Page 7 of Pucking Fate

The idea of picking up and moving Finley to Greensboro rattles around in my head like a loose puck on the ice.

It’s been days since Preston brought it up so casually, as if he was only asking me to switch up my laundry detergent or try out a new coffee flavor. But this isn’t a simple decision. It would be a huge change. And it sure as hell doesn’t feel casual.

Just seeing the cardboard boxes around the house when Preston was packing gave me an anxiety attack. He moved out the day after he told me he had officially signed with the Bobcats, as if he was in a hurry to get to Elle.

Not that I blame him.

Still, his absence has put me in a foul mood. At this rate, I’ll become as cranky as my loner brother was before Elle came into his life.

Preston’s dating life was almost as non-existent as mine before he met the love of his life in a ploy to make her ex, Christian, jealous.

It’s crazy how things work out sometimes.

I know I should be happy for them, but the house, Preston’s house, is too quiet, too empty without his large presence in it.

There’s also this doubt that keeps creeping up on me. Doubt that I may not be able to make it on my own without Preston’s support.

Finley misses him just as much as I do. He’s been moping around the house, refusing to go outside and play field hockey, his favorite summer activity, with his friends. Instead, he’s just been sitting in his room stacking his Legos alone.

When I tried to play with him yesterday, he told me I wasn’t building the bridge the right way, the way Uncle Preston built them, which is why they kept falling.

Seeing the sadness on my son’s face, the first of its kind, is nearly enough to make me throw in the towel and start the daunting task of packing.

The thought of uprooting my life yet again, leaving behind everything we’ve built here in D.C. — just to follow my brother like a needy puppy dog seems insane. Well, to be near my brother and Christian.

My stomach knots just thinking about that handsome blond playboy.

The hockey star is a walking temptation, all rugged jawline, sharp hazel eyes, and a body sculpted from years on racing up and down the ice. The kind of body that makes girls swoon at his games, especially all the rabid puck bunnies.

Despite the short duration of our relationship years ago before I got pregnant, I still feel sick thinking about Christian with anyone else.

And if he’s part of Finley’s life on a regular basis, I’ll have no choice but to endure the endless revolving door of the beautiful women coming and going.

I’ve tried to tell myself that I don’t want my son to have that kind of role model in his life, and god forbid, look up to a guy who carelessly sleeps with women and tosses them away.

Really, though, I’m…jealous of those women, even though Christian was only mine for a few weeks. Not long enough to even refer to him as mine since we barely dated after Preston urged me to say yes to going out with his best friend.

During the championship playoffs, more than one girl held up a sign asking Christian to marry her while others think he’s a hockey god. I’ve seen clips of games where some girls even threw their bras and panties onto the ice!

Girls can be idiots sometimes. How do they not see the man for what he is—a carefree playboy who will sleep with them and rush to leave them seconds later?

I hate that I was once an idiot for Christian Riley, and somehow, I can’t break free of his presence in my life, no matter how much I wish I could.

Now, thanks to my brother telling Christian he’s Finley’s father, I have no choice but to deal with him and all his…yumminess.

My cell phone rings, thankfully interrupting my idiotic sexy thoughts about the man I can’t have as I recline on the sofa in the eerily silent house.

I don’t recognize the number, but since it’s a Greensboro area code, it could be Elle calling from her salon, so I decide to answer it. “Hello?”

There’s nothing but silence.

“Helloooo?” I drawl. “Is anyone there?”

“Hey.”

One word and my heart freezes solid mid-beat.

“It’s Christian,” he says, even though it’s unnecessary. “Christian Riley,” he adds, as if there is more than one Christian in my life. “Maya? Preston gave me your number.”

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