My smile stretches ear to ear, love and affection for my kid expanding through me. She always wears my jersey at games.
Beatrice Huntington-Ward is my whole world.
Beside me, Volkov’s gaze follows mine before he turns back to the ice, where the guys are doing their last warm-up loops before the anthem.
“Cute,” he admits begrudgingly. Even a surly grump like Volkov isn’t immune to Bea’s charm.
“The cutest.”
Something about the way his expression softens has me lifting my eyebrows at him with a silent question.
“Not yet.” He glances to his wife sitting behind the net, wearing his old jersey, and an affectionate look passes over his brutal features. “But eventually.”
Volkov and his wife, Dr. Georgia Greene, used to be at each other’s throats, even after they married suddenly at the beginning of last season. I always had a feeling about them, though. Maybe it was the way he stared at her shoes, or that she asked to transfer him to another doctor because she couldn’t be impartial.
My mind wanders to Dr. Greene’s best friend, a moody, sulky bartender. Her dark hair was up in a ponytail today, swishing as she walked around the bar. I think about her delicate hands, nimble and confident as she mixes drinks. I think about the color of her eyes. The most interesting shade of blue. A ring of violet around the outer edge of her irises.
“The room off my office could be converted to a baby room,” Volkov says, and I force inconvenient thoughts of an unforgiving, heartless woman from my head.
“Volkov, getting married has made you downright sappy.” He gives me a flat, unamused look and I chuckle. “Happy for you two, though. The day I found out Bea was coming along, I found a new purpose.”
Volkov grunts, folding his arms over his chest, but his expression is a fraction softer than before.
After the anthem, the game begins. Miller and Owens approach the other team’s net, passing back and forth. The fans start cheering.
“Come on,” Volkov mutters under his breath as the energy in the arena rises.
Miller’s about to take the shot, but pauses. The other team’s goalie is ready—but so is Luca Walker, a younger defenseman. Miller passes, Walker snaps the puck at the net, and it sails past the goalie.
The arena errupts with noise. The goal horn blows, lights flash, and the players on the ice celebrate as the guys on the bench jump to their feet, hollering and slapping each other on the back. Walker and Miller skate past, bumping gloves with their teammates as Volkov and I applaud.
Volkov’s gaze lifts to the game clock with a wry look. “Thirty-two seconds into the game.”
“There we go.” Pride bursts in my chest, warm and sharp.
“Great game tonight,” I tell the team in the dressing room after. “Not just the guys who put points on the board. All of you. I saw some great plays out there. I saw you accepting my challenge. Nice work. Proud of you.”
I head to the door, but Miller calls my name.
“Coach, we’re heading to the bar to celebrate.” His eyebrows lift. “Join us.”
Jordan’s pretty indigo eyes appear in my mind and I think about the confident, practiced way her hands move at the bar, mixing drinks and tidying the counter. Her nail polish is always a darkshade—wine red, forest green, navy blue, black. I bet her hands are soft.
I’ve subjected myself to enough of her for one day, though. For another few weeks, my responsibility to Ross Sheridan has been fulfilled.
“Thank you for the invite, but not tonight.” I nudge my chin to the ceiling. “I need to talk with Ross for a few minutes.”
Besides, the team doesn’t need their coach hanging around while they celebrate.
Miller and I say goodbye and I head upstairs to the top floor of the arena, to Ross’s office. When I arrive, the team owner stands at the windows, overlooking the rink. Two photos hang on the wall beside him, one of him when he was a Storm player, hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head while his teammates celebrated around him. The other is of us years later, when he coached the team, with me lifting the Cup and him beaming.
“Hi, Ross.”
He turns, a conflicted frown fading from his expression as he heads back to his desk. “Tate. Thanks for stopping in, I know it’s late.”
I take a seat in one of the chairs across from his desk. “It’s fine.”
I won’t fall asleep for hours, anyway. I never do.
