“Perfect. We can do something. She doesn’t have a game that day. Maybe we can go out to lunch—my treat.”
“My treat.” My response is automatic and firm. Maybe I’m a Neanderthal, but I have too much money to let the mother of my child pay for my dinner.
“I’m not poor, Logan.” She lifts her chin and gets that sassy attitude I remember.
“I never said you were. But I have more money than I need, so I’m buying lunch.” I look around at the bakery, and it’s a shadow of its former sparkling successful version. There used to be lines here and a bustling staff of half a dozen at any given time when we were younger. “You’re helping out your parents at the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
Her eyes take on a defiant sparkle then. “Yes. I am. The bakery needs an update, but I’ve only been back a month, so— “
It hits me. Only a month ago, she lost her husband, and I’ve been an insensitive prick, not even acknowledging that she’s most certainly in mourning even if she wasn’t madly in love with the bastard.
“Only a month? You lost your husband a month ago? I’m so sorry. I’ve been— “
“It’s alright. He died six weeks ago. He was sick for a few months before that. I’m okay.”
“What about Nicky?” I already know the answer. It was clear as day in her letter. My heart sinks, and I realize I have a lot to make up for to that girl, and I’ll need to tread carefully.
She shakes her head. “She’s not been herself. She’s better now that we’re here and she has her grandparents. But…”
“But never fear. It’s Daddy Logan to the rescue.” I sound flip, hopeful, and arrogant all at once. All wrong, but, hell, my emotions are gyrating around like a puck rattling in the back of a cage. They refuse to settle down. They’re not used to all the fuss since I’ve been living an empty life for the past six years. Until now.
The queasiness hits me like that other lead boot dropping through the bottom of my gut as I watch her face show a tremulous smile. She sees through me.
“Let’s take it one step at a time. You can meet her first, and then we see how it goes. I don’t want you to give her false hope and end up making her sadder than she is now.”
My gut and heart and head snap into place at her words, aligning like my survival depends on it.
“She’s my kid, June. That’s not going to change. So sooner or later, she—and you—will have to accept that. I’m not going to do a try-out for the role. I’m it. Believe it.”
Her mouth goes grim. I’ve seen the look before. Six years ago.
“It’s not a role. It’s real life. It requires more than the contribution of some sperm and a visit and a monthly check.”
Steeling my nerve and killing the hope and desire I had a few minutes ago for a reconciliation with the woman I never had a chance to marry, I feel like we’re negotiating parental rights like a divorced couple.
“Like I said. You know me better than that. When I’m in, I’m all in.”
A beat of silence passes. Her face hardens even more if that’s possible. I maintain my cool resolve.
“We’re talking about you being a parent. Nothing else.”
“Of course,” I say automatically. Because, hey, I’m not going down that road alone. She’s the one who broke things off, and she’s going to have to be the one to ask to have it all back. The pinch of protest squeezes my chest, but I ignore it, reminding myself of the uncomplicated unconnected life I’ve been living, focused on my hockey dream and how well that’s going. How well I need it to keep going.Because it’s all I have.
But I’m going to have Nicky now. Remembering the sad letter, the wrench in my heart trumps the stingy tightness in my chest. That letter spoke to a need I didn’t know I had, but it’s one I can’t ignore.
“Aren’t you going to ask about my parents?” she says.
“I figure they’re fine.” They were never my favorite, mostly because I wasn’t their favorite despite my superstar athlete status. They thought I was too serious; that we, June and I, were too young to be so serious.
Who the hell knows? Maybe they were right.
That’s my sheen of cynicism talking over the lump in my heart that would beg to differ—if I let it.
“Maybe you can come to one of her games sometimes,” she says tentatively. That sparks all kinds of things in me. I know it’s a big deal for her to be seen in public with me. She’s never enjoyed the limelight or notoriety that has come with being with me in public.
“Send me her schedule. I’d love that. Thank you.” Pausing a beat to appreciate her smile, I decided to go for it. “I have an idea for Saturday—how about if we go skating?”
“Public skating? You? Me?”