Page 84 of Blocked Shot
His jaw tightens as his thoughts inevitably drift where they always do.
No matter how much he tries to drown himself in hockey, she’s still there, lingering in the quiet moments. In the lull between shifts, in the silence of his hotel room at night, in every love song that sneaks its way onto the locker room playlist. It pisses him off, how deep she’s still in his head. He should be over it by now. He wants to be over it by now.
But then he hears her laugh in the back of his mind, remembers the way she’d steal his hoodies and claim they were hers, the way her fingertips used to trail absentmindedly along his forearm while they lay in bed.
“Yo, MacDonald.”
The coach’s voice snaps him out of it.
“Yeah?”
Coach jerks his chin toward the ice. “You’re up. They’re sending out their big guys. Probably looking to stir some shit.”
Jake exhales sharply, locking himself back into the game. Good. He needs to hit something.
He hops the boards as the line change takes place, skating onto the ice with purpose. The opposing winger, a guy Jake has tangled with before, catches his eye and smirks. Jake smirks back.
Finally, something to focus on.
Jake shifts an inch—maybe half—trying not to jostle the tiny furnaces currently passed out on top of him. Lucy is sacked out on his chest, warm and heavy like a human space heater, while Isla’s curled into the crook of his arm, her fingers curled into tiny fists like she’s boxing in her sleep.
He doesn’t dare move. Hell, he’s barely breathing. Not because he’s afraid of waking them (okay,partlythat), but because there’s something weirdly sacred about the moment. Like he’s been entrusted with two very squishy, very breakable treasures and if he messes it up, the mom squad will descend.
He’s handled high-pressure situations before—game sevens, overtime penalty kills, dropping the gloves against guys way bigger thanhim—but nothing, nothing, makes him feel as invincible as this. Two tiny humans completely trusting him to keep them safe. Performing under pressure, indeed.
“Damn,” he murmurs, staring down at their identical peaceful faces. Impossibly long eyelashes dust their chubby cheeks. Lucy’s drool pools on his shoulder, making a growing wet mark. “You guys are unreal.”
Charlotte laughs from the other side of the couch, tucking her legs under her. “See? I told you. Baby cuddles are the best.”
Jake doesn’t argue. He’s been in San Diego for a month now, and as much as hockey is his whole life, this—having family close, being Uncle Jake—grounds him in a way he hadn’t expected. He never had this in Hartford or any of the other teams he’s played for in his decades long career.
“Okay, real talk,” Charlotte says, smirking as she picks up the tiny pink San Diego Coyotes onesies from the armrest. “You do realize they’ll grow out of these in like, a week, right?”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Whatever. They’ll be the best-dressed babies in California for that week.”
Charlotte holds up the onesie, stretching the fabric between her hands. “Is there any official Jake MacDonald merch yet? When can I expect some tiny ‘MacDonald’ jerseys?”
Jake huffs a laugh, shifting Lucy a little higher against his chest. “You joke, but I already saw some chick wearing my jersey at the game last night.”
Charlotte gasps dramatically. “Look at you. California’s newest sex symbol.”
Jake groans. “Jesus, Charlie.”
“I mean, let’s be real,” she continues, grinning. “Tall, brooding tough guy, secretly heartbroken? The PR team is probably thrilled you’re single.”
Jake shoots her a glare, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m not heartbroken.”
Charlotte raises an eyebrow, and Jake looks away. His hand strokes Isla’s back, grounding himself in the moment.
She sighs. “How’s the season treating you? Besides the fame and chicks throwing themselves at you, of course.”
Jake exhales, rolling out his shoulders. “Honestly? It’s good. I mean, the game is the same, but everything around it—the city, the fans, the way the media follows everything? It’s bigger.”
He pauses, watching Isla’s tiny chest rise and fall. “But I like it. I like playing here.”
Charlotte studies him for a second, then nods. “Good. You deserve to be happy.”
Jake swallows. Happy. That still feels out of reach, but he’s getting there. Slowly.
