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LIAM

If I were the type of guy who kept a journal, I wouldn’t be able to write today’s entry because my arm is asleep and hurts worse than stepping on a Lego brick—a new frontier of agony that I recently experienced.

In this house, enter at your own risk. Lesson learned. It’s shoes on all the time now.

Having slept on the floor for the thirteenth night in a row, I shouldn’t be surprised if I develop a full-body cramp or find a kid’s toy lodged somewhere indecent. Can’t afford that. Not today. After two weeks in the proverbial penalty box, I’m back on the ice.

I should be more excited. Truth is, I’m exhausted. I roll onto my back, trying to shake out the numbness in my arm which feels like I’m being stabbed with a thousand cold, tiny needles.

January in Nebraska is no joke and I’m wondering if the heating system in my new place is busted.

Last month, I moved into The Old Mill to be closer to the Ice Palace rather than commuting from Omaha. It’s a factory building in Cobbiton converted into an indoor shopping space on the lower floors, offices and studios for artisans on the middle level, and four massive lofts on the upper level.

I shiver and the hairs on the back of my neck lift. I sense someone staring at me. Well, not just anyone. Risking a glance, I look up at the bed across the room. Yup. He’s already awake, as usual, looking at me with wide blue-gray eyes.

I’m not keen on acknowledging that they’re the exact color of mine, but the resemblance is undeniable. But that’s where it ends. Whereas I’m almost six and a half feet tall, he’s pint-sized.

“Morning, kid.”

He blinks at me.

“We made it through another night,” I mutter.

Thumb in his mouth, he watches me as I sit up and give my arm a hard shake.

He seems to shrink into his covers but still watches my every move.

Going to be real. It’s unsettling.

The kid doesn’t speak but has full-on meltdowns if I leave the room at bedtime. After a few sleepless nights, I tried everything. Standing in the doorway until he dozed off—turns out the floor squeaks. Sat in a chair inside the room—my footsteps must’ve tipped him off even though I tried to be stealthy.

Totally exhausted one night, I fell asleep slouched against the wall. It inadvertently worked like a charm, and the kid finally calmed down and slept.

I’m going to figure out a solution and it’s not getting an air mattress. I’m a grown man with a king-sized bed in the master bedroom and I intend to sleep in it.

Seriously, I will.

First, we need to get our bearings. The best way I know to do that is on the ice, which will finally again happen today. However, this may present a new problem. I’ve been keeping my newfound fatherhood situation on the hush.

Arm still aching with pins and needles, I continue to flap it, elbow jutted out.

The kid’s lips widen around his thumb and it falls out as the corners of his lips lift ever so slightly. I’ve yet to see him smile. Then again, I’ve been told I have a resting grump face.

The puck doesn’t fall far from the stick … or something.

On my feet now, I flap my arm, desperate for it to wake up. I’m no use running defense with only one functional limb.

The kid gets to his feet and mimics me but flaps both arms. I know next to nothing about children except that I once was one long, long ago, in a lifetime far, far away.

Is he mocking me?

In a swift motion, I scowl and flap my arm more forcefully than I would to one of the guys in the locker room.

The kid’s face falls and his eyes widen with alarm.

Wrong move, Ellis .

Maybe doing the chicken dance was fun for him. I’ll do just about anything to keep him from crying.

“No, no, no. We’ll flap, flap all morning. This rooster will make us breakfast and get ready.” As he watches me flap my arms once again, his expression clears and he copies me.

I release my breath, relieved that we’re not going to re-experience the first few days of him living here. It was traumatizing—for both of us.

The truth is I don’t know what I’m doing. In fact, I don’t know where this child came from. I mean, I know that part, but when he showed up on my doorstep, I had no idea what to do.

Still haven’t figured it out.

I’ve been trying to remain normal, which means keeping the surprise addition to my household from my team, coach, family, and everyone except my lawyer until we get our footing. Or our strutting like a pair of poultry, as the case may be, this morning.

I make eggs and steak for breakfast. Meal of men and champions … not chickens.

Finally, out of a two-week penalty box, I’ll need strength and fortitude.

My brother Hendrix says I’m chasing an elusive hockey high. That it’s never enough. No stat is good enough. No award. No accolade.

My answer: I’ll let him know when I get there. I’m so close. Or I was.

He wouldn’t understand, but I have my reasons for going as hard as I do.

A heavy sigh escapes from deep in my chest.

