Page 9 of Her Hat Trick Daddies (Game On Daddies #3)

Leighton

I talk to David three more times during training camp, and with each conversation, I find myself looking forward to the next just a little more. It’s more than simple curiosity or casual friendliness. There’s a pull between us. Subtle. Persistent. Undeniably charged.

Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s nothing, and I’m just spinning a story out of nothing—dreaming up tension where there isn’t any. What if it’s all one-sided? I’d never dare act on it. Not here. Not now.

But sometimes, just for a second, I catch something in his eyes—an unspoken flicker. A look that makes my pulse stutter and my thoughts spiral. Something that feels like possibility. And if things were different… maybe I’d let myself reach for it.

Still, I keep things strictly professional. Cordial. Respectful. Right up through the end of training camp.

I get a front-row seat to the Avs’ new lineup, and I have to admit, they’re looking strong. Promising, even. My fellow commentator, Wilson Puleo, and I conduct interviews with various members of the organization, including trainers, players, and coaches.

Outside of that, I make a point to schedule casual lunch meetups with other staff members.

Nothing formal—just relaxed conversations, a chance to get to know the people I’ll be working alongside.

So far, I’ve spoken to nearly everyone, and one thing’s clear: their heads are in the game.

The focus, the drive, the energy, it’s all there.

It feels good to be back in the thick of it: the momentum, the rhythm, the sense of purpose.

As much as I adore my daughter and cherish every moment with her, especially in these fleeting toddler years, there’s something powerful about showing her, firsthand, what independence and ambition look like.

I want her to see a woman who goes after what she wants, who builds something of her own, despite the curveballs life might throw at her.

After wrapping up for the day, I drive to Ava’s place—thankfully in my newly delivered leased Camry. It arrived yesterday, and I couldn’t be happier to be done with the chaos of public transportation.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull up and climb out of the car.

The moment I see my baby girl, she runs to me and I scoop her into my arms, burying my face in her neck and breathing her in.

She smells like baby lotion and sunshine, and lets out a joyful squeal as I spin her around, her laughter ringing out like the purest kind of music.

Ava and Sven watch from the doorway, smiling, while little Trevor jumps up and down next to his dad, arms raised for the same treatment. Sven chuckles and lifts him with practiced ease. Then Levi steps behind Ava, hands moving gently over her belly, rubbing slow circles into her growing bump.

For a moment, a quiet ache pulses through me. My life is full with work that inspires me and a daughter who fills every corner of my heart. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the love and warmth of a man: the touch, the presence, the simple sweetness of being held .

As if on cue, Eric wraps his arms around Ava from behind and kisses her neck. A cozy moment that only stirs more of my empty feelings.

Just a couple nights ago, during a rare girls’ night out while the guys watched the kids—really just dinner before we both admitted we were too tired for anything more—I opened up to Ava about how I’d been feeling lately.

“How are things going with you?” she asked, concern softening her features.

“Fine,” I said, even though that familiar twinge of jealousy over Ava’s situation with her guys had been nudging at me more than I cared to admit. Not out of spite. Never that. It was more of a quiet longing .

I’ve been trying to settle into the idea that it’s just Luna and me against the world, and maybe that’s how it’ll always be. And most days, I’m okay with that.

“Really?” Ava gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying it, so maybe I wasn’t hiding my real feelings as well as I thought.

“I mean… sometimes I wish I had a man in my life who isn’t related to me,” I admitted. “But it’s not like I can ever track down the three I slept with that night I got pregnant.”

“I get it,” she said gently, patting my hand. “You can always borrow one of mine if you’re desperate.”

We both laughed until tears pooled in our eyes, and the tension eased.

I smiled at her, but beneath it, the truth tugged at me: finding someone who genuinely wants to step into Luna’s life, not just mine, was going to be hard.

Really hard. And how would I even know the difference?

It’s not like guys our age are lining up, eager to play daddy to a baby that isn’t theirs.

