Page 2

CHAPTER 2

A Good Father

KELLEN

I ’m beat after spending an extra hour lifting at the gym, carefully following the plan I developed with my strength coach. In the showers, I’m still cracking up at the visual of Atticus’s sister’s dog slipping around on the ice. The look on the dog’s face, like he was having the time of his life. That is not a sight I often see at practice.

And the woman. Lucy. She was so flustered, swearing and freaking out on the sidelines. She shares the same wild, curly red hair as her brother, but she wears it much better.

I’ve heard about Lucy from Atticus. When you’re on the road as much as we are—on the team plane, buses, in hotel rooms, out for meals and drinks—things come out. Like his sister’s split from her cheating fiancé, and the way she quit her job at DC FC because the team owner—their father—wouldn’t fire her ex.

I can relate to asshole team owners.

It’s hard not to think about Paul Harrison, the one who’s currently keeping me up at night. Who controls my future in Fort Collins with the Blizzard. FoCo is where my job is, my daughter, my friends. My home.

It’s more fun to think about Lucy. She was surprising, or at least her dog was when he darted across the ice and peed on the wall. Her cheeks were bright pink when I handed him back to her. I grin as I towel myself off. I should definitely not be thinking of my teammate’s sister as I dry my body.

I was the last one lifting, so the locker room is empty as I dress with only Coach Jackson still tucked in his office. He’s buried in his laptop and scribbling notes, probably watching last season’s game footage to discuss in a future practice.

I slip out into the hallway, planning on cutting through the arena and out to the parking lot. Cement walls with framed photos of teams and individual players from the past greet me. I’m in a bunch of those, and plan on being in a bunch more.

“Kellen,” a woman calls from behind me in the direction of the team management and administration offices.

Shit. The source of that voice might be why I’ll be left out of future photos.

I stop, take a deep breath, then turn to face the FoCo Blizzard team owner’s wife.

Savannah is sashaying up the hallway, looking beautiful as always in a form-fitting blue dress, long blonde curled hair splayed on her shoulders, red painted lips, and dark eyelashes. She’s in her late twenties—so potentially twenty-five years younger than Paul.

I got to know her a bit last season when she was first around after marrying Paul. She met him in D.C., and they had a whirlwind romance. Savannah told me Paul paid off all her law school debt, but she didn’t realize he expected her to give up her ambitions and just be a trophy wife.

I was a sounding board for her, so when I saw her at the season kickoff event earlier this month, she was catching me up.

But I should’ve learned the lesson not to befriend Savannah after Paul traded our teammate, Markus, at the end of last season. He was also friendly with her and rumor has it Paul felt threatened.

So he got rid of him.

Maybe it was just a rumor .

But that’s what I’m dealing with right now. Rumors.

I look over her shoulder before responding, checking to see if Paul is approaching from the direction of his office. But the hallway is empty. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse, because I am sure that I do not want to be alone with Savannah.

“Hey, Savannah. Where’s Paul?”

“Somewhere around here.” She shrugs and half smiles at me. “Are you still worried about that picture? If so, don’t be. I talked to him. Everything’s okay.”

“What do you mean you talked to him?” Dread creeps up my spine.

My teammate Lachlan—Canadian born but grew up in Australia and has the accent and dual citizenship to prove it—had sent me a link to the picture that started my troubles. It appeared on a hockey gossip website called NHL Tea. The defenseman loves to immerse himself in all the hockey gossip, on our team or off. He was practically giddy.

The zoomed-in cell phone picture, taken from across the room, was of me and Savannah sitting close together at one of the side bars of the venue. She had her hand on my forearm and was leaning close to my ear.

Fuck me.

I get how it looked in the picture. Bad.

But I know exactly what she was saying at that moment. She was telling me how she wants to take the bar exam for Colorado, but Paul isn’t supportive. The woman is studying behind her husband’s back, and I was trying to be encouraging and kind. It’s nuts that she has to study law in secret, like it’s something to be ashamed of.

Unfortunately, Paul holds the puppet strings on my life here.

It drives me crazy that anyone even cares about pictures of hockey players. And there was no context to the image—the entire team and administration were wandering around that place. We weren’t on some romantic date. We weren’t in private or even close to alone.

“I mean, he saw the picture somehow. But I told him we are just friends, and…” she pauses at the look on my face. This woman truly doesn’t understand the problem.

I groan. “Maybe it’d be best to not talk to him about it. And I’m really sorry, but we should keep our distance for a while.”

The picture’s been posted for about a week and seems to have stopped at that trashy website. I’m praying it doesn’t get picked up anywhere else.

But now I’m on Paul’s shit list, and that is not a place anyone wants to be. Anyone who wants to keep playing for the FoCo Blizzard, at least.

Savannah’s face crumples. I feel terrible doing this to her.

“But you’re basically the only one on the team who will talk to me anymore.” She reaches out and touches my forearm, her face soft and vulnerable.

“Sorry, Savannah.” How do I explain this to her? That a friendship with her isn’t worth it to any of us if it puts our spot on the team in danger? I gently pull my arm away. I’d be happy to be her friend under almost any other circumstances.

But not this one.

It doesn’t matter that I’m the team captain or how many goals I score. I know my spot on the team is now at risk.

I’m only in my early thirties, but they could replace me with a cheaper version. A younger one.

Savannah sighs and looks absolutely crestfallen.

“I have to get home to my daughter.” I back up a step.

It’s true. Ava is sleeping at her mother’s tonight, and Bri lives next door in one of the houses I own on my block. I’ll stop by and say goodnight when I get home. It’s less than two weeks until pre-season games start, and once the season is in full swing, I’ll be on the road all the time.

I hate being away from Ava. It’s a group effort raising any kid, but it’s even harder with a job like mine. What helps is having Bri live next door, plus we have a full-time and part-time nanny. And we’re still overwhelmed at times. That phrase about how it takes a village? It’s so true.

And with Ava’s history, what she’s been through… and therefore what Bri and I have been through? We’re all still dealing with that trauma.

“Savannah.” Paul’s tight voice pulls me out of my head. He’s now standing right behind Savannah.

Fuck.

“I’m done. Let’s go.” He sounds annoyed.

At her.

At me.

The man has never been overly friendly, but he didn’t used to glare at me. Nope. That’s new.

I raise a hand to Paul. He nods and walks past Savannah, assuming she’ll follow.

“See you around, Kellie,” Savannah whispers, which makes it worse. As does her shortening my name like the boys do, like we’re teammates or close friends.

Paul holds the door to the rink open for her and locks his eyes back onto me. It’s not a nice look. It’s cold. Calculating.

Somehow, I’ve gotten myself into trouble before the season’s even started.

But I can’t get traded.

Not with Ava’s doctors all in Denver. We’ve built a life here as a co-parenting family unit over the past five years.

I need to fix this. Convince Paul that I’m not interested in his wife.

But how?