I take the eggs off the skillet and pull the steak from the grill, serving both of us.

Some of the other guys on the team have home chefs or meal delivery. They say I should too. I don’t keep a suggestion box nor did I send out a survey. How I do things is fine.

Bringing more people into my life leads to more complications.

More debt to pay.

At first, the kid just picked at his food. In contrast, I have a big appetite in the morning, and like everything else, he’s started copying me.

Except for the crying. I don’t do that. Ever.

After cleaning up, I say, “Kid, brush your teeth and get ready to visit Mrs. Kirby.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Remember her? She’s the one with the dog.”

He stares at me in reply.

I show him to the bathroom and then rush to mine because recent experience has proven that if I don’t shower and get ready fast, I’ll find the contents of the foaming hand soap pump bottle in the toilet—wouldn’t put it back in the container even if I could. Or the hallway wall redecorated with marker—yeah, the permanent kind. Yesterday, I turned my back for two seconds—okay, it was more like two minutes—and then noticed it was quiet. Too quiet. A trail of what could’ve been mistaken for raccoon footprints dipped in shaving cream led me to where he’d coated the window with the stuff and was drawing circles in it. Guess he couldn’t keep his finger off the dispense button once he got it working.

Gone are the days of taking luxuriously long showers before and after practice. My thoughts scramble because I can’t let myself think about how my game schedule is going to work with the kid.

With the bathroom door cracked open, after I shut off the water, something slams.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I hurry to the hall, only to find the kid where I left him, standing in the bathroom, his hands by his sides, nothing out of place. Quickly assessing the rest of the loft, I figure I must’ve been mistaken.

I seriously need to sleep better. Now I’m hearing things.

This also means he didn’t brush his teeth or get ready like I asked. When do children learn these skills?

Pressing my lips together, I race back to my room, throw on some clothes, run a comb through my hair, and grab my toothbrush.

For what seems like the hundredth time, I show him how to put on the paste and then what to do once it’s in his mouth.

He came potty trained, so I figured he’d know how to do this too. Then again, he also came with a pet hermit crab and a ratty plastic bag of clothing, so go figure.

When I start brushing my teeth, he’s still frozen. I repeat the directions, showing him, but he doesn’t budge. Looks like it’s going to be one of those days. So far, we’re seventeen out of twenty-two. At this rate, I’m not going to win the Father of the Year award.

Letting out a huff, I take the toothbrush and clean his teeth for him, saying, “You’re going to have to learn how to do this yourself at some point. Even chickens know how to brush their teeth.”

He remains impassive … I can’t read this kid, not like my brother, who I know like a book. He’d challenge me and say something like, Chickens don’t have teeth, genius .

Who am I fooling? I know next to nothing about barnyard animals or fatherhood.

Get it together, Ellis.

After an agonizing ten minutes of morning preparation, we’re out the door and downstairs. I knock on the glass door to Mrs. Kirby’s Sewing & Alterations studio. Her Maltese yaps.

To the kid, I say, “Listen, don’t paint his fur with lipstick again. Mind your manners. Be good. Got it?”

He just looks from me to the door to me again.

I’m like seventy-five percent sure I can trust Mrs. Kirby, an older widow, not to blab about my situation. She thinks I’m a handyman and not a professional hockey player because I once fixed a shelf for her.

She opens the door and says, “You’re five minutes late.”

Also, she’s what my mother would call persnickety, but stuff like that doesn’t penetrate my ironclad exterior.

My response: a grunt.

But she’s right, which means if I even hit one traffic light, I’m going to be late to practice after being in the sin bin for two weeks. Let’s just say there was an incident.

I say, “I’ll be back by four.”

“And not a minute after. I have to get home to make Elizabeth her supper.”

The Maltese yaps as if that’s the magic word.

Mrs. Kirby passes me a piece of paper. “This is the bill to reimburse me for Elizabeth’s grooming. Darlene said it was a lot of work getting the lipstick out of her fur.”

I pull out my wallet and pass her the cash.

Mrs. Kirby keeps her hand out and I realize she wants payment for babysitting up front.

I slap a large bill into her palm. “I’ll give you the rest when I pick him up.”

“At four,” she repeats.

“At four,” I confirm.

Patting the kid on the head, I make my getaway. I rush down the hall, take the stairs, which will be quicker than the elevator, and race through the parking garage.

For the next few hours, I have my life back.