Page 7

Chapter Seven

Jackson

The sound of my bedroom door opening stirs me awake, followed by soft footsteps. I lift my head, blinking my sleepy eyes into focus to see Ryan heading toward me.

“Dad?” he whispers. “Can I get into your bed?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “Course you can, bud.”

I lift the duvet, allowing him to climb in and lie down next to me. Then, I crane my neck to look at the time on the alarm clock. 3:25 a.m.

We had a home game last night, and luckily, today is our day off. There’s no practice or video sessions, and I don’t need to think about anything hockey related until tomorrow morning. Though, I’ll still do a workout in my home gym while the kids watch a movie. I set up a TV and couch in the gym purely so they could still be with me while I get in my cardio, but other than that, I plan on doing nothing except spending the day with my kids.

“You okay?” I quietly ask him after a beat.

“Yeah, just a bad dream,” he whispers back .

“Wanna hug it out?”

I can feel his nod against the pillow more than I can see it, so I open my arms, and he curls into me.

It’s not unusual for one or both of them to end up in my bed at some point during the night, but sometimes Ryan has nightmares. They are more frequent at the start of the school year, and again when the regular season starts. He hasn’t elaborated on what happens in these dreams, but it’s another arrow in my wing that I’m failing them. I can’t fight them off for him, but I can give him a safe space to come to when they wake him up.

Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, I allow my eyes to fall closed again when he relaxes. “It was just a dream. I’ve got you.”

“I know.” A moment of silence passes before he says, “I love you, Dad.”

My heart squeezes in my chest, and the back of my eyelids burn at those three words. There will soon come a day where I won’t get to hear those words from him. He’ll be too cool to tell his old man he loves him, so I cherish every single one.

“I love you too. Get some sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Between me falling back to sleep and waking up all bleary-eyed, Isabela has joined me and Ryan. Her little arm rests against my throat, and her hand cups my chin. A small smile creeps onto my face. At least she didn’t knee me in the balls this time.

I carefully move her arm, tucking it under the duvet, and then I climb out of bed like a ninja so as not to wake them up. I throw on a T-shirt and head downstairs, making myself a coffee and opening the kitchen window to let in some air. After fifteen minutes, there’s still no sign of the kids. I head back up with my coffee in hand and stop in the doorframe at the sight. Ryan’s curled himself around my pillow, and Isabela has slipped one hand under his while clutching her stuffed elephant with the other. It’s these moments that mean everything to me. There’s no outside world getting in the way. It’s just me and my kids and hours of uninterrupted time together.

I know I could have this all the time if I retired, but I’m not sure I’m ready to give up hockey yet. Sure, I get paid a pretty penny for my job, so much so I’ve got both their college tuitions stashed away in a bank account, along with money to buy them a car and a down payment for a house. And I’ve still got enough to see me through for the rest of my life.

Does it make me selfish for not wanting to give up hockey so I can be more present in my kids’ lives? Maybe. But I’m trying to convince myself that it’s not selfish because I’m setting them up to have everything they could ever need or want. And hopefully, they will be proud of me too.

Rounding the bed, I quietly place my mug on the night table. I slip back under the covers next to Isabela and place my hand on the top of Ryan’s head, stroking the soft blond strands. He wanted to start growing his hair at the start of the year because Elliot decided to grow his. He thinks our goalie is one of the coolest guys ever, cooler than me by a long shot. It creates a warmth inside me that spreads throughout my body that my kids adore my teammates just as much as they adore my kids.

We had it good in Buffalo, but it wasn’t until I came to Chicago that I truly felt part of a family. We’re more than teammates. We’re a band of brothers who love and care and always have each other’s backs. They’ve taken us in and made us feel more welcome than any other team I’ve played for.

Except for maybe Boston, but it was more one person who made me feel like I was home rather than the whole team.

Deciding to make the most of this relaxed, peaceful morning, I pick up my book with my free hand, balancing it in my lap while I sip on my coffee. I manage to get through four chapters before they both stir awake. I close my book and put it aside.

