I opened my lips to argue, but then I shut my mouth. Because he was right. He was a grown man and could make his own decisions.
Just like I could.
“Okay, then,” I said and headed toward the kitchen.
“Fiona,” Brogan said, stopping me before I set one foot in the kitchen. “If you clean right now, I swear on everything—”
“You’ll what?” I asked, turning around to face him again, a smile on my lips.
“I’ll be forced to put Skye in her crib, toss you over my shoulder, and put you to bed myself.”
The breath stalled in my lungs as fire licked down the center of me. I held his gaze, and those hazel eyes showed me nothing but sincerity. He’d do it. He’d make good on his promise, and then some.
And I hated that a part of me wanted to push that boundary and see just how far he’d take it if I refused to obey him.
But the little bundle against his chest quashed those notions. She was finally content and half asleep already, and I would absolutely not ruin that.
So, instead, I huffed a laugh. “Fine,” I said. “Just come get me if you need a break.”
“Get some sleep,” he said, and another warm shiver danced over my skin at the demand in his tone. Fuck, I liked it way too much. Just like I enjoyed it when he was endearing. Or when he was laughing. Or when he was tearing up the ice like a damned warrior.
And as I made it to the safety of my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, I realized I liked way too much about Brogan Grant. And now there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
9
Brogan
The first game of the real season was always tense. There was a driving need to win, to come out and draw first blood. Was it superstitious or foolish to believe the first game set the tone for the rest of the season? Absolutely. Did we all still think that way? Yep. Two of the rookies had even yacked up their dinners before we’d taken the ice.
There were two minutes left in the third, and we were tied with Tampa. A tie was decent. Respectful, even. But it sure as hell wasn’t a win.
The roar of the crowd dimmed to nothing, the sound eclipsed in my ears by the thunderous beat of my own heart as I flew off the bench for my shift. My skates ate up the ice as I charged forward, following Axel as he took the puck across the blue line and into Tampa Bay’s zone.
Two defenders pushed Axel toward the boards, and he sent the puck my direction. Their center rushed to catch me as I caught the puck with my stick. I kicked on my afterburners and flew. I was many things on the ice, but speed had always been my number one asset unless the situation called for glove-dropping.
My world narrowed to the burn in my thighs and the grip of my skates on the ice as I bolted toward the goal on the breakaway. The goalie drew back into the crease, mirroring my movements.
Glove or stick?
GLOVE OR STICK?
I deked, and the goalie dove right, leaving the net wide open above his shoulder. I took the shot without hesitation, raising my hands in triumph as it hit the back of the net. The lamps lit and the noise of the crowd rushed back in, flooding my head as the fans came to their feet.
“Fuck yes!” Axel swamped me in a hug, slapping my back.
I was swarmed by other Reapers on the ice for a few seconds as celebratory music blasted through Reaper Arena’s sound system. Once free of the melee, I turned toward our family section and grinned, pointing up at my girls, Skye and Fiona.
“That one’s for you!” I shouted, knowing damn-well there was no way they could hear me, not above the roaring fans. The noise was so loud it vibrated the glass. Not to mention, Skye was wearing noise-canceling headphones as she snuggled into Fiona’s chest.
My girls. Skye was, without a doubt. But Fiona? When had I started thinking of her as mine?
When you stroked her to an orgasm on your kitchen counters.
I shut that line of thinking down and celebrated with my teammates as the game came to an end.
Game one was a win. Our season was off to a fucking fantastic start!
The mood in the locker room was raucous, and even Cannon had brought out the rare smile as we got out of our gear.
Then there was Maxim, whose face was set in such austere lines that he looked like we’d lost.
“And the problem is?” I asked, knowing full well he had one.
“That second Tampa goal was my fault,” he muttered, ripping off his shoulder pads like they’d done something to insult him. “I was too fucking slow, and he got away from me.”
“Dude,” Sterling groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, all too familiar with his brother’s unique ability to suck the joy out of any victory with his post-game analysis where he always found himself lacking.
“And?” I just raised my eyebrows and continued stripping out of my gear. “What else you got over there?” It was best for Maxim if he got it all out at once, rather than letting him stew in his hypercritical shit all night.
“And I was slow off the bench in the second period. I could have probably made a play if I hadn’t taken those extra seconds.” His jaw flexed as he tore at his laces.
“So how many laps are you going to punish yourself with?” I asked quietly, tucking my gear away in the locker behind me. “Just fifty this time?”
The guy had a small rink put into his basement—just a little bigger than Cannon’s, and I was one of the only people who knew he used it to punish himself. Well, Caspian had known, and had even managed to temper his best friend’s misplaced guilt, but he was up in Minnesota now, so I guess that only left me...and Sterling.
Not that Maxim was ever going to listen to his brother.
“Shut up.” Maxim rolled his eyes and forced a smile. “I mean, it turned out okay, right? We won.”
“Right.” I nodded. “So, why don’t you take a night off and just enjoy it?”
“But you’re still going to find a way to tell yourself the score should have been higher if you’d just...insert flaw here.” Sterling held out his hand and pointed to his empty palm. “Aren’t you?”
“Why don’t we talk about what bar we’re going to tonight instead?” Briggs interrupted, glancing between the brothers.
“Scythe!” everyone answered in unison.
The popular, local bar was owned by Sawyer’s wife, Echo, and usually I’d be down for a little celebration, but not tonight. I was finding more and more of my happiness at home, in the calm—and fine, equally chaotic—atmosphere that came with having a five month-old baby.
“Let me guess,” Maxim titled his head at me. “You’re headed home.”
“Yep.” I grabbed my towel. For the first time in my life, what I had waiting at home for me was better than anything I could find by going out.
I placed Skye on her back, in the middle of her crib, and backed away slowly as I held my breath. Her noise machine was going, but fuck, even my heartbeat felt too loud. It had only taken a half hour to get to her to sleep, but there was zero part of me that wanted to go through the rocking and pacing routine we’d developed again.
Creeping out of her door, I twisted the doorhandle to avoid the click that always came with shutting the door, then slowly released the knob to close it silently.