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Chapter Thirty-Seven

Cam

Saint’s words about there being more than one way to have a family gave me pause. But it wasn’t until Dana and the kids showed me a practical application of that theory that I started to open my mind.

Now we’re home again, and empty seats or not, I’m going to play my heart out. Earning a multi-year contract will give me the ability to keep Christina near her family. Because after a week of misery, I’ve figured out that she is my family. The rest we’ll navigate together.

I need her sweet combination of hockey and dancing that matches mine. Her passion for investing to improve my passion for saving. And her interest in making the world a better place for children. She has simply chosen to go about it a different way.

Can I walk away from the idea of children? Not quite yet. But I’m certainly open to seeing how things go with my brother and sister, her dance school, and seeing if that fills my heart. And I sure as heck don’t need biological children if it’s going to threaten the health of the woman I love. I need to have a conversation with her to see if she’s open to exploring possibilities together.

When I skate out to warm up for tonight’s game, I send a side glance at her seats. My head snaps around to stare at them straight on. She’s here.

She’s here! I’m screaming in my head, ready to shimmy my hips to the music blaring overhead. I should do that after I warm my hips up though; if I pull something, the team will kill me.

Lauren is next to her, looking pissed. Does she not like hockey, or is that look for me?

I go to my knees on the ice, subtly pointing toward Chris rather than center ice like I normally do. As I stretch and undulate on the ice, my knees out and my legs at ninety degrees all flat against the ice, I sniff. I swear the ice smells better tonight, a hint of her vanilla and coconut scent mixing and making it a degree warmer, too. Yeah, yeah, if it was a degree warmer, it would be slushy and soupy. But it feels amazing.

I’m on fire throughout the game and crave a shutout again, even though we’re only a third of the way through our season at twenty-seven games. It’d be highly unlikely for a rookie goalie to get two this soon in his career, but hey, a handful of goalies have had them in their first game so you never know.

However, the way to a shutout is not focusing on stats, Christina, contracts, or anything other than that puck.

As we re-enter the ice after the second intermission, the crowd chants, “Hill, Hill, Hill.” They want a shutout as much as I do. My teammates join in as we fan out, quieter, but still supportive.

Jack comes by with a, “Let’s fucking gooo!”

He’ll do everything he can to get this for me as well.

We’re up 1-0. The knowledge that letting a puck in would send us into overtime as well as killing the shutout is on all of our minds.

An impending loss is on the other team’s mind as well, as they somehow speed up in this last period. Their key winger is out with an injury, though, and despite their speed, they can’t get past me.

Just for good measure, Saint and du Près fake them out and the light at their net flashes a goal. Jack is practically dancing on his skates as he flies back toward me to set up for the faceoff. No one loves hockey quite like he does.

The crowd starts chanting. Usually they don’t penetrate my sphere of concentration, but it’s my name again. With the puck in the far end, I risk a glance at the clock. Twenty seconds left. My heart pounds, but I take a breath to regain my Zen, and block the crowd.

The puck whizzes my way, their players racing to get to the blue line before it does. The linesman raises his hand.

I don’t move or wave it off.

The whistle blows. Icing. The penalty means a faceoff down their end, with seven seconds left.

Not daring another glance at the game clock, I count down in my head. Seven. Six. My team’s battling to keep the puck in the other end. Five. Four. Three. Someone takes a slapshot toward my net and I brace, but it goes wide. Two. One. And the buzzer goes off. It’s over. As I come forward, my teammates tackle me onto the ice. The crowd is thunderous, stomping their feet in time to our team song’s bass.

My heart is full. Now if I can convince Christina to give me another chance, it’ll stay that way.

* * * *

Dammit, I still haven’t managed to talk to Christina and tonight is the Holiday Ball.

She texted me a couple days ago to congratulate me on the shutout. When I thanked her, she asked if we could talk, but our schedules didn’t align. My agent had flown in to have dinner and discuss what I can get next year. And I had enough of a concern over a tight leg muscle that I scheduled extra physio sessions. If I pulled something dancing, the coaches would kill me. Those, the usual practices, and one more game made the past several days fly by.

