“I would never,” I whisper.
I am overwhelmed. So, overwhelmed.
“I do not do emotions anymore,” he says. “But I do truths. And the truth is, I love you and Savannah. Love those other three too, even the sassy one, but they all had a start that you and I never got.”
“I… I feel that too,” I tell him, pressing a hand over my heart. “All of you. I just…”
He puts an arm around me. “Not leaving you behind until Patsy convinces the man upstairs that it’s time for me to go.”
“Same,” I say, hugging him tight. And then I cry.
After a few minutes, he leans back. “One more thing.”
“Anything.”
“Take your time. But at some point, let Moretti off the hook and tell him you are falling in love with him. The same way he is with you.”
“I…” I shake my head hard.
“He is one of the good ones, kid. Trust that.” He chuckles. “It does not mean I do not love that my plan worked, and his is still hanging in the wind.”
His plan. What plan. I look at him sharply.
“Aldridge still has not delivered on the deal he tried to secure.”
He sees my face.
“Shit. Kid. Forget I said anything.”
“Paul.” I cross my arms. “Spill it.”
And he does.
TWENTY-NINE
Claudia
Sofie arrivesfive minutes before puck drop and flops back on the couch. “Gimme the baby.”
I turn and hand Savannah to Sofie, who will no doubt rile her up —because she gives the fun aunt kind of energy— and I see a faint bruise under her right eye. It’s not that obvious, as she clearly attempted to cover it up, but I notice it immediately.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She starts kissing Savannah’s face and, between kisses, tells me, “Desk corner. I bent down for a pen, and the desk kissed me. Grace is my gift.”
She smirks, but the way she tucks her hair in front of the bruise isn’t something I will forget. It’s something I will now look for.
The pregame broadcast cuts to the tunnel, and as upset as I am that Deacon didn’t tell me what he did, my breath stops.
Deacon is cleared and back in the net. His shoulders and chest are so broad that they make the net look small andimpossible to get to. He’s moving like a man who has been caged for six games and is ready to dominate the game.
Even Paul stops mid-chew— of course, I ordered his favorite pizza, it’s the least I could do— and says, “Look at him. That’s a goalie. That’s a man who knows the ice belongs to him.”
The camera focuses on Deacon working drills. I swear he moves with more grace than half the dancers in that ballet documentary I watched in college. Except all that grace sits on top of about two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and strength, which I am intimately aware of.
Sofie nudges me. “Tell me you are watching this. Tell me you see the way his stance is tighter. He is skating like he wants someone to say something out of pocket so that he can ruin them.”
“I am watching.” I breathe.