“Finally!” I fake-cry, playing into the dramatics that ends up making them laugh. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. I thought I was gonna have to spend the day on my own.”

“You silly, Daddy,” Isabela giggles around a yawn.

“I was close to calling a friend to help me out.”

“Who’s that?” Ryan asks innocently.

“The tickle monster!” I hold both hands up, splaying my fingers wide and tickling them both around the ribs. They burst into fits of giggles, and by the time I let up, my cheeks ache from my own wide grin.

“So what do you wanna do today?” I ask, settling back against the headboard.

“Let’s make a cake!” Isabela shouts excitedly. “Lots of cupcakes. With sprinkles.”

I laugh. “I mean, we can try. I don’t know how well it’ll turn out.”

“It’ll be fun!” Ryan chirps. “Can I do the eggs?”

“And me!” Isabela insists.

I don’t think giving an egg to a four-year-old to break is the best idea, but what’s a bit of mess in the name of having fun?

“Sure. Okay. We’ll need to go to the store first and get all the ingredients. But…” I trail off, grinning. “We do have ingredients to make blueberry pancakes. Who wants blueberry pancakes for breakfast?”

“Me!” they both shout in unison, then race each other down the stairs.

The kids help me with the pancake mix, and by helping, I mean throwing the blueberries and flour into the bowl with a flourish. Once we’ve eaten, washed, and dressed, we head to the store to pick up the cupcake ingredients with the help of a quick text from Jacob.

Jacob

Oh, wow! Good job for not going for a box mix, I’m proud of you ;)

Okay so, you’ll need unsalted butter, eggs, flour, sugar, baking powder, and vanilla extract. For the frosting, you’ll need the same butter as the sponge mix, but also confectionary sugar. Call me if you get stuck and I can talk you through it. Good luck! Send me pics!

Ah, the perks of being friends with a bakery owner.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask them once we get home. I’ve just finished measuring everything out and placing them in individual bowls.

“They’re gonna be so awesome, Dad.” Ryan beams up at me.

I love how much confidence he has in me .

“Let’s hope so, bud. So, first, we need to put in the butter and sugar.”

I hand them a bowl each to pour into the main mixing bowl, and my phone vibrates on the counter with a new text message. I pick it up, and my chest does a weird spasm when I see Hayden’s name on the screen.

“Who’s that, Daddy?” Isabela asks, stretching where she’s standing on the chair to look at my phone.

“One of my friends. Hayden. We played hockey together a long time ago.”

The word tastes bitter on my tongue. I’ve never referred to Hayden as a friend. Even years ago, when we were hiding our relationship, I never once called him my “friend.” It was always teammate or linemate because for some reason, those words didn’t feel as devaluing to our relationship as friend .

I check the time and see it’s 9:00 a.m. in LA, meaning it’ll be one of his morning photos.

Every morning, he sends photos of his view of the ocean from his back porch and tells me to have a good day, along with a random fact about jellyfish. I don’t know where this interest in jellyfish has come from because I can’t recall him ever being interested in them while we were together.

He’s also started to randomly send me a coffee and some variation of baked goods for the kids via DoorDash. Because they don’t know him, they call him the cake fairy, and their sheer excitement every time there’s a knock at the door tugs on my heart more than I’d like to admit.

I hold my breath as I click on the message and open the text thread.

Hayden

Good morning. Did you know the Turritopsis dohrnii jellyfish is immortal? Spooky! Hope you have a good day off with the kids.

“Wow! He lives on the beach?” Ryan asks, peering over my other side.

Sure enough, it’s another photo from his back porch that steps out onto a stretch of golden sand. In the distance, surfers ride the waves, and the water glistens in the sun. A cup of coffee sits on a table next to a black leather book and a pen resting on top. It’s in every shot he sends, and I’m curious to know what it is. Is it his notebook for work? Maybe a journal?

I can’t help but snort at the thought.

