“I’m not touching that question with a ten-foot pole.”
He grins as he looks down at his lower half. “Nine, nine and a half if I stretch it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Sterling?” comes from the girls’ room as Noelle and Sofie walk out.
“Not touching that either. Do any of you ladies need to use the bathroom before I —”
“Me,” Claudia says as the door opens again, and she steps out with Savannah in her arms. “I’ll be fast.”
I block her path, palms out, and she hesitates. I get the look. Pride. Independence. That fierce don’t-need-anyone shield she now dons.
“Jesus, Doc, just give me the little one. Take a shower. Do what you gotta do.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to tell me off, but Savannah fusses, and motherhood overrides whatever comeback she was loading. Claudia sighs, rubs the baby’s back once, then transfers her into my hands like I’m being trusted with a national treasure.
And Christ, I feel it. Emotional whiplash. The weight of the whole world is in this fifteen-pound bundle. Soft warmth. The tiniest fist curling in my shirt.
I’ve held teammates’ kids. I’ve let fans pass their babies over the glass for pictures. It’s never hit like this. A punch straight to the sternum, right under the ribs. Primitive. Territorial.Mineis too strong a word —wrong word— but something in that neighborhood cracks open and starts pacing.
She’s tiny. Fragile. Perfect. And I suddenly want to put her in one of those backpacks and fight off anything coming her way.
Hell. What is that?
I shift her higher against my chest and she settles in. It’s like she recognizes solid wall of protective muscle when she finds it, and I swear that tethers when she lets out a little sigh.
Protective instincts are one thing. This? This is a warning shot to the spine. I’m in trouble.
I swear I would put someone through a wall if they tried to harm her in any way.
And I don't even know what the hell this is supposed to mean.
Claudia disappears into the bathroom, and I stay planted where she left me, one palm on the baby’s back, thumb smoothing circles without thinking. The others keep talking — bickering, chirping, being idiots but those sounds drops out, like someone shoved cotton in my ears.
I don’t do this. I don’t get soft like this. I don’t getaffected.
Dash whistles low under his breath. “Look at that. Big bad Moretti holding a baby. Should I get a photo? Frame it? Send it to the league?”
I don’t look at him. “Touch your phone and I’ll break your hand.”
He laughs, but there’s a note in it — disbelief, maybe respect, maybe the realization that something has shifted and he just witnessed it.
Sofie stares. “Oh my God, you’re domesticated now.”
Noelle nudges her. “Leave him alone. It’s sweet.”
Sweet. Yeah. Terrifying is more like it.
Savannah’s head nestles under my jaw. I swallow hard and lock my knees, like bracing against a hit. Because this feels like one. And not the kind you skate off.
This isn’t part of the plan. Hockey, routine, solitude — that’s my system. My safe zone. All clean edges, tight control. I don’t get pulled off-balance.
But this little girl? This woman in the bathroom?
They’re a wrecking ball.
And for one long second, standing barefoot in a shitty Brooklyn apartment with morning light scraping across the floor, baby tucked against me like she belongs there… I let it hit.
Then I choke it down hard, because wanting something that dangerous is how men get ruined. But I’d rather get ruined than let that motherfucker ruin either one of these girls.