Christina attended that game, too, which I took as a hopeful sign.

Now she’s running late to Maria’s studio, according to a frustrated text. Trust me, I get it, sweetheart. I want to talk as much as you do .

When she pulls up and gets out, another car arrives. A guy follows us inside, holding a suit bag over his shoulder.

I raise my brows. “What’s this?” And who is the guy? I was hoping to talk to her before we practiced.

“This is Jules. I had a suit made for you, as I wasn’t sure how stretchy yours are. We’d talked about costumes”—she corrects herself at my pressed lips. I don’t like that word—“Excuse me, clothes, but we never did anything about them. It’s a regular suit, just out of a fabric with more give, and the cut of the trousers is a bit looser. You can take the jacket off if you’d like. And the tie.”

I’ll reserve judgment until the guy unzips the bag.

“Huh.” I admit to surprise—not out loud, of course. It’s the darkest of charcoals, somewhere between a suit and a tux. It has the smooth look of a tux, rather than a wool suit texture, but it’s not satiny or polyestery, which is what I’d told her I was worried about, given what I’d seen on the reality shows.

“Try it on, please. Your athletic shirt will have to do under the jacket for now,” Jules says.

“Okay.” Used to the locker room, I tug my track pants down.

Christina gasps and whirls.

He raises his brows.

I catch Christina’s gaze in the mirrored wall she forgot to consider, and say, “Feeling shy, Dancer?”

She frowns and turns sideways. “Just trying to give you privacy.”

If I’d wanted privacy, I would have adjourned to the bathroom off the studio, but I don’t call her on it. If she doesn’t want a fresh look, I’ll assume her memory is good enough to keep her going, and my plan is to have her back in my life sooner rather than later.

The pants fit smoothly over my hockey thighs and ass and almost perfectly at my waist. I hadn’t expected them to get that close.

The tailor is hemming and hawing and tugging various points.

“Will they stay up?” Christina asks.

“Yeah. Especially if I wear a belt.” I glance sideways at Jules for confirmation.

He nods.

“Squat,” Christina commands.

I lower slowly into a wide squat, trying not to remember other circumstances when I sank into this position with her in a dance studio. The trousers pull but stretch across my ass, groin, and thighs.

Christina swallows, her gaze on my crotch.

I smile. She does still like to look after all.

“I know you’re not warm, but can you do a few stretches and then see how close you get to a split?”

“Sure.”

“Just move slowly. Greg will have my head if you’re hurt from this.”

“Trust me, I know.” I nod as I put a bent leg on the bar and do a standing pigeon, then rest an ankle on the bar and scootch my other foot back, leaning forward into my thigh. Not a single popped stitch or over-tight pull. “I gotta say, I’m sort of impressed with this fabric.”

Jules grins. “Thank you. It was as much Christina’s choice as mine, though.”

I put the jacket on and raise my arms, considering a cartwheel in it, but there’s no way I’m risking the suit for that. Nor would I be comfortable being that restricted. We decide that even if I keep the jacket for the first dance, it’ll come off for the second.

Christina walks Jules out after I thank them both and returns with a garment bag over her arm. She checks her watch and squeaks, saying, “We have time for one run-through of both dances and then I have to go get ready. We’ll talk tonight? I’ll try to get there a little early.”

I grit my teeth, trying to find patience. This dance is important, but our future happiness comes before everything else. Then again, maybe she’s procrastinating. Or going to say things I don’t want to hear. Perhaps it’s better to wait. “No problem. I’d like to focus more on the first one. Then we can talk through the second one at the party if we need to?”

We’d decided along the way—with heavy influence from her sister Amy—that we’d do the first dance to earn the donations, promising the second, but save that until much later in the party. The more these whales drink, the bigger second checks they’re likely to write.

After rehearsal, I head home and change. When I come out of my room, Jack and Buzz are dressed, but pre-gaming.

