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Chapter Sixteen

Adeline

Memory of the nightmare came rushing back.

I could still smell the alcohol, the tobacco, the sweat, all mixed with the bougainvillea and sea air, but it seemed more muted now.

Overlaying it was the feeling of strong arms, a warm-as-whiskey chuckle, and a deep-timbred voice soothing me through my distress.

How sweet he was to stay and talk me through it.

Until I embarrassed myself by throwing myself at him.

I groaned, torn between pleasure at that kiss, the feel of him against my body, the taste of him filling my senses, and the humiliation of rejection.

As much as I would have liked to bury myself beneath the covers and never come out, I had a job to do. I needed to remember that. I slipped out of bed and threw on a Rebels jersey and Lululemon lounge shorts, then after a quick side trip to the bathroom, headed toward the kitchen.

Should have stayed longer in front of the mirror.

Not because I needed to make myself presentable or hide away from the consequences of last night, but because it would have been better to miss Lars Nyquist giving his daughter a rundown of a past game.

I so did not need to hear that, not when it was so adorable my ovaries did a two-step.

As I lingered in the hallway, Lars said something about “the idiot left winger from Nashville.”

“You’d hate this asshole, Mabel. The guy hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together, so I had no problem fooling him and getting that puck off his blade.”

Mabel made a sound of agreement.

Lars chuckled. “Yeah, you know exactly what kind of bozo I’m talking about.”

Bozo? Who called a guy on an opposing team a bozo?

The man who just realized he’d said “asshole” in front of his daughter and was trying to cover with a dorky word, perhaps? Gah, stop being so cute!

Okay, time to get this show on the road.

I entered the kitchen just in time to witness Lars picking up Mabel and settling her against his broad shoulder. I’d seen guys holding babies before. My dad, his brothers, even Lars. This should not have been any different, but I knew something now I didn’t know then.

Fatherhood wasn’t easy for Lars. While it was easy to assign his difficulty to some playboy-manchild attitude, it clearly went deeper.

He didn’t think he was capable. A man who could thread a puck through a tiny space, who could drill for days and practice for eternity—this guy thought he wasn’t good enough for this new gig.

I had thought that as well at first. But what I saw now was Lars gazing at his baby daughter with an intensity that broke my chest wide open. The man was falling hook, line, and sinker for his little girl, and I wasn’t sure that he even realized it yet.

With Mabel safely ensconced in his thick, muscled arms, he moved to the bottle warmer. Skillful hands tested the temperature of the formula while keeping the baby safe. Raising the bottle to her lips, he paused a moment and said, “You want it, baby girl?”

Yes, please.

My lusty thought must have manifested in this reality because Lars’s attention was diverted from Mabel for a moment. His gaze darkened as it raked over me.

And “raked” was the right word here. The way he looked at me felt positively forbidden.

“Mine?”

Mine? I pressed a hand to my chest, a move that sent his nostrils into a flare.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that my jersey?”

Oh. “No, it’s mine. Well, Dad’s.”

Color tagged his cheeks. “Sorry, I assumed you’d helped yourself. It would be okay if you had.” He was fully focused on Mabel now.

“Wait, do you not believe me?”

“Of course I believe you.”

He looked up, then down again at the sweatshirt. Was he so offended by it? When it wasn’t even his! Before he could say another word, I did a quick pirouette to reveal KERSHAW in large letters on the back.

“My dad’s.” I turned back in time to catch his nostrils flaring, his gaze fixed not on the jersey but my bare legs.

“Right. I just—never mind.” He placed the bottle down on the counter and deftly switched Mabel to his shoulder.

“Hold on, you need this.” I grabbed a burp cloth and placed it on his shoulder. “Unless you want to smell like regurgitated milk all day.”

“My favorite.” Once burped, he set her back in the highchair. The awkwardness of a moment ago appeared to have passed. “I know it’s only been ten days, but I feel like she’s grown an inch or two. Am I wrong?”

“Babies are like weeds and this one is happy and healthy and enjoying her food.” We had taken her to see the pediatrician yesterday morning and she was meeting all the necessary milestones. “You’re doing good, Lars.”

He looked pleased at the compliment. “And how are you doing after last night?”

“Oh, fine. How about you?”

His lips twitched at my turning it on its head. I’d felt him, hard between my thighs. I’d heard him crying out my name at the peak of desire. Sure, he had told me it could never happen, and while it was hard not to take that personally, I also understood that there was something between us.

“Not great, but I’ll live.”

That made me smile. We both had our crosses to bear.

He cleared his throat, drawing a line under it. “I’m going to the gym, assuming you’re okay with staying with her for a while.”

“Of course. In fact, I was planning to take her to a class at the Chicago School of Folk Music.”

“Music? Isn’t she kind of young for that?”

“They’re never too young for music. This is a JiggleJams session, geared toward infants. Tilly used to love it. Now Mom takes her to one for older kids.”

“I really appreciate this extra stuff you’re doing. I didn’t expect anything beyond feeding and changing her.”