Before my thoughts could spiral too far, I changed the subject. “I’m just so glad to be here. Luna and I… we’re going to have a hell of a time in Colorado.”

Ava went from a gentle pat to holding my wrist, her big, bright eyes sparkling under the night sky. “If this place could work its magic on someone like me? You two are golden.”

Trevor’s sweet voice jolts me back to the present. “Hi, Aunty Leigh! ”

I glance down to find him wrapped around my leg like a little koala. Smiling, I carefully lower Luna and scoop Trevor up into a big hug, giving him a squeeze that pulls a bubbly giggle from his chest.

“Thanks for being the best big brother to Luna,” I whisper in his ear.

He giggles again as I set him back down, his arms clinging to my neck for a second longer. “Go on, buddy. Mommy’s waiting.”

Waving to Ava and the guys, I gather Luna in my arms and head home, her soft weight nestled against me and my heart feeling just a little fuller.

***

The first scrimmage of the season takes place away in San Jose, CA, a face-off against the Sharks.

I’m finally back in the commentator’s seat, perched next to Wilson, mic in hand, and it’s a rush of pure adrenaline.

The energy of a pro hockey game is electric, chaotic in the best way, and there’s something extra intoxicating about watching two players I know personally tearing up the ice.

Eric and Levi are on fire tonight, and while I can’t cheer from the booth like a die-hard fan, calling their every move feels just as exhilarating .

But during the third period, the high gets ripped out from under me. A shockwave crashes through me like a slapshot to the chest, jerking me completely out of the rhythm of the game.

Coach Henley is down at the bench, giving some rapid-fire instructions I can’t quite catch. He leans over David, who casually tugs his sleeves up to stretch and rub his arms. Just ordinary movements.

But then I see it.

Tucked beneath the cuff of his glove, where no one’s supposed to see, is a flash of color—orange and blue.

I freeze. My pulse skids. No one else around me notices—I’m the only one staring, eyes narrowed, brain scrambling to process.

David moves slightly, and I see it again. Clear as day this time. A tattoo. On the inner side of his right wrist. Orange and blue ink. The exact colors. The exact placement.

My stomach turns to ice.

Because that’s exactly where Lion had his tattoo.

But… no. No, it’s impossible. David Decker wasn’t even on the Avalanche roster back then. He wasn’t at that masquerade. He couldn’t have been.

This has to be a coincidence. Right?

I try to focus. Really, I do. But my brain is fogged with disbelief, clawing for logic, for some version of the story that makes this make sense .

Maybe he knew Lion. Played with him. Partied with him. Hell, maybe they got drunk one night and got matching tattoos as some twisted inside joke. That would explain the ink, wouldn’t it?

But my gut doesn’t buy it. My instincts, those same instincts that screamed something familiar the moment I locked eyes with David during my first week with the team, are suddenly howling. That voice of his. Too familiar to look past now.

How did I not notice this during training camp? During the interviews?

Ugh.

Out on the ice, bodies crash against the boards. Sticks clatter. Skates carve angry lines in the rink. Wilson keeps the commentary flowing with the same smooth cadence that usually lives in my own throat. But right now? I can barely string a thought together, let alone a sentence.

If it’s really him…

If David Decker is the man from that night, the masked stranger who made my body forget how to say no, who held me down, caressed my hair, and whispered filth in my ear like it was scripture, then everything changes.

Everything. Including Luna. My daughter. My entire world. The baby born out of the best night of my life.

And now, maybe… maybe her father is skating twenty feet away from me in Avalanche colors, with no idea .

The nausea rises like a wave. My hand trembles around the mic. I try to steady it, try to breathe.

Get a grip, Leighton . You can’t afford to fall apart and get fired.

The camera light flashes red in the booth window. We’re live. I force a smile, though it feels paper-thin. “And it looks like we’ve got a power play situation developing. Avalanche holding strong at one-zero,” I manage, my voice scraping itself back into function.

