Page 15 of Cross Check Daddies
Tanner. It was Tanner in the dream. Not Cam. Not the man I actually slept with days ago. His younger brother. The one who calls himself T and flashes that too-pretty smile like he knows exactly what it does to people.
I groan and throw the covers off. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. Idefinitelyshouldn’t be dreaming about him. Not after Cam.
I push the thought away like I’m clearing a browser history.
My phone lights up on the nightstand.
7:48 AM.
Damn it.
I spring out of bed, grab a hoodie off the chair, and rush into Jackson’s room.
“Up, buddy,” I say, nudging him gently. “We’re late.”
He rubs his eyes and mumbles something unintelligible while Buddy lets out a dramatic yawn from the foot of his bed.
Breakfast is chaos. I toss a granola bar at Jackson, refill Buddy’s bowl, and shove my foot into one heel while I zip his backpack with the other hand. We’re out the door in ten minutes. I don’t remember if I brushed my hair, but I do remember the text from Lisa flashing across my screen while I’m at a red light.
>> Photographer’s already waiting at the rink. Where are you??
I grit my teeth and press the gas pedal as soon as the light turns green.
Once Jackson is dropped off at school with a kiss to the top of his head and a very quick apology for the morning rush, I hit the highway and try to breathe.
The dream still lingers in the back of my mind like a sin I’m not ready to admit. It doesn’t help that I can still picture the way Tanner looked last night, smudged with road dust and smiling at my kid like he’d known him for years.
I shake it off and make it to the Miami Icemen facility in just under fifteen minutes. The parking lot is busy but not chaotic, which is a small miracle. I park, swipe on tinted balm, and pray my mascara hasn’t smudged.
Lisa meets me at the entrance, sleek in black slacks and a GameHatch tee. “Photographer’s already inside. Vega’s waiting.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, adjusting my blouse and straightening my spine. I’m supposed to look like I have my shit together.
Inside, it smells like cold air and adrenaline. I spot Leo Vega almost immediately—tall, lean, clipboard in hand, and sharp eyes that miss nothing. He waves me over, gaze flicking to the watch on his wrist as I approach.
“Brooke?”
“Hi,” I offer with a sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Yeah,” he replies, tone even but unimpressed. “The team’s already on the ice. You’re welcome to go watch while they finish up.”
“Is that okay?”
“They won’t mind.” His eyes twinkle just slightly before he turns and starts walking. “But wear flats next time.”
I follow him down a narrow hallway, heels clicking over the rubber mat. I’m regretting the shoes already, but it’s too late to change now.
The rink opens before us, expansive and bright under the overhead lights. My eyes search the ice automatically, and I catch sight of number 22—King. I clear my throat, looking away, pretending like I didn’t just imagine him pressed up behind me in a dream a few hours ago.
But my gaze betrays me. It keeps sliding back to where he moves, all raw strength and reckless precision, like the ice was built for him. He spins and slashes through it, face set in total concentration. My stomach twists.
“Morning,” a low voice says beside me.
I turn to find a man approaching, mid-forties with dark brown hair, streaked silver at the temples. Steel-gray eyes. Broad chest. Smells like leather.
Ace Carter.
He doesn’t offer a smile. Just a firm nod and a voice that doesn’t waste time.
