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “With the team?”

“No. Just me. You. Jackson. Deke might show, but only if the bar doesn’t steal him first.”

She nods. “Alright. One condition. He gets extra cheese.”

“I’ll allow it.”

We hit a family place not far from the arena.

It's casual, noisy enough that no one looks twice at the half-drunk hockey players in the corner. Jackson sits between us, stealing olives off my plate and asking me rapid-fire questions about everything from helmet sizes to whether I’ve ever punched a ref.

I tell him yes just to see Brooke’s reaction. She chokes on her soda.

Later, after Jackson starts nodding off in the booth with a slice of crust still in his hand, Brooke reaches out, not touching but close enough that her presence feels steadying.

“You’re good with him,” she says.

“I like kids.”

“You want any?”

“Wanted,” I say. “Didn’t work out.”

She doesn’t flinch, just waits.

“I was almost married once. Bad timing,” Then I tell her all about the woman who almost broke not just me but my entire career.

She shifts slightly, the atmosphere between us turning quieter.

“I knew you played, but…”

“I had a rep. Hothead. Talented, but volatile. Never broke laws, just sticks, and made execs nervous. Coaching gave me a second chance.”

She studies me for a long second. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thanks for not bolting.”

She smiles a little. “You want to keep talking?”

I nod.

“You can come over,” she says. “Jackson’s going to pass out as soon as we walk in.”

I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. I want that.”

And I do. Not just the couch talk or the low lights or the possibility of her in something soft and loose. I want to sit on the other side of a night that isn’t about fixing everything or falling apart.

I want her.