Page 5 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

FOUR

DEVAN

Now

T he scent of buffalo dip permeates the room ahead of me, heralding my arrival before I'm even halfway into Ridley and Brea's penthouse, followed by the smooth hum of Brea's voice crooning through the built-in speakers.

Her latest album, acoustic version, of course, is sliding like silk over the laughter and clinking glasses.

It's warm, lived-in, and buzzing with preseason energy.

Home, if home came with skyline views and ridiculously good soundproofing.

The floor-to-ceiling windows frame Seattle's twinkling lights like they're putting on a private show just for us, the Space Needle gleaming in the distance against the indigo twilight.

I set my tray down on the buffet and call out, "Nobody touches the dip until everyone has arrived.

You greedy assholes will consume it all before I leave this table.

" I spent two hours perfecting this recipe, extra cheese, double the hot sauce, and that secret ingredient my mama swore by that I'll take to my grave.

"Noted," Charlie Fox, our Conditioning Coach mutters from the couch, already eyeing it like it owes him money. His fingers are literally twitching, and I swear he's calculating how fast he could grab a scoop before I notice.

I laugh and keep moving through the crowd, bumping fists with teammates and exchanging quick hugs.

My job here, aside from being the reigning MVP of Team Spirit, is to make sure everyone's good.

The snacks are flowing, the music is perfect, and nobody's drinking enough to make tomorrow's skate a nightmare.

Vibes immaculate. It's the first day of training camp, and we've got almost the entire team here to kick off the new season.

New faces, new possibilities, the electric anticipation of what could be another year to grab the cup.

Yeah, some old regrets too. Regrets I'm having to face for the first time in eight years, standing in the same room, breathing the same air. My stomach knots every time I think about it.

I try not to glance at the door for the fifth time in three minutes, but my eyes betray me anyway. I check my watch, then my phone. Nothing.

"Dev!"

Alexis waves me over, one arm looped through Tor's, who's holding their baby boy, Kodah, protectively to his chest. In her other hand she's holding a copy of her newest book.

Or rather, Jaz Starr's newest book. The cover is all swords and swooning, exactly what my podcast listeners live for.

Yep, I'm a sucker for all things Jaz Starr.

"Finally," I say, pulling her into a hug, catching the scent of her signature vanilla perfume. "Tell me you're coming on Smutty Pages and Puck Dreams. My listeners will riot if I don't get the behind-the-scenes scoop on how you made our captain blush through that whole third chapter."

"For you?" she grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'll even bring props."

Tor groans, rolling his eyes like he's already embarrassed. "She means a blow-up sword."

"I mean a blow-up sword," she confirms, proud as hell and not even trying to hide it.

I snort, watching them lean into each other like they're each other's gravity. "You two are disgustingly perfect."

"And you're deflecting," she sing-songs, seeing right through me like always. "Stop pretending you're not watching the door like it's the last minute of overtime."

I flash her a sheepish smile but say nothing. Because yeah, of course I'm watching the damn door. My heart's doing that thing where it can't decide between racing and stopping altogether.

Then it opens, and just like that, I forget how to breathe. There she is. The woman who had my heart for so long, it only beats for her. Or so I thought.

Lia.

Hair styled in pin-up perfection, dark waves cascading over one shoulder.

Red gingham crop top that shows off her tattoo of a threaded needle weaving down her left arm.

Jeans that hug every curve I already know by heart, paired with those vintage cherry-red heels she loves.

Glasses perched on her nose, the black frames making her blue eyes shine even brighter under the pendant lights.

She's a walking contradiction, soft and sharp, vintage and modern, familiar and somehow always new.

Tucked against her chest in a soft floral wrap. . .our daughter.

Chloe. My sweet little munchkin.

Almost three months old and already the ruler of my universe. Dark curls like mine, wispy and perfect against her light brown skin. Sleepy face with those long eyelashes that flutter when she dreams. One sock already MIA like always, her tiny toes peeking out from beneath the wrap.

I cross the room, hating the separation. I should be arriving with the two of them tucked protectively under my arm. I shouldn't be rushing toward her like a spectator to the life I want, like I'm begging for scraps of my own family.

"Hey, Li-Li." I press a kiss to Chloe's head, inhaling that perfect baby smell, powder and warmth and something uniquely her. "You're both late."

"Traffic," Lia says simply, but her voice is tight around the edges. She's scanning the room like she's calculating exits, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the baby wrap. I recognize that look, she's feeling overwhelmed, trapped between wanting to be here and wanting to retreat.

