Page 9 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie (Second Chance Hockey Players #2)

Chapter seven

Whitney

T he wind rushes past me, cool but gentle, threading through my hair, lifting a few strands before letting them fall. I don’t move to tuck them away. Instead, I stand still, arms loosely wrapped around myself, staring out at the golden horizon where the sky kisses the sea.

I exhale, slow and deep, the air crisp but laced with something softer—the scent of salt and blooming jasmine, of earth warmed by the sun.

The wind isn’t harsh, not like winter’s bite.

It carries warmth now, a quiet promise of renewal, but I feel none of it.

My arm tightens around myself as if I can hold everything in—every thought, every emotion threatening to spill over.

There is something about being here on these cliffs that makes me feel small. Like I could disappear into the wind, into the waves, into the endless stretch of horizon where sky and water blur together. Maybe I wouldn’t mind that. Maybe I’d welcome it.

The trees behind me sway in the breeze, their leaves rustling like they are trying to tell me something I am too deaf to hear. A gull cries in the distance, and I close my eyes for a second, letting the cool air sting my skin, willing my mind to go blank.

I don’t feel like going back. Yet.

Maybe if I stand here long enough, I will feel lighter. Maybe the weight pressing against my ribs will finally ease.

“Whitney.”

The voice is faint, carried by the wind, so distant I almost think I imagined it.

This time, it’s closer.

“Whitney.”

I blink, pull from my thoughts, and turn toward the voice.

Blake?

He stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. His dark brows pull together as he studies me, his expression unreadable.

"Whitney," he says again, stepping closer. "What in God’s sweet name are you doing up here?"

I cross my arms. “I should be asking you that. What are you doing here?”

Sighing, he climbs the remaining steps, closing the distance between us.

His boots scuff against the weathered stone, the sound swallowed by the steady hum of the wind.

He stops just a foot away from me, close enough that the wind tangles the loose strands of my hair around his sleeve.

Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I…” He starts but stops. His brows draw together, his gaze locking onto my face, shifting from unreadable to something more concerned. “Were you… crying?”

I blink. Crying?

I lift a hand to my cheek, fingertips brushing against the dampness just beneath my eye. A single tear. I didn’t even realize it had slipped out.

Quickly, I wipe it away. “It’s nothing.”

Blake doesn’t look convinced. His frown deepens, the crease between his brows digging deeper. “Is everything okay?”

I inhale, slow and shaky. My chest tightens. The question lingers in the air, heavy, pressing. No. Nothing is okay. But I can’t say that.

Instead, my mind pulls me back—to earlier that morning.

***Early That Morning***

The soft tap-tap of my keyboard fills the quiet living room as I sit curled up on the couch, editing the blog post I wrote last night and responding to messages. My laptop balances on my thighs, an empty cup of coffee beside me on the armrest. The sun had barely risen, but I’d been up for hours.

A few notifications pop up at the corner of my screen—messages from fans reacting to the prep meeting videos I posted yesterday.

I smile, scrolling through the comments.

Whitney, you’re literally living my dream.

You are in your hometown. Wow, I, or we, NEED a full tour of Autumn Cove, please!!

Girl, your life is giving aesthetic goals.

We need a full tour of Autumn Cove!

Whit, your vlogs are the best! When’s the next one dropping?

I bite my lip, typing back a quick response. "A tour is definitely coming soon. I promise!" and reply to a few other messages before going back to the blog.

The soft creak of a door opening broke my concentration. A moment later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I glance up as my mom appears at the bottom of the stairs, yawning and stretching before padding toward the kitchen.

Saving my work, I push off the couch, stretching my arms as I make my way into the kitchen.

Mom is by the counter, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she fills a glass of water. Her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and she’s wearing one of Dad’s old button-downs over her pajamas.

“Morning, Mom.” I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek.

She turns, smiling sleepily. “Hey, sweetie. You’re up?”

I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself some coffee. “Been up for a while.”

She hums, taking a sip of water. “Did you sleep okay?”

I shrug, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Good enough.”

She gives me a look but doesn’t press. Instead, she turns to the cabinets.

"Should we start breakfast?" I ask.

“Yeah,” mom says, pulling out a few ingredients from the fridge.

“What’s on the menu today?”

“Big breakfast. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, sausage, and some fresh fruit."

