Chuckling, I stand up and yell louder as Ethan shoots the puck straight over the goalie’s right shoulder. I take this part of my job as a father extremely seriously—the one that says I need to embarrass my kids loudly and as often as possible. It’s remarkably easy to do now that my daughter has crossed over into her teenage years.

  “I really didn’t need to be here,” she mutters, practically tunneling her head into the collar of her hoodie, her entire body language giving This man does not belong to me.

  “You didn’t,” I say, dropping down into my seat next to her. “But look how happy it makes your brother that you are.” I gesture to the ice where Ethan gives us a dazzling smile and a wave.

  She sighs heavily, giving Ethan an enthusiastic wave back while still trying to pretend she doesn’t know me. The ability of a teenage girl to feel multiple contrasting emotions simultaneously and express them all at once is a true gift I find constantly fascinating. She may be wholly embarrassed by me, but Riley and Ethan are wildly close—their relationship is special and one of my little reminders that while I may feel like I’m failing in any number of ways on the daily in the delicate balancing act of single father and professional athlete, making sure my kids are close to each other is the one thing I am getting consistently right.

  “I know,” she grumbles. “I guess I’m glad I’m here, even though what I really need to be doing is memorizing my lines for the play.”

  Leaning down, I drop a kiss on top of her head. “You’re a good sister, Ry.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, sitting up a little straighter. “Don’t forget you promised I get to pick dinner because my mad acting skills got me the lead, and I want tacos. Also, don’t look now, but the feral moms have spotted you.”

  Riley gives me a sly smirk as I roll my eyes, glancing to my left to see five or six moms of boys on Ethan’s team—the ones Riley has nicknamed the feral moms—eyeing me in a way that has my skin crawling, my first instinct to duck into the collar of my own hoodie like Riley just did.

  “Why do they always do that?” I mutter, tugging up my hood and hunching my shoulders just a little, disappearing as much as a six-foot three-inch, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound football player possibly can.

  “It’s the hot single dad thing,” Riley says matter-of-factly, her eyes on the ice as Ethan whips the puck across to one of his teammates. “Also, the professional athlete thing. You’re a hot commodity, Dad,” she says with a grimace, like she finds the idea absolutely abhorrent. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

  I do know. I also know that it’s never really bothered me before, the way the moms stare. Or approach me after the practices and games I make it to, using their kids as an excuse. I’ve always ignored it and even found it amusing at times. But for some reason, today it’s unnerving. Okay fine, not for some reason. For one particular reason.

  Maddy.

  Even thinking of her makes me smile. The way her red hair tumbled over her shoulders while she enthusiastically told me all the reasons why we absolutely could not have a repeat of our night together. The way her green eyes flashed and heated when I ran my hand over the back of hers. The way her freckled brow furrowed when I told her we could be whatever she wanted us to be, that I was happy just to be able to see her face every day. As if it was impossible for her to believe that someone could feel that way about her.

  It seems insane that I met her less than twenty-four hours ago because she already feels dug deep into my bones. Like we were meant to meet. Meant to crash into each other the way we did last night.

  Like I was meant to know her.

  I don’t entirely know what to do with all the feelings swarming around inside me. Not once in ten years have I ever met anyone who made me feel. There has only been one woman in my entire thirty-four years who made me feel, and I married her. I loved her with everything in me, and I know without one single doubt that I would have kept on loving her for the rest of my life. When she died, I thought that part of my life was over. I had my one great love, and if I couldn’t have the kind of love I had with Lainey, it didn’t seem worth the trouble. I have two great kids and a career I’m proud of, and that was enough for me.

  But then I saw a redhead in a bar, and for the second time in my life, I was a goner. And maybe it’s a little weird to have feelings like this for someone who isn’t my wife for the very first time—like stretching out muscles after the longest night’s sleep—but it doesn’t feel wrong. Lainey was a romantic right down to her core, and I know in my bones that if I ignore what I feel for Maddy, Lainey would kick my ass until I did something about it.

  So yeah, there’s only one woman I want staring at me, even if she seems determined not to. Or, at least, she thinks she is. I smile a little, thinking of the way we left things earlier today. The look on her face when I dropped the bag on her desk and left her office. The surprised confusion. The crinkle in her nose when she looked at me like she was trying to figure me out. I chuckle to myself, thinking that I would have loved to be there when she opened the bag and saw what was inside.

  Go figure that the first person I’ve met in ten years who I feel a connection with that goes deeper than just a first date or a night or two of fun would be the one person I should probably steer clear from in any way that isn’t professional.

  Alanis Morisette would have a thing or two to say about that.

  The thing is, there’s a part of me that’s never been much of a rule follower. It’s been buried for the past decade under the responsibilities that come with two kids and life as a professional athlete, but last night with Maddy awakened something in me. Something I haven’t felt in years. Something that makes me feel authentically myself, like a missing puzzle piece slotting back into place.

  I want to chase that feeling, bad decisions be damned.

  With a grin, I pull out my phone and unlock it, tapping on my grocery delivery app to stock up on some supplies.

  Maddy’s about to see just how good a friend Cam Lowry can be.

  “Uh, Dad? Game’s over.”

