Page 17 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie (Second Chance Hockey Players #2)

Chapter twelve

Blake

H aving Whitney around as the kids’ nanny has been amazing. I’m left surprised every day. I’ve never seen my kids so free, so instantly accepting of someone who isn’t me or my mom. It took them months to warm up to some of my closest friends, yet with Whitney, it was like they’d known her forever.

Five days. That’s all it’s been. And already, they adore her.

I see it in the way they light up around her, how they hang on to every word she says, how they run to her first when something exciting happens.

And she adores them too.

She takes them along when she goes out for her videos, and every time they come back, they’re practically wide-eyed and vibrating with excitement.

They can’t wait to tell me everything - who they met, talked to, what they saw, what they did, and the entire funny thing Whitney did.

Somehow - somehow - she’s managed to slightly pull them out of their social shells.

Mia especially can’t stop talking about how cool Whitney is.

I’ve never seen them this free and happy.

And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make something in my chest tighten each time. I lean back against the couch, rubbing a hand over my face, letting out a long sigh. Tomorrow, we leave for Ohio to play against the Columbus Steelhawks.

Another away game. Another few days without the kids.

Honestly, I hate being away from them. Always have, ever since I became a father. But it’s part of the job. Part of being a pro athlete. It’s the sacrifice that comes with chasing something bigger. And for the most part, I’ve made my peace with it.

Except this time, it’s different. Because for the first time, since they were born, I don’t feel guilty or sad about leaving them behind.

They have her looking after them.

I glance at the clock on the wall. 8:35 pm. A soft sound pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up as Whitney walks in, heading straight for the kitchen. Her hair is in a messy bun, her oversized hoodie swallows her frame, and she looks - tired.

She grabs a glass from the cabinet, fills it with water, and takes a sip before finally looking my way.

“Hey!”

“Hey!!”

“What are you doing here all alone?” She asks, walking over, and settling into the armchair across from me. “Everything okay?”

“I’m okay. Have the kids gone to bed and sleeping?”

She nods, running a hand over her forehead. “Yeah. Completely knocked out.” She lets out a soft chuckle. “We had a long day. I should probably be asleep too. I’ve got to wake up to work later tonight.”

“Oh.” I smirk. “You wore them out today.”

She snorts, setting her glass down on the counter. “Me? Please. They wore me out. Every time, I don’t know where they get all that energy from.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Tell me about it.”

She sighs dramatically, rolling her shoulders as if trying to work out the exhaustion. Then she takes another sip of water, her throat moving as she swallows.

Silence stretches between us - not awkward, just…, lingering.

I find myself watching her. The way she licks her lips absentmindedly, the way a stray strand of hair falls into her face and she tucks it behind her ear. The way her fingers tap against the glass, slow and rhythmic, like she is lost in thought.

The hoodie she is wearing is mine - one I haven’t seen in years. I don’t even know how she still has it, but there it is, swallowing her small frame, the sleeves hanging past her wrists. A weird mix of nostalgia and something else settles in my chest.

She exhales, tilting her head slightly before meeting my gaze. “What?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring. “Nothing.”

She raises a brow, unconvinced, but lets it go. “Uh-huh.”

I shift slightly. “Um…, I just want to say, thanks for doing this again.”

She quirks a brow. “Well, I’m not doing it for free.”

A short laugh escapes me. “Still. They’ve been happier since you came.”

Her expression softens. “They’re amazing kids, Blake. Smart. Kind. Funny. You’ve done a really good job with them.”

I exhale, letting her words settle.

It’s not the first time someone has told me that. But for some reason, hearing it from her hits differently.

I scratch the back of my neck. “You know I leave for Ohio tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “The kids are gonna miss you.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. I’ll miss them too.”

Her lips part like she’s about to say something else, but then her eyes widen. “Oh! Before I forget…”

She stands and practically sprints toward the hallway.

I frown, watching her disappear. “Uh… okay?”

Seconds later, she’s back, something tucked behind her back. She stops in front of me, hesitating for a beat before pulling out a handmade card.

“They made this for you,” she says, handing it over.

I take it carefully, unfolding it.

The first thing I see is a crayon drawing of me in goal, pads on, stick in hand, then cut-out pictures of me in my hockey uniform and on the ice, surrounded by little hearts drawn in crayon. Scrawled across the top in messy, bold, colorful strokes: Good luck, Daddy .