“Nice,” I say, heading to the cabinet to grab the bread.

Two hours later, we have turned the kitchen into a warm, bustling breakfast haven.

The scent of fresh pancakes fills the house, along with the savory smells of bacon and sausage.

I’m in the middle of setting the table when Dad walks in, still wearing his robe, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Leaning down, I plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Morning, Dad." I tease.

“Morning, sweetie. You’ve got this place smelling like a diner,” he says, his voice groggy but still warm.

“It’s all mom,” I say, patting his shoulder as I hand him a cup of coffee.

“You’re a good girl, Whit,” he says gruffly, taking a sip.

By now, the rest of the house is stirring.

The sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway, followed by the laughter of Claire and Ed as they shuffle into the kitchen with their kids.

Rosa and Janet follow soon after, their mumble and chatter filling the space.

Then, Keith strolls in last, looking like he barely escaped from a tumble in a laundry basket.

His hair’s a wild mess, and pajamas are rumpled and wrinkled in all the wrong places.

I can’t help but laugh as I glance at him. “Good morning, Keith,” I tease with a grin. “Did you have a date with the gods in charge of looking disheveled or something? Because you’re definitely winning the prize.”

Keith shoots me a half-grin, scratching his head. "I swear, I only closed my eyes for a minute and they attacked me in my sleep."

I roll my eyes but smile. "Uh-huh. Whatever you say."

Keith glances down at himself, and then back at me, “You like it?”

I laugh and shake my head, “Nope.”

He shrugs, “Your loss.”

A couple minutes later, everyone is gathered around the table, breakfast is set pancakes stacked high, golden bacon, eggs scrambled just the right way, and fresh fruit piled in bowls. There’s also toast, warm and crispy, with jam and butter. After saying grace, everyone digs in.

Breakfast is lively. The kids giggle over their plates, Claire gently scolding them when they get syrup all over their hands. Ed and Rosa argue about something ridiculous, mum and Janet whisper about a drama series they’ve been watching, and Dad and Keith talk business.

Everything is normal. Comfortable.

Until Mom clears her throat.

“Whitney.”

I glance up mid-bite, catching the slight shift in the room’s energy, “Hmm?”

She wipes her mouth with a napkin, and then says, "When Keith heads to the office today, go with him."

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Why?”

Mom barely hesitates. "So, you can start learning the ropes of the company. Get familiar with how things work."

I lower my fork, as my stomach tightens, my appetite instantly gone. “Mom…”

“And” she adds, “you need to start thinking about moving back home.”

Silence.

The kind that presses down like a thick, suffocating fog.

I clean my mouth with a napkin, lean back, and scan the faces around the table. Everyone is watching. Waiting.

“I thought we talked about this already. Why are you bringing it up again?”

Mom straightens, meets my eyes, her expression calm but firm. “Because it’s time, Whitney.”

“I told you,” I say, my voice measured, “I have no interest in joining the family business. And if…,” I lift a hand, emphasizing my point, “if I do consider it, it won’t be now. I have something I’m doing. I have a job, a career.”

“As for moving back home,” I finish, pushing my plate slightly away, “my answer is no.”

More silence.

Dad sighs heavily and turns to Claire. "Take the kids upstairs."

Claire hesitates, glancing between us, before nodding. She gathers the kids, murmuring something to them, and leads them away.

The moment the kids are out of sight, Dad turns back to me.

“Darling,” he begins, his tone gentle. “You know I’ve always supported you. I always will.”

I nod, bracing myself for the ‘but’.

“I admire your passion, your drive. But it’s time to stop playing around and focus on something tangible.”

I take a deep breath, biting back the urge to snap. "Playing around? Dad, I really wish you, of all people, would not say that."

I let the words hang in the air for a moment, then continue, softer but no less serious.

"Look, I know it’s hard to see. I know it’s easy to think this whole social media thing is just…

well, a hobby. But it’s not. It is a career.

A real one. People make actual money, real connections, and build businesses that change their lives.

" I lean forward, my fingers tapping lightly on the table, trying to make him… , them understand.

"These viral videos you see? The ones people share millions of times? That’s how it works now, Dad. That’s where the world is headed. People create content for a living. It's hard work - harder than you think - and it is a full-time job. No one just ‘plays around’ with this."