Page 76 of Rematch
Chelsea closed her eyes, shaking her head, her smile growing even bigger. “He’s read every word ever written about babies since finding out I was pregnant. And to be honest, I love him for it.”
“He’s a good friend, and the world’s greatest godfather. You picked a good one.” Preston reached over, squeezing her shoulder.
Lennon wiggled, letting out a long sound, like he was trying to join their conversation.
Chelsea looked at her phone. “Oh. It’s getting late. Bath time for this little one. You ready for it?”
He nodded. “Hell yeah.”
Chelsea talked him through the bath routine, showing him how to check the water temperature, how to wash Lennon’s hair, and then she pointed out all the bits that were easy to miss, like under his arms, behind his ears, and beneath those rolls in his neck. Lennon splashed, giving them a wide, gummy grin throughout. According to Chelsea, Lennon loved bath time.
From there, they put him in a clean diaper, onesie, and sleep sack.
Preston had also bought a rocking recliner for the nursery.
“This chair is amazing,” she said, running her hand over the soft fabric. “You rock him while I clean up the bath stuff. I’ll get another bottle ready for him. He won’t drink much more, but it’s the only way to get him to go to sleep.”
Preston nodded, not needing to be asked twice. On her way out of the room, Chelsea turned off the overhead light, leaving him and his son alone in the soft, soothing light of the nightlight sitting on the dresser.
Preston rocked Lennon, who was sleepy after exerting all that splashing energy in the bath.
Before he realized it, Preston was humming, the tune to the lullaby his mom used to sing to him popping into his head. He wasn’t much of a singer, but Lennon didn’t seem to mind when he softly crooned, “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…beautiful boy.”
They rocked in peace for a full fifteen minutes before Preston even thought to wonder where Chelsea was. He’d been so intent on the sweet, restful face of his son, he didn’t realize she was leaning against the doorframe, watching them.
When he caught her gaze, he stopped singing, and she approached quietly, handing him the bottle. Then, without saying a word, she left the room, somehow knowing how precious this time alone with Lennon was to him.
Lennon drank this bottle more slowly, the sucking more for comfort than hunger, and before long, his eyes drifted shut. Preston didn’t rise immediately. Instead, he continued to rock, overwhelmed by a love greater than anything he’d ever known.
After a half hour or so, Chelsea peeked into the room. “Okay?” she whispered.
He looked up at her and nodded. Then he forced himself to rise, even though he would have been perfectly content to sit in that chair all night, rocking his son.
He carefully laid Lennon down in the bassinet next to the bed, hovering close for a moment or two to make sure he remained asleep. He made sure the baby monitor he’d bought was pointed in the right direction, checking the feed on the app on his phone, before following Chelsea back to the living room.
“You’re a natural,” she said softly.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders after they sat down on the couch, tucking her tight against him. “Thanks for staying tonight. That was the perfect Christmas gift.”
She lifted her face, her eyes shimmering with tears that told him she’d been as moved by the last hour as he had. They sat there, simply looking at each other, until he finally couldn’t resist leaning closer and giving her a gentle kiss. It was a quick one, lasting no more than a few seconds, so it could be reasoned it was a friendly buss.
However, he knew that argument wouldn’t hold up because of the powerful emotions behind it.
Preston drew the back of his fingers along her cheek, then forced himself to pull away. It was either that or shatter the hell out of her platonic rule.
He hid his satisfied smile when he got the sense it was taking her a moment to compose herself. The impatient part of him liked that, liked that she wasn’t as immune to the sexual tension that radiated between them as she pretended.
Preston released a soft sigh.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Tonight had reinforced his feelings regarding the future of his career. “I hate that I found you again mid-season,” Preston admitted. “Knowing the bath and bedtime routine now is only going to make it harder for me when I have to hit the road again.”
“Hockey is your job,” she stated. “And you’re great at it.”
He appreciated the compliment, loving that she’d become a serious die-hard fan practically overnight. He’d established a habit the past couple of weeks where he called her the morning after a game, simply because he loved hearing her gushing recap. Or in the event of a loss, her “you’ll get ’em next time” encouragement that was always combined with a list of the refs’ shitty calls that cost them the game.
“It’s been my passion for most of my life, but even saying that, I’ve always known that hockey isn’t forever. It’s not exactly a career you hang on to until it’s time to start drawing social security.”
