Page 17 of One Good Puck
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” Gavin says with a smile.
“Honey, sit up when you drink that, okay? And be really careful so you don’t spill it.”
My nerves go haywire thinking about Emma spilling bright red fruit punch all over that couch, which probably cost several thousand dollars.
She sits up and sips from the straw, then sets it on the coffee table before lying back down on the couch.
“Even if she does spill, it’s fine,” Gavin says, walking back over to where I’m standing by the kitchen island. “That couch has slip covers. They’re easy to remove and machine washable. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve spilled on that couch. And really bad stuff too, like red wine and coffee.”
I let out a relieved breath. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. I’m famous for the messes I make.”
I chuckle, then sip from my water bottle. “Your home is beautiful.”
His smile is warm. He starts to roll up the sleeve of hisdress shirt, revealing an impressively muscled forearm. I try not to stare. Muscular forearms are my weakness.
“That’s kind of you to say, thank you. It didn’t look like this when I bought it. I’ve remodeled a lot over the years.”
He rolls up his other sleeve, and I almost drool at how thick and veiny his forearm is.
I tear my gaze from his body so I don’t come off like a creep and take in the view of the backyard through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the house. There’s a massive patio with a fire pit, sitting area, and built-in barbecue grill.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Just over ten years,” he says. “It’s honestly way too much house for what I need, but Sophie loved it when we looked at it, and I could afford it, so I figured, why not?”
I smile, heartened that he bought the house because his daughter loved it. My gaze catches on the framed photo at the far end of the mantle above the fireplace.
“Oh wow.” I step closer and take in the image. It’s a photo of Gavin when he was younger—probably mid-to-late twenties. He’s decked out in full hockey gear and is standing on the ice of an arena, holding a toddler-aged Sophie in his arms. She’s giggling and he’s smiling wide. The background is unfocused, which makes the image of him and Sophie that much more striking.
My chest aches at how sweet the image is.
He walks up next to me, his smile turning warm when he looks at the photo. “That was when I played for New York, when we won the Stanley Cup. It’s my favorite photo of me and Sophie.”
“It’s so beautiful,” I say.
Gavin is quiet for a second as he stares at the picture. Almost like he’s reliving the moment in that photo.
“I used to have more photos of Sophie on this mantle, but she made me take a lot of them down, except for that one. She said it looked like I set up a shrine to her.”
I laugh. “I get it, but I don’t blame you at all. I have a million photos of my daughter all over the place.”
He smiles and takes a few steps back. “Feel like a tour?”
“Sure.”
Chapter 8
Abby
Gavin gestures to the far side of the space. “So there are seven bedrooms total. There’s a guest bedroom on each end of the main floor. The rest are upstairs. I can show you?—”
“You have a pool?!” Emma’s excited voice pulls our attention to her. She’s standing by the sliding glass door that leads to the patio and backyard. When I walk over to where she is, I see a small pool along the far end of the backyard.
“I do,” Gavin says. He turns to me. “I forget it’s there sometimes. I hardly ever use it. Sophie swam in it all the time when she was younger.”