  I shake myself out of my thoughts at Riley’s voice, relegating grocery delivery and my plans for Maddy to later and shoving my phone into my pocket, glancing at the ice to see both teams filing off. All around us, spectators are getting up, and my daughter stands in front of me, her hands on her hips, studying me like she’s never seen me before.

  “Thanks, Ry,” I say, standing up.

  “Where did you go?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In your head.” She follows me off the bleachers to the rink door so we can meet up with Ethan but doesn’t stop talking. “You never don’t pay attention during Ethan’s games, so whatever you were thinking about must have been important.”

  Important? Yes.

  Potentially life-changing? Also yes.

  I toss an arm around my daughter’s shoulders, feeling a warm glow when she doesn’t duck away like she sometimes does when her supremely uncool father shows affection in public. “You’re pretty smart Ry, you know that?”

  She grins up at me. “In fact, I do know that. So, what were you thinking about?”

  I shrug as we push open the door into the lobby of the arena. “Just work stuff. The regular season starts next week, so life is about to get busy again.”

  It’s not the truth of what I was thinking about, but it’s definitely a truth. Even all these years into my football career, the beginning of the regular season and the switch back to travel and game day mode and the regular practice schedule is always an adjustment.

  I glance down at Riley as she shrugs too, looking so much like me I have to chuckle. “It’s your job, Dad. It’ll be fine. It’s not like we’ve never done this before. You’ve been a football player for like a thousand years. Stop worrying so much—you’re killing my vibe.”

  Laughing, I ruffle her hair, and this time when she does duck away, I laugh even harder. “Well, I definitely wouldn’t want to kill your vibe. Come on, let’s go find your brother.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before my sweaty, disheveled son comes flying across the lobby, his gait uneven as the massive hockey bag slung over his shoulder bounces with every step he takes. “Did you see my goal?” He beams at us, dropping the bag and throwing himself at me. “I did the slap shot!”

  “It was killer,” I say, pressing a kiss to his damp hair and handing him the Gatorade I brought for him. “All that extra practice is really paying off.”

  “I know!” he says with a grin before turning to Riley. “Did you see it, Ry?”

  “You bet,” she says, giving him a thumbs up. “It was awesome, but I’m not hugging you because you smell gross.” She turns to me, wrinkling her nose. “Can we go home so Ethan can shower before dinner? I can’t eat tacos when he smells like that.”

  “Tacos?” Ethan says excitedly, cracking open the Gatorade and chugging half the bottle in one go. “Oh my god, yes. I’m starving. Can I order ten?”

  Laughing, I slide an arm around each of my kids as we head for the exit. “You can have as many as you want, but Riley’s right. You’re pretty gross, dude. We’re definitely going home first so you can shower.”

  “But Dad, I’m starving right now. I’ll die if I don’t eat something right this minute.”

  “And you say I’m dramatic,” Riley mutters.

  Ethan narrows his eyes at her. “You’re an actress. You literally are dramatic.”

  Riley gives him a smug smile. “I’m an excellent actress. The only reason we’re getting tacos tonight is because my serious acting skills got me the lead in the play.”

  Ethan stops cold and stares at his sister. “Wait, you got the lead? Seriously? You’re Sophie?” he asks in an incredulous voice full of pride for his sister that makes me want to wrap him in a hug and never let go.

  “Bet your ass.”

  “Ry, language,” I mutter, mainly because there are other parents around. I’ve never censored my language around my kids, and I’ve always appreciated a well-placed curse word, so swearing is one parenting battle I’ve only ever half-heartedly fought. As long as they’re using the words correctly and not using them in places and at times they shouldn’t, or in a way that hurts anyone, I mainly let it go.

  “Dad, she got the lead!” Ethan says. “If there was ever a time for swearing, it’s now.” He throws his arms around Riley’s waist, hugging her tightly.

  “Oh my god, gross!” she exclaims. “You’re all sweaty and disgusting.”

  She may think he’s all sweaty and gross, but she doesn’t do one single thing to push him away. Instead, she hugs him right back, and my chest swells with emotion.

  “I love you guys.” My words come out of nowhere, but neither of my kids bats an eye, well used to my spontaneous expressions of emotion. I don’t need a therapist to tell me that my almost pathological need to tell the people close to me how I feel about them as often as possible comes from the sudden and harrowing way I lost my wife ten years ago, and the immediate and intense way I learned that life is short and not a single one of us is guaranteed a tomorrow.

  I figure in the hierarchy of ways I could be fucked up by losing the woman I loved when we had barely even begun to build a life, needing to tell my kids I love them more than the average parent does probably isn’t the worst thing in the world.

  “We know, Dad,” Ethan says. “Now, can we please talk about what you’re going to feed me at home before we go out to dinner? There’s no way I can wait an entire ride home, a whole shower, and a ride to a restaurant to eat.”

  I chuckle, digging into my pocket for the car keys. “Grilled cheese? I’ll make it while you shower.”

  “Definitely yes!” Ethan says. “Can I have two? One won’t be enough.”

  I laugh again, never not shocked by the amount of food he can pack away after a game. “So, what you’re saying is it’s a two-dinner night?”

