Who turns down VIP access to a friends and family lounge? No one. I remember when my dad was still playing it was like a wonderland. There was a gleaming free bar for the adults and a candy table for the kids filled with bowls of colorful sweet treats. There were TVs on every wall, expensive comfy furniture. And I’m saying no. Why? Because too many people will ask questions when they see me with a baby.
A baby that undeniably looks a lot like one of their star players. Add my last name to that list of red flags. My dad and Uncle Beau played hockey and although they weren’t record crushers or even Stanley Cup winners like the Garrisons, they are still active in the league. My dad is the General Manager for the Brooklyn Barons and my uncle coaches for the Quebec Nationals. And die-hard fans on message boards still talk about how Jordan Garrison once punched Chance Echolls in an off-ice incident.
“Where do the players park? Can I wait there?”
He twists his face up like I’m insane. “You want to wait in the garage? With your baby? Instead of the lounge?”
“Yes please.”
He stares. The driver rolls my bags, with the car seat balanced precariously on one of the suitcases, over to me. The security guy’s eyes widen at the pile of bags. He pulls up a walkie-talkie. “I’ll get someone to help you to the restricted level where the players park. And I’ll let Mr. Garrison know.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
After a few minutes, a guy appears with a flat trolley. He stacks my luggage and ushers me into an elevator with him and my stuff. It opens onto a floor with a security guard who nods and asks me if I want a chair. He doesn't have one but he can find one.
“No thank you. I’ve been sitting for a very long flight. I need to stand.” I smile shakily. The fact is I’m too nervous to sit. This is it. Tate is going to know the truth in a matter of moments.
I am about to blow his world up forever. Having a son might be a good thing, in the long run. I fully believe Tate will become a great, responsible dad. But right now it will feel like I’m ruining his life. He will hate me and that may not go away, ever. I own that. I accept it. I would accept anything if it meant Dylan gets to be safe and happy with a family who loves him. And the Garrisons will love him. I know my parents hate them, but I don’t. I see how much they love each other. Dylan will be fine once Tate accepts him. “Please accept him, Tate,” I whisper to myself.
Chapter3
Mallory
It takes forty more minutes for players to start trickling out to their cars. Dylan is wide awake now and fussing so I grab his trusty giraffe stuffy and sing a stupid song to him while shaking the toy and he is entertained enough not to cry. I also tuck myself behind the beast of a security guard so no one notices me.
When the door into the arena opens again and Tate walks through it, everything freezes for me. I watch him like he's in slow motion, striding confidently, a cocky smile on his lips, his rich blue and gray plaid suit hugging and tugging on all the right parts of his extremely fit body. His eyes are focused on his teammates walking ahead of him. I recognize them as the Westwood twins. He yells something at them, but for some reason, I can't hear what he says. My brain is making too much noise.
He looks so confident and comfortable in his own skin but he has never looked anything but that. I’ve known him since middle school when his dad retired and his parents moved back to Silver Bay full-time. He walked into school, the new kid, with a family reputation and expectation that would have weighed a lot of other kids down, but not Tate. He didn’t even have the normal new kid jitters. He looked like he knew how lucky we all were for getting him as a classmate and potential friend. And man, I know I felt lucky when he finally talked to me one day and didn’t blink when he found out my last name.
Dylan lets out a frustrated squeal. I’ve been frozen in the past, and in the present, the baby in my arms has had enough.
“Mal?”
I find the courage to look up. He is grinning that gregarious, infectious grin that he’s had his whole damn perfect life. The one that says he knows he won the lottery being born Tate Garrison. Only for the first time, it doesn't make me smile back. And when his eyes slip down to Dylan that smile evaporates entirely. I watch it fade, searing it into my memory because I honestly don't think I will ever see it again.
His jaw goes slack. His face loses color. He starts towards me slowly, almost like he’s scared of me. Like I’m an aggressive dog. Or, you know, his worst nightmare.
With every step he inches closer I feel my anxiety ratchet higher and higher. He doesn’t know the bottom is about to drop out of his world, but I do. “You have a baby?”
“Not exactly,” I reply. My voice is barely over a whisper and it’s hoarse. The emotions clogging my throat are trying to tear the words to pieces before I can get them out. I blink and shake my head. Tears flood my eyes and tumble down my cheeks.
“Mallory, what the hell is going…” Tate says softly and takes another few steps. And then I pull Dylan out of the carrier on my chest and turn him so his back is against my front. His face toward Tate.
Tate stops moving mid-step. His eyes scan the length of Dylan, resting for a long moment on his chubby little face. He sees the dimple in the baby’s chin that matches his own. He takes in the color of Dylan’s eyes, the same green color swirling in Tate’s own, that match his mother Jessie Garrison’s eye color perfectly. There is a baby picture on the wall by the staircase in his parents’ house. I saw it the one time I was there. It’s Tate, under a year old, sitting in the Stanley Cup because his dad won it that year. If you put Dylan in that Cup today, you would have a hard time telling them apart, except for the hair color.
More color drains from his face. He's the color of chalk now. He tears his eyes from Dylan, gives the security guard a curt nod and tight smile, and with a hand on my back, he guides us away, towards the line of very fancy and expensive parked cars.
Once we are away from anyone who could overhear he asks, “Mallory, whose baby is that?”
“Di’s,” I croak out.
“Why do you have Diana’s baby?” Tate’s voice is low and hard and angry. “Is she with you?”
“Tate…” I wondered if somehow he would know. I hoped he would so I wouldn’t have to tell him.
Diana's death must have hit Silver Bay by now because, although she doesn't have any family living there anymore, my family knows. It's a small town and news, especially bad news, travels fast. Silver Bay: Home to Hockey Royalty and Fast-Moving Gossip.
“Where is Diana?” he snaps as we stop and he pulls me in between two luxury SUVs.
