Page 13 of Breakaway Daddies

She arches a brow in a silent question, but I just roll my eyes and wave a hand through the air as if shooing away an unwelcome thought.

“It’s for morale,” I say, offering a vague explanation that barely scratches the surface of the truth.

Rowan manages a faint smile, his lips curling upward in a way that suggests he’s smug despite the pain that’s rendering him barely functional.

At that moment, the ambulance crew burst into the small office space, their presence announced by the rapid clatter of their boots against the cold tile floor.

The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment intermingles with the static crackle of their radios, creating a symphony of urgency that fills the room and heightens the tension in the air.

One of the EMTs, a wiry man with a focused demeanor, kneels by Rowan’s side and swiftly assesses his vitals, his fingers expertly finding the pulse on Rowan’s wrist.

“What’s his status?” he asks.

Ally immediately launches into a detailed but efficient rundown of Rowan’s condition. I step back, giving the professionals room to work as they prepare to transfer Rowan onto the waiting stretcher.

Just as they begin to lift him, Rowan’s fingers twitch, reaching toward mine in a silent plea for connection.

For a split second, I hesitate, uncertainty flickering through my mind. Then, before doubt can take hold, I reach out and grasp his hand firmly, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine as I squeeze gently.

“You’d better hold me to that date,” he mutters, sounding somehow both determined and vulnerable as they lift him.

I swallow hard against the tightness in my chest, emotions swirling tumultuously within me. “Yeah,” I say, and it comes out barely above a whisper. “I will.”

Rowan’s grip on my hand feels like it’s made of steel, his fingers clamping down with a strength that’s surprising for someone in his condition. Despite being half-conscious, his hold is unyielding, and no amount of gentle tugging on my part can free my fingers from his grasp.

“You’re stuck with me, Jinx.”

His eyes are barely cracked open, and his words are slurred, but there’s a light chuckle on his lips that makes my chest tighten with a strange mix of frustration and affection.

I let out a long, resigned sigh, rolling my eyes but unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get all romantic on me now,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.

The EMTs, familiar with the chaos of game nights, don’t protest when I climb into the ambulance alongside him.

The sirens scream to life, filling the air with their urgent cry as we speed away from the rink, red and blue lights painting the interior with their rhythmic dance.

Rowan’s fingers twitch against my palm, and I glance down at him, noting the pallor of his skin. His face, usually so full of life, looks washed out, his lips parted as he draws shallow breaths through whatever pain is gripping him.

A pang of worry shoots through me, tightening around my heart like a vice.

I know I should be focused on the implications for the team. Rowan’s absence, even temporarily, spells trouble for us. He’s a fortress in front of the net, the kind of goalie whose presence is irreplaceable.

With the team already stretched thin by injuries, the thought of losing him is a nightmare. I can practically hear Coach’s voice, thick with frustration and concern, echoing in my mind.

Still, despite the turmoil, my thoughts keep drifting back to Rowan himself. To the warmth of his hand in mine, the way his fingers instinctively curl tighter, seeking comfort in the contact.

And inexplicably, my heart begins to race.

CHAPTERFOUR

Thomas

Bruno’s been brooding eversince Rowan got hurt—and by brooding, I mean he’s descended into a level of gloom and doom that feels almost palpable.

He tends to be on the serious side, but this is something else altogether.

He’s slumped on the couch in our home, arms crossed tightly over his chest like some kind of medieval warlord surveying a battlefield with a stern and unyielding gaze. Only this battlefield is merely our cozy living room, and the war he’s fighting is entirely within the confines of his own mind.

I can practically see the storm of his thoughts swirling around him like a dark cloud. Rowan’s out of commission. We’re down a goalie.

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