A shiver runs through my body at just the idea of that. “That’s the plan. I’ll pull out all the stops. I’ll even use my kid to make it happen. So, get ready, Counselor.”
She giggles against my lips. “Oh, Kirby, I swear to you, I’m trying.”
I kiss her once more. “That’s all I can ask for.”
Because let’s be honest, once she allows herself to love me, I won’t need a Stanley Cup ring.
I’ll have Celeste and her.
Nothing could ever compare to them.
Chapter Twenty
Kirby
* * *
It’s really frustrating to sit during a hockey game.
Even though I know it’s only preseason, it doesn’t matter. I hate it. I am aware it’s for the young kids to shine and figure out what it’s like to play in an NHL game, but I’m still beyond frustrated. This is the second game I’ve sat at, and all I can think is I could be home with Celeste. I could be holding her, putting her to bed, feeding her, and playing in the sand, but all that is now happening on the phone. Jean…God, she is an angel, is making sure I have my time with my girl. She’ll set the iPad up on the floor, and I’m able to play with my daughter. At night, she’s okay with doing the same so I can watch Celeste sleep.
I didn’t realize how hard this was going to be.
When we were in the Cup final, Celeste was like a potato. She didn’t move much at the time, and I trusted Lilly to make sure she was taken care of. But now, Celeste is not only moving and doing things, but I have this ungodly fear that Lilly could come snatch my kid. Not because she wants Celeste, but because she wants to hurt me. It has been over a week since our court date and still no contact. I can’t go an hour without some kind of update from Jean, but Lilly has gone almost a month. It’s beyond me, it’s unfathomable, and I hate her for it. I hate that I have hate in my heart for this woman, but I do. How can she do this to our baby girl? It’s Lilly’s blood, her flesh, and…nothing. The situation makes me irate, but then I think of Jaylin, and soon it all floats away.
Unlike Lilly, the mother, by the second day of my being on the road, Jaylin asked if it was okay if she went over to hang with Celeste. I couldn’t say yes quick enough. It has been such a help because when she comes by, Jean is able to run errands more easily or do anything else she needs to do. Though, from what I’m being told by both of them, they’ve become buddies, Jaylin and Jean. They had a girls’ night and play-painted Celeste’s nails while they did theirs. I’ve noticed Jaylin spends more time at my place than her own. Though she hasn’t slept over. I don’t want to let it bother me, and of course, my mind goes to every reason I could be doing something wrong, but then I remind myself of the real reason. She may trust me and she may feel safe, but she still isn’t ready mentally, and that is totally fine. I understand, and I will be supportive. No matter how much I want to wrap my body around hers and never let her leave. I’ve never been with a woman who doesn’t want me to do everything. Or has to depend on me. While it’s something I am trying to navigate, I will do whatever I need to so that Jaylin is comfortable.
For anyone to go through that is straight-up bullshit, but to know someone who came back and succeeded after such horror is awe-inspiring. I battle my own demons, and I hate it. I hate the pain, the anxiety it has given me, and I hate that Jaylin has to deal with demons of her own. I’d take them all just to make her smile. Just to guarantee she’d never cry another tear over that jackass.
I begged for a name, but she wouldn’t give it to me. She probably knows I’d find him and kill him with my bare hands. She tells me she already defeated him by fulfilling all her dreams. I hadn’t even realized that I had defeated my past by doing the same. I’m not my father. I will never be my mother who abandoned me, and I am a beast on the ice. I did this. I’ve won, and I wouldn’t have realized that if it weren’t for Jaylin.
She’s incredible.
I lean on the little balcony of our box, running my fingers over the condensation of my glass of water. We’re in Las Vegas, playing the Knights, and we’re up by one. Moon and I played the last game, so tonight, we sit as we watch our team play. Nico is in goal by choice; it wasn’t his night to play, but he wasn’t happy with his performance the other night. In his defense, we had a bunch of kids defending him, and they dropped the ball.
One being Evan Adler.
I don’t get it. God help the kid. He had his first therapy session our first day on the road, but I don’t think he opened up the way he should. He told me he was ready. But every night, it’s like he is on the ice—his body is moving, but he isn’t there. He’s completely removed himself from the situation, and it isn’t good. Like now, he has the puck, skating up, but nothing is leaving his lips. He is mute. He doesn’t talk; he doesn’t call plays or even communicate with his teammates. He’s a body on the ice.
From where I am, I can hear Owen yell his name. That wakes him up. With such skill and proficiency, Evan assesses the situation, lifts the puck in a pass to his brother that is over the stick of one of the Knights’ forwards. Totally incredible. But when his brother scores with ease, my eyes return to Evan, and he doesn’t even cheer. He just heads back toward the bench, tapping gloves. Only going through the motions. It kills me. I’ve tried to talk to the kid during games, but I can see the fear in his eyes. It’s numbing him.
He has what it takes to be his dad, a shutout kind of defensemen with a killer shot, but if he doesn’t get over this fear or figure out how to control it, he won’t make it. I lean back in my chair, frustrated since I take responsibility for the kid. I took him under my wing and have said over and over that it will be him and his brother taking the two spots. If he doesn’t start playing the way he knows how and how I know he can, Dart will get it.
“Man, Dart is on fire,” Chandler says from beside me, and my gaze falls on the little showboater. I love the kid; I do. But damn, if he doesn’t have too many bells and whistles to his skating. He skates like an Olympic skater. Arms moving while holding the fucking stick so far out, I don’t know how he controls it. He does, though, and he moves around the defense with ease. He drops the puck back to Owen, who passes it cleanly to Amoore, a forward who was traded in from Chicago, and he shoots, but it’s an easy block. It rebounds off the goalie’s blocker right to Evan’s stick. He’s all by himself, totally alone, and I watch him. His heart is beating so hard, his shoulders are shaking. He pulls back the stick, and I hold my breath as I watch. He’s got this. It’s going to be a killer shot, too. I know it. But he doesn’t move. He stays in the position with his stick pulled back like in a photograph rather than a real game. The puck is stolen by the defense, passed up, which leaves our guys to jump back on the defense. They don’t make it in time, and the Knights score.
“Fuck,” I mutter, and I’m so thankful this game is not televised. Evan would beat himself up at the thought of his dad seeing that. Hell, it gives me anxiety, knowing what the poor kid must be feeling. Owen is agitated, though; I can see him saying something very animated and maybe not so kind to his brother. Evan takes it, his head hanging low as he skates back to the bench.