Page 88 of Drop the Mitts

“I’ve got a team.” His hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “And you do too, if you would stop being a stubborn ass and use us.”

“I texted you! I asked you to come?—”

“And now you’re going to let everyone else in, too. You’re going to stop questioning whether you’re making the perfect choice because there isn’t one. You’re not going to jeopardizeyour career because you don’t want to make a mistake.” He drew a deep breath, and his arms relaxed an inch. “I’ve done this before. When everything happened with Luc. I’ve learned this the hard way, and I don’t want you to burn out like I did.”

Grace’s mouth went dry. “But the stakes are too high and?—”

“To hell they are. The only way we lose is by cutting each other out, do you hear me?” His jaw flexed. “You’re trying to win the game with a five-man forecheck and no goalie.”

Her lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

“You don’t have to take every shift, Grace. You don’t have to carry the whole ice. Sometimes . . . ” He leaned in, forehead pressing to hers. “Sometimes, you have to trust your teammates to take the drop.”

Her breath hitched, the ache in her chest threatening to bury her. “What if I can’t?”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

She shook her head, throat too tight to answer. He pulled back enough to see her face, eyes burning into hers, and she was suddenly standing inside that plastic tube, waiting for the floor to drop out from under her. “I don’t think I’m built for letting go.”

He smiled. “Yeah, you are. You just haven’t seen what it feels like when someone’s got your six.”

Chapter

Thirty-One

André

André balanced Hopeon one knee, making ridiculous horse sounds as she grabbed two chubby fists full of his hair.

“Easy, cowgirl,” he muttered, ducking his head just as she squealed with delight and drooled down his shirt collar. “Hope, please, I just did laundry.”

“She’s already calling your bluffs.” Polk sprawled across the floor with one of Hope’s stuffed foxes over his face. “You haven’t done your laundry in weeks. Otherwise you’d be wearing that old-ass T-shirt.”

“The dusty-blue one!” Country laughed from the couch.

André flipped him off and earned a delighted cackle from the baby.

“Language,” Jenna hissed from the kitchen without even turning around. Her hair was a frizzed halo around her face, her sleeves half-soaked from rinsing fruit, and the oven timer was beeping like a car alarm. “André, hand me that platter.”

“You own a platter?” he asked, hoisting Hope under his arms and standing with a groan. “What’s this, a royal banquet?”

Jenna whirled around with a spatula in one hand and a twitching eye. “I have to impress these people. Shut the hell up and put it on the counter.”

Country laughed. “I love it when you come over. Takes all the pressure off.”

André grinned and pulled the white ceramic plate down from the cupboard over the fridge. Grace stood stiffly beside the counter, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, staring down at her phone.

She looked good. Even tense and pale and biting at the inside of her cheek. Probably because of it. The idea that he could be the one to unravel her made his jeans tight. Every single time.

André swallowed. They made a plan. Together. For once, she hadn’t tried to do it all herself and brought him along for moral support. He wasn’t sure which part of that made his chest ache more. The fact that she’d trusted him, or the fact that it clearly scared the hell out of her.

He crossed the room, gently handed Hope to Polk, and then made his way over to Grace. “You okay?”

She looked up at him with eyes too bright, too sharp, and too damn wide. “Mm. Yep. Great.”

“Cool. Yeah. Seems like it.” Grace shot him a look. He didn’t budge. “Grace. You’re vibrating like a fridge light. I think the only reason you’re still upright is because you forgot how to sit down.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could throw something sharp back at him, the doorbell rang. All the air snapped out of the room.

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