Page 155 of Triple Play
And then there’s Charlie. Nine months old, all chubby cheeks and Jordie’s dimples and this laugh that sounds exactly like his dad’s.
I love them so much it’s physically painful sometimes. But also—
“I’m exhausted,” I say against Grant’s chest.
“I know.”
“Like bone-deep, haven’t-slept-through-the-night-in-three-years exhausted.”
“I know.”
“Charlie’s teething again. Mia’s in a hitting phase. Mason won’t eat anything that’s not shaped like a dinosaur.”
“I know, baby.” His hand slides into my hair. Gentle. Grounding. “But we got four whole hours without them tonight. That’s like a vacation.”
It was. Dinner at that Italian place downtown. Wine. Adult conversation. No one screaming or throwing food or needing their diaper changed.
It was perfect.
The front door opens behind us, and Wyatt walks in carrying takeout bags, Jordie right behind him jangling the car keys.
“Forgot these in the car,” Jordie announces, holding up my purse. “You’re welcome.”
“Also grabbed dessert,” Wyatt adds. “That tiramisu you were eyeing.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“We know.” Jordie’s grin is pure trouble. “But we did anyway.”
Grant’s arms tighten around my waist. Possessive. “You guys took long enough.”
“There was a line at the bakery,” Wyatt says.
“At nine PM?”
“It’s a good bakery.”
I turn in Grant’s arms to look at both of them. Wyatt’s in dark jeans and the henley I bought him last Christmas. Even two years out of professional hockey, he’s still built like he could step back on the ice tomorrow. Jordie’s in a button-down and khakis, looking rumpled and gorgeous in that way only he can pull off.
Wyatt retired from the NHL two years ago. His body couldn’t take it anymore—too many hits, too many injuries, the PTSD getting worse instead of better. He coaches now. Youth hockey at the community center twenty minutes from here, and he’s so good at it I sometimes catch him smiling at practice.
Actually smiling. Teeth and everything.
Grant and Jordie still play for Washington. Grant’s talking about retirement in a year or two. Jordie says he’s got at least three more seasons in him, but his knee’s been bothering him lately, so we’ll see.
And me? I’m a pediatrician now. I share a practice with another doctor so I can work part-time. Three days a week in the office, the rest with the chaos crew at home.
It’s good. Really good.
Exhausting. But good.
“Come on.” Grant’s steering me toward the stairs. “Bedroom.”
“The tiramisu—”
“Can wait,” Wyatt says. He’s already following us up. “This can’t.”
“Presumptuous much?”