“Guys, it’s a holiday party, but it’s still a work function.”

“Dude, you’ve been hanging around Saint too much. Chill. Have a beer.”

“Dude,” I retort. “I can’t have a beer when I’m doing an exhibition dance with one of the owners.”

Buzz points at me with one finger of the hand holding his beer. “Good point. Talk about a career limiting move, dropping the owner.”

I stare at him. “Thanks for putting that out there. But there’s no way in hell I’d ever drop a woman. Goalie reflexes, remember?”

I’d found a white dress shirt and emerald-green bow tie in the bag with a note that said, “Bow ties won’t flap around as much while dancing. Trust me.”

As we enter the iconic Austin hotel and climb to the ballroom, I’m suddenly nervous. Last time was just for fun, no one had any expectations except me. I felt bold. Strangely, the more I play, even as beautifully as this season is going, the more I stress about the outcome. My agent texted after the second shutout that unless I do something incredibly stupid, I can practically demand anything I want next year. If only it were that easy to negotiate for Christina’s heart.

I’m glad we’re doing the first dance before the dinner service, about an hour into the event. Most of the partygoers will have arrived and had their first drink by then—or in Jack’s case, their second or third.

My shoulders are tight, even with the additional give in this jacket. I keep looking around for Christina. Finally, I see the back of her head, her hair pinned up with diamond-encrusted barrettes. I smile. I’ll be hard-pressed to buy her jewelry when even my sizeable salary pales in comparison to her worth. But I also know she’s not a big jewelry person. Between her focus on dance and her nonprofit, I’m not worried about finding gifts to suit her, just about gaining her love.

I start toward her and her shoulders come into view. She’s wearing a halter-top dress the exact color of my bow tie. The skirt is longer than her norm but full, and I have no doubt she’s tested its fit for our routine.

I bring my hand under her bent elbow and as she turns to me, I lean in. “I’m going to go loosen up.”

“I reserved us a small room three doors down on the right. I’m going to the washroom then I’ll meet you there.”

As I start down the hall, Greg Donovan steps out behind me. “Hill, hold up a minute.”

This has to happen now? But he’s the owner, so I turn around and face him. His resemblance to Christina strikes me again, and I blink. “Of course, sir. How can I help you.”

“You can be patient with my sister.”

My eyes bug out of my head. I hoped she’d give me a heads up if she was going to out us to the guy who signs my contracts.

Greg chuckles at my expression. “Apparently, she didn’t tell you. I admitted a few days ago that security informs me of repeat visitors. Especially those who don’t come to the big house.”

I deflate, closing my eyes for a second. “Sorry, sir.”

“She explained most of it. And I likely have more backstory than you do. If I was concerned, I’d have said something to one or both of you. But you’re a good guy. Strong player, not a bunny chaser, and you obviously have shared interests. Just be gentle with her.”

I exhale a long breath of relief. That’s a promise I can easily keep. “Always, sir.”

“It seems we’re close enough you should call me Greg, at least in private.” He holds out a hand to shake.

I push a little, figuring it can’t hurt to test when I have an advantage. Hockey players were never known for their shyness. “So a contract’s looking good for next year?”

“If you’re asking as my sister’s boyfriend, abso-fucking-lutely. If your agent asks, I was never here. Nice try, though.” He winks and strides back inside.

When I duck into our warmup room, Chris is pacing and checking her watch. “Where were you? I wanted to talk to you before we go out.”

“Your brother stopped me.”

Her eyes widen.

“You could have told me he knew. Anyway, I need to talk to you as well. But my right leg is still tight, I don’t know how long our conversation needs, and we’re due out there in fifteen minutes.”

“Alright, then. Let’s go out there and have some fun and raise some money.”

Back in the ballroom, I signal the DJ and he clears the dance floor. We stay hand in hand by the door until the room darkens a degree and a spotlight comes to the empty hardwood. We stroll forward, take our bows, and find our starting positions.

The music starts, and she’s in my arms again, where she belongs.