Wilson shoots me a sideways glance, one brow raised, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows. Maybe he doesn’t. Right now, I don’t care. All I can think about is what happens next.

Because if David really is Lion, then he deserves to know. Right?

Or maybe it’s better if he never finds out.

God help me, I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.

When David is off the ice, I have to force myself to focus on what’s happening on the ice instead of sneaking glances at the bench.

But it’s damn near impossible not to gawk at the captain, my pulse spiking every time he adjusts his helmet or leans in to speak to a teammate.

I keep replaying every interaction we’ve had, every flirty remark, every sidelong glance, and wondering if he could be Lion.

His build fits. Broad, strong, commanding. Shit, I think he just might be .

There are two ways I can confirm. I either catch a glimpse of his left hip in the locker room to see if that foot-long scar is really there, or I ask him outright.

But if I open that Pandora’s box, there’s no going back.

If David Decker turns out to be Luna’s father, it changes everything. My life, her life—upended.

Then another forward catches my attention.

The left-winger. He hovers next to David like they’re attached at the hip.

Something about him feels familiar. Too familiar .

It’s the way he plants his feet wide and folds his arms like a soldier ready for battle before he finally drops down on the bench beside David.

My stomach knots. A chill slices through me.

No. No fucking way.

Could that be Wolf?

God, please no. Please let this be some stress-induced hallucination from flying with a toddler recently and surviving my brother’s farewell guilt trip. My breaths turn shallow. Too fast, too close together. I’m spiraling.

Just as I’m teetering on the edge of full-blown panic, logic claws its way back in.

That player, Shane Jacobson, is on my interview schedule for next week.

He wasn’t even on the Avalanche roster at the time of the masquerade ball.

He couldn’t have been there. I’d remember his name.

I’d remember Ava talking about him. Wouldn’t I?

But who the hell am I kidding? You didn’t have to be on the team to score an invite to that party.

Hundreds of people were there—players, staff, sponsors, the who’s who of the entire league.

It was a celebration of Coach’s birthday and a win.

Anyone with even a sliver of connection had a reason to be there.

And now… I can’t shake the feeling that he was one of them.

But David was there. And what if Shane had been with him?

Lion and Wolf.

The thought crashes into me like a glass to the head.

Maybe I’m just seeing things. The human brain loves patterns, right?

Even the absurd ones. I try to shake it off, clinging to the hope that the universe isn’t that cruel.

But I’m rattled. Badly. On a wing and a prayer, I continue commentary with Wilson, but it’s all a blur.

I’m pretty sure I’m forming actual words, but internally, I’m a hot mess.

These are just freakish coincidences, I repeat like a mantra. Until I see him .

Another man on the bench, this one wearing scrubs, either a team physician or trainer, taps a player on the elbow. The player rises and shifts down the bench toward Shane. He’s the third of the first-string forwards, the right winger.

My heart plummets.

He pulls off his jersey for some shoulder taping, and as his arm is exposed, I notice a tattoo on the outside of his bicep. I squint, trying to make it out. It’s not an image like David’s, but words. They’re faded, inked in all caps.

The camera pans across the bench, zooming in, the lens lingering just long enough for me to catch it:

ARMY br …

My heart stops. Brat. It says Army Brat. Just like the tattoo on Jester’s arm that night.

Suddenly, the room feels like it's spinning.

This isn’t a coincidence. This is confirmation. Because the chances of David Decker not being Lion, Shane Jacobson not being Wolf, and the right winger who I haven’t met yet not being Jester have evaporated like smoke in the wind.

The men who wrecked me in the best way possible that night. One of whom gave me my daughter. Our daughter.

And with that horrifying realization, I shove to my feet with time remaining in the game, knocking over my headset. Vaguely, I hear someone shouting my name. It’s probably Wilson, but I don’t care. I’m underwater. My whole world has been tilted on its axis, and no one else even knows.

Except me. And now, I can’t un-know it.