Meanwhile, I couldn’t care less if Izzy hears me rubbing one out. It might encourage him to finally get his shit together and get laid.
“That’s it, baby. Daddy’s watching. You’re being so good.”
“Oh, fuck, Daddy!” he whisper-shouts, arching his back as his cock erupts, coating his hand and the sheets with spurts of cum. “Nnngh.”
“Yes, baby, just like that.” Watching him takes me to the edge and it only takes a couple more short, sharp jerks of my fist before I follow him over the precipice with a loudly groaned “Fuck” of my own.
Once I catch my breath and my brain re-engages, I reach for my nearby supply of wet wipes and tissues, cleaning up my mess.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say, glancing up at my phone again with a soft, sappy smile. “That was…” Trailing off, I realize that he’s half-asleep already, a wad of tissues discarded to the side of his mattress. My heart gives a funny little flip at the sight. “Sleep, Justin. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Mmm,” he agrees, but I don’t think he actually heard me. “Night, Daddy. Lo—” the word is cut off with a huge yawn, but my heart is hammering, even though he doesn’t finish it, ending with a sleepy “Hmmm” instead.
Heart in my throat, I can’t deny that maybe Izzy had a point after all. I’ve never had a serious relationship before, and this one is suddenly feeling very serious when I was only just thinking how slowly we should try to take things.
But that’s still not a bad thing, is it? As long as I can maintain a balance between school, my relationship, my family, and hockey, it’s all going to be okay. After all, that’s all my life revolves around. If I stick to that, I can’t imagine any other curveballs will be thrown my way…or whatever the equivalent hockey metaphor is.
(Shut up, I think I broke my brain when I came.)
Chapter Nine
"It'sschoolday!"Isay excitedly as I twist the handle on Owen's door. He's spread out on his tiny bed, face smushed into the pillow. I gave up trying to break him of that habit long ago. I worried myself for a solid year, checking on him every hour throughout the night to make sure he was still breathing. I'd move his head to the side, but by the next time I checked on him, he was face down in the pillow again.
Owen gives no indication that he's awake. I walk quietly into his room, careful to not step on the toys he left scattered around. I wouldn't be surprised if his toys actually came to life at night and scattered themselves. At least, I'm telling myself that, since I definitely remember asking him to clean up his room before he went to bed.
"Owen, buddy, it's time to wake up." It's six in the morning. School starts at seven-thirty, and I have to be at the college by nine. We'll be having a team meeting with the Penguins to kick things off. I'm only needed for a while today, so I'll be able to slip out and pick Owen up from school and spend the afternoon with him. He'll be going between an afterschool program run by a few teachers and his grandparents throughout the school year, but I wanted to be there for his first day. I hate that I won't be able to pick him upfrom school most days, but I do like that we have our mornings together, at least.
Owen peeks one eye open and immediately closes it, clearly hoping I didn’t see.
I play along for a few seconds. "Hmm, I guess I'll just have to eat all the French toast in the kitchen by myself. And drink all the orange juice. Maybe I'll even eat all the snacks in Owen’s bag." I can see his little body squirming under the blanket. He's laughing, still thinking he's fooling me. I walk towards the door. "I wonder if the school will let me have Owen’s ice cream today, too."
"Ice cream?!" Owen nearly leaps out of his bed and runs into the hallway, flying past me. I'm surprised he doesn't trip over his own feet. He's well past the bathroom when I clear my throat.
"You know the drill," I point a finger toward the bathroom he ran right past.
I spent four months trying every trick under the sun and moon to potty train Owen when he turned three. He flat-out refused for the first month. Then he consistently wet his pants the second month. He did well in familiar places after that but, in new places, he would regress back and have accidents. I made it a point for us to walk into every bathroom we could when we were out, no matter what we were doing. I wanted him to get comfortable using the restroom. Even now, I make sure the bathroom is the first place he goes in the mornings to reduce any accidents.
I busy myself with grabbing his clothes for the day while he's doing his business. He left the door wide open, so I can hear him talking to himself. Another thing I taught him. I saw a video once of a mom having her kids repeat a positive mantra, and I thought it was a good idea. That's something I'm always worried about for him; he's a great kid, my whole world, but I know he's at the agewhere he's going to really start questioning where his mom is. I've discussed it with his grandparents briefly, laying down boundaries on what I do and don't want them to share.
I shake my thoughts away when Owen calls out that he's done washing his hands. I won’t dare get him dressed until after the sticky syrup has been consumed. Instead, I lay his clothes out on his bed and make sure his shoes are on the floor next to it.
I have a clear view of Owen when I step out of his room. He's climbing up onto one of the chairs at the island counter.
"Be careful, buddy." The words come out automatically. A knee-jerk reaction to make sure he's safe.
He gives me the widest smile when he's finally seated, and I plate up his breakfast. Two sticks of French toast —the microwavable kind because I know it's his favorite— with a dollop of syrup for each. I pour us each a glass of juice and lean against the other side of the counter to watch him eat.
Another flash of Lauren crosses my mind. I miss her, but it isn't a deep ache like I've heard some people describe. Owen might have been a surprise, but we always planned to raise him together. We were content, even had fun together at times. Still, I can't help but compare how I felt toward her to how I felt on my date with Gabe. It’s not fair, but Gabe is just… different. I’m different when I’m with Gabe. It’s like he’s tapped into a part of me I had no idea existed before.
"Daddy, I'm…" I look from my empty cup to my son. His red hair and fair skin are slowly getting used to the Arizona heat. I have three bottles of sunscreen in the bathroom alone to make sure he doesn't burn. His thin brows are furrowed, and I can see a world of emotions in his eyes.
"What is it, Owen?"
"I'm scared to go to school," he mumbles. "What if they don't like me?"
"Where is that coming from?" I ask, genuinely concerned. There haven't been a lot of chances for socialization since we moved here. There's a park within a short driving distance and I've watched him play with a couple of kids the few times we went. Then there's Gabe's nephew in his class. We haven't scheduled a playdate yet, but I need to change that.
He shrugs one shoulder and puts his fork down. He still has half a stick of toast left. His green eyes meet mine and I can sense we are about ten seconds from a meltdown. I hold out my hand to take his, squeezing twice and running my thumb across his wrist.
