Page 40 of Shootout Daddies
“A car seat. Diapers. Formula. Wipes. Toys. High chair.”
“Shit.”
I swat his arm. “Language.”
He grimaces. “Right. Crap.”
We both smile.
The quiet now isn’t heavy or awkward. It’s peaceful. The baby sighs again and stretches one arm, curling against his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly.
I look up at him. “Me too.”
He means it, I can tell. Not just for the help. There’s gratitude in his voice that runs deeper. We’re in something now—complicated and messy and terrifying, but we’re in it together.
I sit beside him, close enough that our knees touch, and we watch the baby sleep.
She’s perfect.
And she’s not mine.
CHAPTER TEN
Landon
The gym isempty when I leave. Just a slow beep from the elliptical shutting down behind me and the slight ache in my quads reminding me that forty-five minutes of HIIT was probably a mistake after a four-hour night.
I swipe a towel across the back of my neck and step into the elevator, jaw tight, sweat cooling under my collar.
By the time I reach my penthouse, the sky is shifting—early morning light bleeding pale and gold across the South Beach skyline. I take a long shower, then change into clean slacks and a short-sleeved polo, rolling my shoulders as I finish buttoning the top.
A full schedule waits, but I can’t bring myself to dive in just yet. Instead, I grab my coffee and step out onto the balcony.
The breeze is cool. Palms sway below. A cruise ship inches toward the horizon, and seagulls slice across the dawn like paper cutouts.
I sip slowly, mentally cataloguing the day.
First, I have two contract reviews to finalize—one for the franchise’s local sponsorship deal, another involving an IP clause from the Icemen’s old marketing agreement. After that, a call with the league’s compliance office.
Then the one-on-one with Cam, the team analyst, which I’m not exactly looking forward to. The firm’s brief said he could be a wildcard.
Welcome to hockey law.
I scrub a hand through my hair and glance back at my phone. Twenty-eight unread emails. I can triage in the car.
I grab my keys and head downstairs.
The parking garage is quiet, all gray concrete and polished silence—until I turn the corner and see it.
A black Range Rover.
Parked crookedly. Too close.
Too damn close.
My Audi’s side panel bears a long, fresh scratch.
