“Missing the glory days?” Jordie asks, catching me watching the rookie.
“Don’t say that,” Justin grumbles. “I already feel old as shit.”
“That’s ’cause you are. All of you. Bunch of old farts if I ever saw any.”
I scoff. “Yeah? Well, this old fart’s in talks with Nashville.”
Jordie’s mouth drops open. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
Grant beams with pride. “That’s great, Parrish. I’m happy for you.”
“Another for number twenty-two!” Justin calls out, waving down the waitress.
“It’s not official yet, so hold the damn parade.”
There’s a commotion at the bar, and we turn to see Preston staring down at what looks like a fruity cocktail spilled all over his front. Some chick with long blond hair presses napkins against his wet shirt, clearly feeling him up under the guise of helping.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” the girl says, the empty glass in her hand evidence of a drunken collision. “I didn’t even see you there.”
“That’s a fat lie,” Justin says under his breath.
He’s right. I can count on two hands how many times some random woman “accidentally” spilled her drink on me to get my attention. Plus, Preston is like six foot four and huge. She saw him, all right.
“It’s fine,” Preston grunts.
“I’ll order you another,” she says, waving to the bartender, but Preston is already pushing past her toward the front door, leaving her where she stands.
She turns and hisses, “Fucking jerk!” before storming off toward the bathrooms, a slew of equally drunk friends trailing behind her.
Grant and I exchange a look. Standing from the table, I intercept Preston before he’s out the door.
“Relax, rookie. If you’re gonna play in the big leagues, you gotta let them flirt. Rumors of asshole behavior spread like STDs around here. No need to take off after one spilled drink.”
“Asshole behavior? I’m not the—” He cuts himself off when he notices all the eyes in the room on him. “I’m not leaving. I’ve got a spare shirt in the car.”
I grin. “Go change. I’ll buy your next beer.”
With a nod, he heads out the door.
“We don’t have to haze the newbies with all these puck bunnies around. They do it for us,” Justin mutters into his pint glass.
“What’s the news on Nashville?” Grant asks, redirecting the conversation.
I sit back down. “They’re interested. My agent’s waiting to hear back from me on my decision.”
“So, if you say yes, what’s next?”
“I guess I move to Nashville.”
Grant furrows his brow. “Becca and the kids too?”
“I sure as hell hope so. I’ve gotta talk to Becs more. Make sure we’re on the same page and all that.”
Jordie leans forward, drama junkie that he is. “Why wouldn’t you be on the same page?”
“I mean, we are. She’s supportive and all, but . . .”
“But?”
I scratch the back of my head, feeling tired already. I can’t imagine how my wife must be feeling. “We’re expecting.”
“Wait, another?” Justin asks, surprise written all over his face.
I nod in response. I’m still processing the news myself.
Jordie chokes out an incredulous laugh. “Ding, ding, ding! Round four?”
Grant reaches across the table to squeeze my shoulder. “Congratulations, man. That’s amazing.”
“Thanks. You guys responded to the news a hell of a lot better than I did.”
“How’s Becca doing?” Grant asks.
I stare into my beer. “She’s okay.”
Grant narrows his eyes, smelling bullshit like it’s caked on my face. “And you?”
I try out my best nonchalant shrug, but if I’m being honest, fuck if I know. We’re losing our minds with three kids already. Add a fourth to the mix, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to pursue my career, knowing I’d be leaving Becca at home, so outnumbered. I have enough guilt about playing again already.
If I had the balls, I’d admit the truth to myself. My hockey career is over. I had a solid run, a fucking fantastic one, even. But shit happens, right? Life changes and you move on, left with only memories of those good times.
Tonight, I don’t have the balls. Instead, I talk Nashville stats with the guys and grab Preston that beer. I stay out late and don’t look at the clock.
For a little while longer, I let myself pretend I can reconcile my dreams with my reality.
6
* * *
BECCA
I’m starting to think the universe has a personal vendetta against me.
Bishop woke us up at the ass-crack of dawn on a weekend morning, then had a tantrum until I agreed to let him watch cartoons in the den. Around seven, the twins wouldn’t take the bottle, still refusing to eat anything that doesn’t come straight from my nipple. Then, around eight, I puked in the kitchen sink.
Just your average Saturday morning, right?
I’m dozing on the couch when Owen comes back from his morning run. He usually takes a longer route, so I’m a little startled when he returns in under an hour.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, kicking off his shoes.
“You just surprised me. Is it supposed to rain or something?”
“No. I just couldn’t stop thinking. We should talk.”
Ah. The long-awaited later has finally arrived. “Okay.”
My stomach feels unsettled, and I really hope I don’t throw up again. He sits down next to me, and a whiff of his masculine scent hits my nose.
God, I miss going on runs with him. Ever since the pregnancies . . . well, let’s just say my body isn’t quite the same. I’m not the spry, bouncy twenty-something I used to be. Plus, running makes me pee my pants.
Owen takes my hand in his, caressing his thumb over my knuckles, and I feel tears forming behind my eyes already. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great. Nauseated and tired.”
He nods. “Want some mint tea? Some toast?”
My heart swells. When I was pregnant with the twins, I had awful morning sickness. Like head glued to the toilet all morning sickness. On those hellish days, Owen would always brew me some tea and make me breakfast, something simple to settle my stomach.
“That sounds perfect.” I offer him a weak smile.
When Owen comes back from the kitchen, a steaming mug in one hand and a plate of peanut butter toast and sliced bananas in the other, the tears begin to fall.
He’s used to the pregnancy hormones, so he doesn’t badger me with questions like what’s the matter? or did I do something wrong? like he did when Bishop was still in my belly. Instead, he just lets me cry, wiping tears from my cheeks with his thumbs and wrapping me in his impossibly strong arms.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs over and over.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if it is gonna be okay. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this again. I can’t imagine having a newborn. I’ve barely begun weaning the twins off breast milk, and I have no idea how I’m going to nurse another kid. My boobs are pretty much deflated balloons at this point, and—”