Page 8 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brooke

He’s already rambling when I pick up, his voice crackling over the speaker. Something about a last-minute invite to a party in Philly. Something about how it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

I stare at the wall in front of me and wait for him to finish, letting his voice blur into background noise.

“I’ll make it up to him,” he adds, like that’s supposed to erase the broken promise.

I don’t say anything. Just breathe. Then, quietly, “I don’t care, Aaron.” And I hang up.

Seriously, he would pick a party over spending time with his son? What the fuck is wrong with my ex-husband?

The silence afterward is sharp. No music playing, no TV droning on in the background. Just the occasional scratch of a crayon from the other room. I walk down the short hallway to find Jackson on the living room rug, tongue poking out as he concentrates on the drawing in front of him.

It’s a man, tall and broad-shouldered with a blue cape trailing behind him, and a big grin drawn in thick black marker.

“Who’s that?” I ask, settling beside him on the floor.

He lifts his chin. “It’s Tanner. When he saved Buddy. I made him a superhero.”

The edges of my mouth pull into a reluctant smile. Tanner, as a superhero, feels fitting in a way I don’t want to admit. Jackson turns to me with wide eyes.

“Can we go get burgers and take Buddy on a walk?”

I glance at the clock and sigh. “I've got a bit more work to do, but maybe you can go with Sasha. Let’s ask her.”

Sasha, our nanny, is in the kitchen scrolling on her tablet. She agrees without a fuss. Jackson pumps a fist and dashes off to put on his shoes. Buddy barks from his spot by the door like he already knows what’s happening.

With them gone, the apartment falls into a hush again. I move to the couch, legs curling under me as I pull my phone closer. Just for a second. Just to look.

The photos from today are still fresh, the gallery full of poses and faces, jerseys stretched over muscle and sweat-damp hair. But I’m not scrolling for the project right now. I know exactly which one I’m looking for.

Tanner. Smiling into the lens like the camera isn’t even there, hands on hips, chin tilted with that easy confidence that’s always clung to him. I swipe to the next one. He’s laughing at something off-screen, a softer version of him. A little reckless. But so handsome.

Cam’s little brother. That should be the stop sign. The full brakes. But instead, I stare, letting my head fall back against the cushion, eyes still locked on the screen. He’s flirting. He has been since the moment we met again. And I should shut it down. Be clear. Be smarter.

But I don’t hate it.

Not even a little.

I close out of the photos and open my notes app, typing a few ideas for the avatars and interface.

The core aesthetic is starting to settle in my head.

Sleek but with personality. Something customizable.

Fun but competitive. Jackson had suggested power-up flames. Not terrible. Maybe something to test.

After a while, I stretch, restless. The apartment is still so new it smells like paint and cardboard.

Boxes line one wall, and the kitchen is only half-unpacked.

I stand, crossing to the large window overlooking the parking lot and the street beyond.

Miami breathes golden outside, humid and lazy.

I walk back toward the coffee table where I left my phone and reach for it.

It lights up as I grab it, and my finger hits the screen. A second too late, I realize it’s dialing. Tanner’s name flashes.

Shit.

I hang up instantly and toss the phone across the couch like it’s burning.

But of course, a few seconds later, it buzzes. Incoming call.

Goddammit.

I groan and swipe to answer, holding the phone to my ear like I’m bracing for impact. “Hello?”

His voice is sunshine and a smirk. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I echo, and it’s stupid how fast my pulse skips. His name isn’t even fully out before he says mine. “Brooke.”

The way he says it, deep and unhurried, drops like a stone in my stomach. I should tell him it was a mistake. That I didn’t mean to call. But instead, I say, “Are you free for dinner?”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not awkward.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Can you meet at the beach in twenty?”

“Yeah,” I say before I can overthink it.

I dress quickly, grabbing a sundress from the closet. Light cotton, soft and simple, with thin straps and a skirt that brushes my knees. I don’t bother with much makeup, just a touch of gloss and a little mascara.

I try not to think about what this is. Just dinner. Just company. Just a distraction from my mess of a day.

The beach parking lot isn’t crowded. I pull in and spot him immediately, leaning against his bike, dressed in linen shorts and a white button-down with the sleeves pushed up. Barefoot already, his shoes held in one hand. He sees me and smiles, easy and crooked.

“I was starting to think you stood me up,” he says, walking toward me as I step out of the car.

“I’m two minutes late.”

He grins. “I was worried.”

We grab burgers from a food truck parked on the sand, the paper bags hot in our hands as we walk down to a quieter part of the shore. The sun is low, the sky streaked pink and amber. Waves lap gently nearby.

“This is really nice,” I say, kicking off my sandals. The sand is warm under my feet.

“Miami’s finest,” he says, sitting down and patting the spot beside him. I join him, knees tucked under, and we eat without speaking for a moment.

The burger is greasy and messy in the best way. Tanner’s lips glisten, and I try not to watch the way he wipes his thumb along the corner of his mouth. Unfair. All of it.

“How’s Jackson?” he asks, licking ketchup from his fingers.

“Good. Still excited about you being his hero.”

He laughs. “That dog of his is a menace.”

“Buddy’s a misunderstood genius,” I say. “He just has bad PR.”

We finish eating, and he leans back on his hands, staring out at the waves. “So. Did you mean to call me?”

I glance sideways. “Maybe.”

He shifts slightly, turning toward me. “No regrets?”

“Not yet.”

That earns a laugh. He nods toward the water. “Want to walk?”

We stroll barefoot near the tide, waves brushing our ankles. He’s taller than I remember. Broader. His hand brushes mine, then moves away. He doesn’t push it.

“So, this is just dinner,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.

“Sure,” he says. Then grins. “Unless you want it to be more.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming.”

“Debatable.”

He bends and picks up a flat stone, skips it once, twice. “You know what’s not debatable?”

“What?”

“That you’re too pretty for me to pretend I don’t remember the first time I saw you. In high school. You were walking with Cam, laughing, and I remember thinking, ‘damn, she’s out of his league.’”

I blink at him. “You were sixteen.”

“Still accurate.”

The silence that follows is heavier now, slower. Not uncomfortable, just thick with something we’re both aware of but not naming. He exhales and reaches for my hand. “Dessert?”