There are little hearts around it - Mia’s touch, definitely - and right at the bottom, in neat, adult handwriting, are the words:

Good luck, Blake. We’re rooting for you.

I inhale sharply, fingers gripping the edges of the paper.

A mix of emotions crashes into me - warmth, nostalgia, something deeper that I can’t quite name. I stare at the words, feeling the weight of them, the meaning behind them.

“Don’t even think about crying,” she teases, folding her arms. “Because I will go get you a bucket right now.”

I huff out a quiet laugh, running my thumb over the paper. “This is…,” I shake my head. “This is really sweet. Thank you.”

She shrugs. “Don’t thank me. It was their idea.”

I look up at her. Her expression is unreadable.

I place the card on the coffee table and push to my feet, stretching my arms. Then, smirking, I hold them out. “All right, bring it in.”

She squints at me. “Bring what in?”

Gesturing at my open arms, “Come here.”

Her nose scrunches. “I’m good. A thank you is enough.”

I tsk, grabbing her wrist to pull her up. “Don’t reject a thank-you hug. It’s hurtful.”

She snorts. “Says who?”

“Me.”

Before she can protest, I pull her in.

She stiffens at first, her hands awkwardly hovering at my sides, but after a moment, she relaxes.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something settle in me.

I close my eyes briefly, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and her shampoo - something light and sweet, but not overpowering. It’s been years since I’ve held her like this, but darn if my body doesn’t remember the way she used to fit against me.

I tighten my hold, just slightly. “Few more minutes,” I murmur. “Let me hold you for a few more minutes.”

Her breath hitches, and I feel her muscles tense again - but she doesn’t pull away.

And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

She lets out a slow breath.

And then, just as slowly, she pulls away.

We stare at each other.

One second.

Two.

Three.

She clears her throat, looking anywhere but at me. “It’s late. I’m going to bed. You should too - you have an early start tomorrow.”

I nod, even though my feet feel rooted in place.

She turns, heading for the hallway - but just before disappearing into her room, she stops.

Without looking back, she mutters, “I wonder whose fault that was.”

Then she’s gone.

I exhale, running a hand down my face.

I know exactly whose fault it was.

Mine.

And as much as I regret the way things ended, I can’t bring myself to regret the two little miracles that came out of it.

I exhale, picking up the card again, running my fingers over their messy handwriting and her neat script, before finally calling it a night.

****

The referee drops the puck, and the battle begins. The arena erupts, the energy electric, the roar of the Columbus and Avalanche fans deafening.

Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

Here we go.

The Columbus Steelhawks come out aggressively. They win the faceoff, pushing straight into our zone, passing fast, crisp, clean. I track the puck, shifting low, my knees bent, my glove hand steady.

Johansson, their captain, takes possession. He cuts left, then right, faking a shot before flicking the puck back to their winger. A slapshot flies toward me - hard, fast, deadly.

I react. Drop low. Pads together.

Thud. The puck smacks into my left pad, bouncing loose.

The rebound is dangerous. Steelhawks center, Eriksson, charges in, his stick swinging. He tries to bury it, but I kick out my leg - a desperate stretch.

I get a pad on it - save!

The Steelhawks crowd groans.

Tomas scoops up the puck and starts the breakout, skating up the ice. Logan picks it up near the center, tapping it back to Tomas. He weaves past a Steelhawks player before passing to Adam on the wing. Adam takes off, fast and aggressive, dodging a hit before dumping the puck into the corner.

Liam is already there, battling for possession along the boards. A Steelhawks defender slams into him, pinning him, but Liam digs the puck out and flicks it back to Paul at the blue line.

Paul winds up. Shoots.

The Columbus goalie reacts fast, blocking it with his pad. The puck rebounds, bouncing right in front of the net.

James sees it first. He lunges forward and - whap! - Slaps it in!

Goal!

The Avalanche bench erupts, and the scoreboard lights up.

1–0.

The Steelhawks don’t take it lightly. They come back hard, pressing into our zone with everything they’ve got. I stay low, tracking the puck, watching their forwards shift and position.

Then it happens.

A Columbus forward sneaks to the crease, waiting. Their defenseman, Grant, winds up for a slap shot from the blue line.

Crack!