Page 110 of The Final Faceoff
“She’s already a hockey fan,” John teases, nodding toward my stomach.
Mathieu grins, shaking his head. “How are you feeling? I know you said you’re fine, but these last eight weeks can be a lot.”
I sigh, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at their dad-ing while I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable in my seat. “I’m fine. Swollen, uncomfortable, close to incapable of seeing my feet—but fine.”
Mathieu gives me a knowing look. “We might not have carried any children, but our surrogates had a really hard time the last trimester—Crawford babies are always big.”
I hesitate, wanting to remind them that while this baby is as much Leif’s as she is mine, she doesn’t have Crawford genetics. But I don’t say it. Because at the end of the day, she is a Crawford. Maybe not by blood, but in every other way that counts.
Mathieu leans in, smirking. “Maybe the better question—has she learned to block shots yet? Girls are good at hockey too.”
I rub my stomach, grinning. “She better not be blocking shots, because her dad has that covered.”
And he does. Down on the ice, in the center of all the fury and motion, stands Leif Crawford—the only thing between the net and destruction. My breath catches, my focus locking in on him the way it always does.
His stance is wide, shoulders squared, pads swallowing him up. He’s all precision and control, tracking the puck with a stillness that should be impossible. The storm rages around him—sticks clashing, skates cutting into ice, bodies slamming into boards—but Leif? He’s locked in. Unshakable.
He’s there. Waiting.
The game is tied, the third period winding down, and the energy inside Madison Square Garden is feverish. My heart pounds.
And yeah, part of it is nerves. Part of it is watching Leif do what he was born to do, watching him thrive in the eye of the storm, commanding the space around him in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
But the other part?
The part that’s purely female, purely mine?
That part is turned on as fuck.
Because there’s just something about him like this. Something about watching him move, that focused intensity in his eyes, that quiet command of everything around him. The confidence, the control, the way he’s so completely in his element, owning the moment like it belongs to him.
Like I belong to him. A full-body shiver rolls through me, and I squeeze my thighs together instinctively.
“Are you getting hot?” John asks, frowning when I fan myself. “We can get you some water, maybe step out for a minute?—”
I wave him off, trying so hard to look normal. “Nope, totally fine. Just—hormones.”
John eyes me. “You’ll tell us if you need something, right?”
I nod because what else can I tell him? That I want to ride his son like a cowgirl? Nope. That’s not the kind of conversation one has with their in-laws. Even if we have a really close relationship.
I press my hands to my belly, trying to refocus, trying to not think about how good Leif looks when he’s dialed in like this. But then—then he makes another save, dropping into a perfect butterfly, his glove snapping out to rob a shot that should have made it past him.
The arena erupts.
And I—I am unwell.
Leif pops back up, resets, completely unfazed, his mask tilting in my direction just slightly. Like he knows. Like he can feel me watching. And goddamn it, I think he’s smirking under that mask.
A cocky, infuriating, panty-dropping smirk he gives me at home. The one that saysI see you, Hailey. I know exactly what you’re thinking. And I’ll fuck you until you can’t think straight.I groan, sinking into my seat, pressing my forehead to the railing.
John leans in, brow raised. “You okay?”
I shake my head. “No, John. I’m not okay.”
He squints. “Are you in labor? Should we call an ambulance?” He pulls out his phone.
“Worse.” I lift my head, sighing dramatically. “I am so goddamn turned on right now, it’s humiliating. Your son is working and I can’t ask him to take care of me now, can I?”
