Growing up, I never imagined being a mother. I wasn’t one of those little girls who had dolls and pretended they were mybabies. I never wanted to be a mom. Having babies was never on my to-do list. And it’s only in the last couple of weeks that I’ve come to realize that the only reason I was so hellbent on never being a mom is because mine was so shitty. The one thing I wanted in life was never to end up like her. Now, with Lucky, I’m starting to wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be so bad because I’m nothing like my mother. And just maybe, if given the chance, I could be an awesome mom, the kind I always wish I’d had.
“Can I do the cream?”
I’m pulled from my thoughts by Lucky holding up the can of whipped cream, her eyebrows arched high with hope.
“You bet!” I nod.
She carefully aims the nozzle over one of the pancake stacks, but she’s trigger-happy, and with an unexpected spurt, cream goes everywhere, all over the pancakes and the countertop, some even landing on the floor. If Toasty were here, he would be living his dream.
“Oh no…” Lucky gasps, her face fraught with worry as she looks up at me like she’s not sure how to react.
And I hate that she seems worried, that she might possibly be thinking I’m going to chastise her. Because I’ve been in her shoes before, and I know what it’s like to get into trouble for something you didn’t even know was a big deal. Instead, I bite back a smile and collect a dollop of excess cream with my fingers, smearing it over her cute button nose.
She gasps again, pulling back, clearly shocked. But when I see the glimmer of mischief flash in her big brown eyes, I don’t even try to recoil or flinch away when she grabs a handful of cream and does the very same thing to me. And suddenly, it’s an all-out food fight. Cream goes everywhere—our hair, clothes, anywhere but our mouths—Lucky finally tackling me to the floor in a fit of giggles.
“Cool, food fight!”
I look up to see Jonny standing there, a grin that looks so much like his son’s curling his lips as he looks from me to Luckyand back again. Lucky offers me a conspiratorial glance, waggling her little eyebrows before jumping up and grabbing the can of cream, aiming it directly at her grandfather as he shrieks with laughter, turning and running with Lucky hot on his heels.
There’s a different energy at the Thunder’s practice facility as I walk in. Fans are hanging out in the lobby, snapping photos of themselves with some of the players’ jerseys framed on the walls, the merch store crowded when it’s usually empty on a Sunday, and a buzz in the air I can only assume has everything to do with the fact that tomorrow, the New York Thunder enter their first playoff game in six seasons. It’s kind of like Christmas around here. The diehard fans—the ones who have stuck with the team through the worst of the worst—are more than ready to support the guys, win or lose.
“Hey, Hannah,” Lyle, one the security guards who has been working here for longer than my father has been on the coaching staff, nods at me, waving me through the metal detector.
“Hi, Lyle,” I say, stepping through.
“Looking forward to the game tomorrow?”
“You bet!” I grin.
“Go Thunder,” Lyle says, nodding at me as I continue up the stairs to the mezzanine level that leads to the back offices.
My heart races the closer I make it down the corridor to where my father’s office is. I haven’t spoken to him, which is so unlike me. I talk to my father daily, even if it’s just the occasional text message. But I haven’t heard from him since Friday, before Lucky let it slip about Happy and me, and I know he’s pissed, because when he goes without talking to me for so long, it’s usually because he’s so angry he doesn’t want to accidentally say something he can’t take back.
Stopping outside his door, I take a deep breath and knock once.
“Come in!” his deep, gruff voice calls through the frosted glass.
I push open the door, thankful to see it’s just him, sitting behind his huge desk, the wall of glass behind him looking out over the practice rink that’s empty, the ice gleaming like it’s just been freshly Zamboni’d.
Dad glances up from the papers on his desk, chomping his gum like he always is, doing a double take when he sees me. Leaning back in his chair, he folds his arms over his chest, one brow arching as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Happy Slater’sgirlfriend…”
I roll my eyes, sighing heavily as I help myself to one of the chairs in front of his desk, inviting myself since he seems to have misplaced his manners. Sitting down, our blue eyes lock in some sort of intense stare-off, neither of us saying a word because we’re stubborn like that.
“So?” Dad finally breaks the silence, and I try not to gloat, biting back a victorious grin.
“So what?” I play dumb.
He cocks his head to the side, pursing his lips.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?” I quirk a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Well, obviously noteverything,” he splutters, face turning red.
I decide to put him out of his misery and, instead of teasing or baiting him any further, I tell him the truth. “It just happened. The night of Fran Keller’s birthday. I was stuck without a ride. It was raining. Happy drove me home.”