Hayden wouldn’t keep a journal. He didn’t do deep thoughts and feelings except when he was in that post-orgasmic daze, high on the endorphins. But since we met up for coffee at Rafe’s in Boston the other week, I haven’t been able to get him off my mind. There was a vulnerability to him that he was trying hard to hide, but I knew his tells, even after all this time. I could sense there was something he wasn’t telling me. The real reason why he wanted to be back in each other’s lives now. I wanted to know so bad, but I didn’t want to push.

It also means I’ve been on a wild roller coaster with my emotions, flicking between feeling touched that he’s thinking of me and my kids to being angry that he thinks he can just waltz back into my life like nothing happened. That he didn’t break my heart in such a devastating way.

I have whiplash from my own damn feelings, and I don’t know what to do about it .

“Can we go to the beach?” Isabela asks.

“No,” I say, locking my phone and placing it on the side. I’ll respond to him later. “We’re making a cake. Now, where were we at?”

We follow the recipe Jacob sent us step by step. Ryan carefully cracks the first egg, handling it with such care that no shell ends up in the mixture, but when it’s Isabela’s turn to crack the second one, she slams it onto the edge of the bowl. Pieces of eggshell go flying, sticking to the wall and the countertop, and the egg drips down the side of the bowl.

She holds her egg-yolk-covered hand up with a crinkle of her nose. “Eww, Daddy. Gross.”

A rumble of laughter escapes me. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be giving eggs to a four-year-old. Lesson learned.

“You didn’t need to hit it so hard,” I say, wiping her hand with the dish towel. “Just a gentle tap.”

I pick the broken pieces of eggshell out of the mixture and put in another egg, showing her how to break it. Not that she’ll remember, but I try to involve them as much as possible when I’m in the kitchen.

When it’s safe, obviously.

Once I’ve checked that everything is in the bowl, I slide it under the stand mixer and push down on the attachment. I switch it on, but I must hit the wrong speed because flour flies out of the bowl.

“Daddy!” Isabela shrieks.

I quickly switch it off, and when I glance down, all three of us are covered in flour, along with the wall and the counter.

“I think you went too fast,” Ryan laughs, shaking his head like a dog and creating a flour cloud .

“You know, I think you’re right.” I rub my face, which only makes it worse and causes them to laugh harder.

Picking up my phone, I take a quick selfie of us and the destruction in my kitchen, then grab a cloth from the sink. I make quick work of cleaning up the kids, the counter and myself, then top up the bowl with more flour. I tense when I turn the mixer on at a slower speed this time, waiting for the floursplosion, and I sigh in relief when it doesn’t come.

“Well done, Dad.” Ryan pats my shoulder. “You did your best.”

My mouth drops open. “Did you just pet me like a dog?”

He laughs, and Isabela lets out a loud “woof!” causing all three of us to burst into laughter.

These two fucking kill me.

I slide the cakes into the oven and set a timer for twenty minutes, then head into the living room to join the kids once I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen. I slump onto the couch next to them and kick my feet up on the cushion of the sectional. Their attention is fixed on the TV, where our favorite show, Bluey , is playing. I snap a photo, making sure neither of the kids’ faces are visible, and upload it onto my Instagram stories with the caption, Watching Bluey with these two is my favorite part of my morning.

Then I open up the text thread with Hayden and send him the photo of the flourstrophe. I don’t know if he would be interested in this, but he said he wanted to be friends and get to know each other again, and my kids are a big part of my life. I don’t have to wait long, though, because his reply is instant.

Hayden

Wow… That’s… I’ve gotta say, it’s a good thing you’re good at hockey. Not sure you’ve quite mastered the baking thing.

My kid praised me like I was a dog when I managed to put the mixer on the right speed.

Hayden

It doesn’t come as a surprise to hear your kids sound incredible. Just like their dad.

Something goes weird in my chest at his words. What would happen if I opened the door and let him come into my life again? Would it be different? We’re older now. Both of us are in different stages of our lives, experienced things that have matured us.

But what if it wouldn’t be different? They say a leopard doesn’t change its spots, after all.

I glance over to Ryan and Isabela. It’s not something I can think about. They rely on me, now more than ever, and I can’t risk losing myself again like I did once before, no matter how much my heart is being pulled in Hayden’s direction.