"You look. . ." I almost say like magic, but I know better. I've learned which compliments make her walls go up. "Beautiful."

She smirks, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't get mushy. You'll scare the baby."

The moment she hands Chloe over, everything else fades.

The party, the music, the tension, all of it recedes like the tide.

Holding her centers me. This little girl made of softness and surprise and everything I never knew I needed.

I was a goner from the first second I saw her, all seven pounds and four ounces, screaming her way into the world while I sobbed like I'd been broken open and put back together.

Glitzy still isn't thrilled about sharing her dad, but I've got time to fix that.

My enormous cat will come around eventually.

What I don't have is time to waste pretending I'm not in love with her mama. That I don't want more than every-other-night cuddles and polite texts about diaper brands and pediatrician appointments. That I don't dream about waking up with both of them under my roof, permanently.

I glance back at Lia, already deep in conversation with Brea, their heads bent together like they're sharing secrets.

The two of them look like opposite ends of the same storm.

Brea, settled and radiant, her hand casually resting on Ridley's arm whenever he passes.

Lia, gorgeous and guarded, maintaining that careful distance she keeps with everyone.

She doesn't want to end up like Brea did all those years ago, torn between love and her own damn life. I get it. I do. That truth still doesn't make it suck less when I drop Chloe off and drive home alone to an empty penthouse.

I don't want her to give anything up. I never asked for that. Her independence, her business, her dreams, they're what make her Lia.

I just want a seat at the table. A real one. Not just the father of her child, but her partner. Her person.

I kiss Chloe's head again and whisper as she coos, "We're figuring this out, Munchkin. Promise." Her tiny hand grips my finger with surprising strength, like she's trying to anchor me to the moment.

Then the door opens again.

Tobias.

I freeze my rocking of Chloe, my entire body going still like I've been caught in a spotlight.

Jamie's with him, they're laughing, and it hits me like a punch. Same jawline. Same walk. Same stormy hazel eyes that used to look at me like I was the axis his world spun on.

He looks broader now, muscle more defined, but still Toby.

The Texas drawl I remember is softer but still there as he greets Coach Lennox.

Still so goddamn familiar that I feel the past crash over me like ice water.

The late nights studying plays, secret touches under dining hall tables, whispered promises we were both too young to keep.

I don't even remember Ridley taking his niece from me for cuddles, but suddenly my arms are empty and my hands don't know what to do with themselves.

I can't stop staring.

I know I just saw him at practice today.

I can’t help but recall the last time I laid eyes on him before he walked through Lia’s door like a wrecking ball, crumbling all my carefully crafted emotional walls.

I was walking away without saying goodbye.

Leaving him to wake up alone in our dorm room like I hadn't just kissed him like he was everything.

Like he hadn't given his body to me over and over again.

Like he wasn't the first man I ever loved, the first person who made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

He glances around, taking in the room, and for the briefest moment, just one, our eyes lock. Everything comes rushing back, his laugh, his hands, the way he used to read my hockey plays before I even made them. The way he knew me.

I walked away. I convinced myself it wouldn't work. I was radio fucking silent for eight years. I deserve his cold shoulder, no matter how deep the brush off felt when I suggested we talk.

I tear my gaze away before I drown in memories I have no right to revisit.

Suddenly, I'm too aware of everything. The temperature of the room.

The bass line thrumming beneath Brea's chorus.

Lia in the corner, chatting with Brea and Alexis, her hands animated as she describes something about a client's wedding dress design.

My baby girl in her uncle's arms, while Tor rocks Kodah beside him, both babies oblivious to the complicated web of adults around them.

Tobias is now mingling with Jamie and a few of the guys, his smile easy but not quite reaching his eyes.

I'm all too aware of the way I'm standing here with both people I once loved—or still love—circling the same damn room like planets avoiding collision.

I've got the mother of my child talking about fabrics and fittings with everyone except me. I've got the man I left behind acting like a stranger. I've got a daughter I'd die for but don't get to see every morning.

I've got a party full of my teammates, my friends, my people.

I've never felt more alone.

So yeah, the buffalo dip's hot, and my playlist is flawless.

The beer's cold and the jokes are flowing.

Somewhere inside me though, I'm still just hoping tonight, somehow, something finally gives, because I'm tired of waiting on love like it's something I have to earn.

Tired of pretending I don't already know who I want it with.

Tired of being the joker, the hype-man, when what I really want is to be someone's choice.