“Stimulating all the baby’s senses is important. She’s going to be a super well-adjusted baby. Don’t worry.”

His mouth scrunched up, like he had something more to say. “You should talk to your parents about what happened in Greece.”

“Maybe … when the season is done.”

His brows V’ed together dramatically. I was starting to love that look, all scowly concern. “When it’s done? That’s six months away, eight if we go all the way.”

“Now’s not a good time, Lars. This year is so important to Dad, and anything that upsets him will only throw him off his game.” And that included dalliances with teammates. What was I thinking?

“You think he can’t handle hearing his daughter was hurt?”

“I think it would start to live rent-free in his head.” Sighing, I headed to the coffee maker. “If something happened to Mabel, don’t you think it would mess with your mind?”

“Sure, but I’d also want to know.”

I tried another tack. “You might not remember this, but about thirteen years ago, the Rebels were in the Finals. It was Game 4 and they were 2-1 down in the series against LA. Suddenly my father was scratched from the game.”

“Yeah, some personal issue.” He shrugged. “So?”

“That morning, I had a fight with Rosie because she told me she liked my brother Hatch and she planned to marry him, which made me so upset that I screamed at her.”

He squinted. “How old were you?”

“Ten. Rosie and Hatch were twelve. I thought if they got married I would lose them both, so I ran away. I planned to go to my great-gran’s cottage in Saugatuck and I thought I could take my bike there. I was missing for nine hours.”

Bafflement gave way to awareness. “Your dad missed the game because he was worried about you.”

“Yep. He flew home to Chicago, and when he landed, I had already been found, hiding in Erik Jorgenson’s basement.

It’s where he keeps his very large Christmas collection.

” Erik was probably the most holiday-obsessed person I knew.

“I got tired on my bike about ten minutes in, so I hung out with a weird Swedish elf and cried into Erik’s Jul-themed cushions. ”

“Remind me how the game went.”

“They lost that one and the next. Finals done. My dad was crushed, and it was my fault.”

“Jesus, Adeline.” He stepped forward and took me in his arms, and I let him because I needed the comfort. I needed the assurance that I was making the right call here. “I get it, sweet thing, I do.”

Sweet thing? He’d called me that last night in bed (oh, how I wished that reference was as smutty as it sounded). He still held me, and it felt glorious.

Until the glorious feeling was replaced by a new, exciting enhancement against my belly.

He didn’t take a step back which would’ve been the sensible thing to do. Maybe neither of us was feeling sensible. My hand lay on his chest, my fingertips absorbing the heat and vitality of him.

I looked up into those denim-blue eyes and saw something like hunger there. Again, the denial came fast, my mind racing to cover what instinct knew to be true.

He placed a hand over mine, trapping my palm against his chest. “What I said before, about the jersey. Thinking it was mine.”

I’d wanted to pursue it but chickened out. Now he was bringing it up and I was dying to know what was going on in his brain.

“What about it?”

“I saw you standing there in that jersey and I didn’t like it.”

A pit of disappointment hollowed out my chest, and I pulled my hand away.

“As I said, it wasn’t yours. I wouldn’t go through your stuff like that no matter how cold I was.” The words emerged rusty, pained.

“I hope that’s not true.” His voice was even raspier than mine. “If you were cold, Adeline, I would hope you’d use anything of mine to keep warm.”

Warm me with your body. “You sounded annoyed when you thought the jersey was yours.”

His hand squeezed mine. “Because I liked the idea a little too much.”

Surely, he could hear the thump of my heart. “Me wearing your jersey?”

“Yes.”

Too stunned to respond, all I could do was remain frozen, my go-to in moments of shock or change. But then something in me reared up, a need to fight back and reassert control. I was tired of letting things happen to me.

“What am I supposed to do with that information, Lars?”

“Absolutely nothing, Adeline. I had a knee-jerk reaction of annoyance and pride and lust on seeing you in the jersey of my team. You look so damn good in it that all I can think of is how much better you would look out of it. It’s wrong and I’m owning it.

I had a hard time reining in my feelings there, and I didn’t want you to think you’d done anything wrong.

You haven’t. You’re just being you. But you being you is not doing good things for my dick. ”

My cheeks heated. “It’s not?”

“Well, my dick is having a grand old time whenever I think of you, but my mental health is suffering. Hopefully a bout in the gym will help me work out the toxins.”

I pushed at his chest. “I’m a toxin now?”

“The sweetest kind.”

“It’s not easy for me, either,” I said, a touch indignant.

“No? Good.” A slight smile curved his lips.

At least he could see the funny side of it. I was having a hard time getting on that page.

I pulled my hand away. “This isn’t helping, Lars. You can’t tell me I’m not doing good things for your dick and then push me away. That’s not fair.”

He looked like I’d struck him. “You’re right. It’s not.”

We stared at each other for what felt like forever until finally he said, “I’m gonna head to the gym now.”

With a brisk nod, I attended to Mabel—my job—instead of watching him leave the kitchen.