She freezes.
“Go sleep. You need your strength to keep producing that… delectable milk.”
Her inhale catches, but she quickly covers it with a scoff, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you liked impossible.”
“The only thing I like,” she whispers, leaning in just enough to make my pulse stutter, “is sleep.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes spark — challenge and heat and something she wants to deny.
“That was a long time ago,” she mutters.
I lift a brow. “Not too long though, Claudia.”
Her lips twitch. There it is — the woman from the app, not the cornered mother from today. The one who could spar word-for-word and never back down.
“My very naughty girl is still in there,” I murmur, low enough only she hears.
She swallows, pulse fluttering in her throat. “Get some rest, Deacon.”
She slips away before I can say more, footsteps soft, like she’s afraid to wake the house — or afraid of staying another second near me.
When the door clicks shut, I exhale slowly.
Yeah. She felt that. And hell if I’m not awake now, wired all over again, heartbeat doing stupid, teenage things. Because Claudia Holloway just skated back into my life. She’s fire pressed right up against the fuse.
And Dingy? He has no idea what storm he just walked into. But what is his angle?
I don’t do social media, not that you’d know that based on how often my mug was plastered all over it, but it’s true. But desperate times calling for desperate measures and all…
What I gathered from the scroll is that wherever Kyle Dingy was off the ice, he was in the very near vicinity of his team’s owner, Aldridge Shaw. No red flags there; Dingy has always sucked off and schmoozed anyone who could boost his status. The man would polish skates with his tongue if he thought it meant an upgrade.
I’d like to pretend I don’t know what pushes me to keep scrolling, but I do. And I’m not even pretending I’m not surprised when I see Emilia Shaw — Aldridge’s daughter — at every one of those events.
Do I dig deeper? Bet your ass I do.
Gala after gala, yacht shots, “philanthropy brunches” that are really PR laundering factories. Emilia is right there. “Hockey Princess” headlines. Dingy is posing like he’s already a king instead of a jester who got lucky.
Most guys in this league know the rule — owners’ daughters are off limits. Not because of morals, but because careers die that way. You don’t flirt with the throne unless you want to end up headless.
And Dingy? He’s out here playing royal consort like he’s earned the crown instead of buying rented suits and hashtags.
Then I see it — a blurry pap shot, her laughing, his hand too damn familiar at her back.
Caption:Future Power Couple?
Christ.
Emilia Shaw is polished. Bred for rooms most men don’t even get to stand outside. She doesn’t date down. She doesn’t date drama.
And that’s when the ugly truth clicks into place in the back of my mind like a trigger resetting: He’s only suddenly “interested” in seeing his kid because he thinks it makes him look like a family man. Because a woman like Emilia Shaw would never settle for a guy who abandons a baby. Not when her worldruns on legacy and image and curation. A girl like that wouldn’t tolerate less.
He doesn’t want to be a dad. He wants a clean narrative. Appealing pics. Depth that piece of shit doesn’t have.
And Claudia’s only in the game, one he wouldn’t be able to play if she hadn’t given him the card.