  “And don’t forget about dessert,” Riley pipes up. “You promised me ice cream.”

  “Ice cream is such a good idea,” Ethan says enthusiastically.

  My response to him is drowned out by the rumble of an engine as a cherry-red Jeep Wrangler swings into the lot. The way the driver whips the car into the parking spot next to my Range Rover just on the wrong side of too fast is a direct contrast to the music currently pouring out of the Jeep’s wide-open windows. “River Deep, Mountain High” by Celine Dion plays so loudly that it’s possible the entire city of Pittsburgh can hear it, and I can’t help but smile at this mass of contradictions in front of me.

  The big, burly car.

  The tiny twin disco balls hanging from the rearview mirror that the driver flicks before cutting the engine.

  The pink Puck It sticker on the rear window.

  The music straight out of a karaoke bar on nineties night.

  And then, when the Jeep door swings open, my smile widens to a full-blown grin because the person currently hopping out of the car with a giant purple bag over one shoulder and a pair of hockey skates slung over the other, sunglasses pushed up on her head and holding back a mass of red hair, is the woman who has taken up permanent residence in my thoughts.

  What are the fucking chances?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CAM

  “Looking good, Wildcat,” I call across the parking lot, forgetting for a second that I have a kid on each side of me.

  Oops.

  But the oversight is worth it when Maddy’s head whips in my direction, and for the second before she schools her face into a neutral expression, I see it. The flash of heat in her eyes, like she thinks of last night every time she looks at me the same way I do when I look at her. The light flush that creeps up her cheeks.

  And then, as quickly as it was there, it’s gone, and she’s stalking across the parking lot like she has places to be and asses to kick.

  I wish I didn’t find that so fucking hot.

  That’s a lie. I’m glad to find it so fucking hot. I’m glad for every minute I get to look at her. I also suddenly have an entirely new list of things I want to know about her, starting with the reason for the skates slung over her shoulder.

  “Your car is really cool!” Riley calls, unprompted, as Maddy crosses the lot. I can tell she was going to try and sail right by me, but at the sound of Riley’s voice, she hesitates, reluctantly changing directions to walk towards us. God bless my daughter and her uncanny ability to talk to anyone about anything when she’s in the right mood.

  “Thanks,” Maddy says, glancing between my two kids with a smile but avoiding eye contact with me in a way that has me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Celine is the great love of my life.”

  Riley laughs. “You named your car Celine?”

  Maddy smiles, adjusting the skates over her shoulder. “I sure did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my car is awesome, and it deserved to be named after someone as amazing as Celine Dion.”

  I have no idea why I find the idea that Maddy named her car after a nineties pop star so endearing, but I really fucking do.

  Riley furrows her brow. “Who’s Celine Dion?”

  Maddy gasps dramatically, holding a hand to her heart. Now she actually does look at me, and I feel a little zing when her gorgeous green eyes lock on mine. “I assume these children belong to you, and I have to say, the fact that one of them is not acquainted with the undeniable queen of power ballads has me calling your parenting skills into question.”

  I chuckle, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. “They do, indeed, belong to me. This is Riley and Ethan, and I take the entire blame for their lack of nineties pop ballad knowledge.”

  “He’s a pretty good dad,” Riley says with a shrug then she shoots me an evil grin. “Most of the time. How do you know him, anyway? He called you Wildcat, which I guess is a nickname, and he’s only ever given nicknames to me and Ethan.”

  Maddy’s gaze shoots back to mine, and I can hear her as if she spoke the words out loud.

  Be cool and don’t fuck this up.

  “We work together,” I tell my kids, praying neither of them asks me why I call her Wildcat, because there’s no way my brain can conjure up a kid appropriate explanation for that question that won’t have Maddy kicking me straight in the balls. “Her real name is Maddy, and she’s the head psychologist for the Renegades.”

  “What’s a psychologist?” Ethan asks.

  Maddy turns her attention to my son, and something about the way she’s standing here, talking to them and answering their questions like it’s the most natural thing on earth, has my heart kicking up in my chest. “It means I’m in charge of making sure all the players are mentally prepared to play the game. They can talk to me about things that might be making it hard for them to play their best, and I help them find a way to fix it.”

  “Like when I sprained my ankle playing hockey last year and I was afraid to go back on the ice when it was healed?” Ethan asks curiously.

  Maddy bends down so she can look him in the eye. “Exactly like that. When athletes get injured, it can be hard for them to get back to playing because they’re afraid of getting hurt again. I help them face that fear and go back even stronger than they were before they got hurt.”

  Ethan nods seriously, like he gets it, and the care she took to explain that to my son in a way that he would understand makes me feel all the things. “Do you play hockey like me? You’re at the arena and you have hockey skates on your shoulder.”

  “I did,” Maddy says with a smile. “I played hockey from the time I was seven years old until I graduated from college. Now I just skate for fun as much as I can.”

  Oh, holy fuck. I’m suddenly assaulted by an image of Maddy flying down the ice in full gear with a hockey stick in her hand, and I don’t know why that’s so hot, but it really fucking is.

  Don’t you dare get a boner standing here in the parking lot with your kids.