Conner shook his head. “I told her, Dad.”
Autumn gasped. “Told me what?”
“To wear Dad’s number, like me.”
Yeah. Like that would happen. “I like this jersey.”
Sam sat back against the couch and folded his arms across his thin beige sweater. “Penguins don’t wear skates.”
She pointed to Conner’s jersey. “Fish don’t swat pucks with their tails, either.”
Sam opened a box of Dots and popped a few into his mouth. He watched her as he chewed, then said, “Crosby’s a whiny little bit—girl.”
She shrugged. “He’s cute.”
“Are you serious?”
She actual y didn’t real y know what Crosby looked like, but Sam looked annoyed. Which, she admitted, amused her. “Yes. I don’t want my guy to be ugly.”
“Your guy? You pick a guy’s number because you think he’s cute?”
No. “Yeah.” Just like women picked Sam’s number because he was hot, but she’d never tel him that. Not that he didn’t know it already. “Why else?”
“Why else?” He stood and dropped the empty box on the coffee table. “How about points? How about number of years in the NHL? How about taking a hit like a man. How about not crying like a girl? How about the mother of my child showing a little support and not wearing a Pittsburgh sweater?”
He looked serious, and she started to laugh.
He put his hands on his hips. “What’s so funny?”
She slid a palm over her stomach. “You.” She continued to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.” Conner gasped as if she’d committed blasphemy.
He motioned with his hand. “Take it off.”
“Right.” Like he could come into her house and order her around. Not going to happen. Sam moved around the coffee table toward her. “Are you going to take it off?”
She shook her head and took a step back. “No.”
“Then you leave me no choice here.” He stalked her into the dining room, towering over her. “I’m going to have to take it off you.” The corners of his lips twitched like he was joking, but his eyes were al about getting his way.
“You can’t.”
“Yeah, I can. I take off women’s shirts al the time.”
“That’s not something to brag about.”
“Not bragging. I’m just gifted.” He held up three fingers, then lowered them one at a time.
“You’re gifted al right.” She didn’t wait for the final finger before she turned on her heels and ran. His hand on the back of her jersey stopped her and slammed her back against the hard wal of his chest. “Sam!”
“Come help me, Conner,” he cal ed out, and wrapped one big arm around her ribs just beneath her breasts.
“No, Conner!”
The little traitor ran into the kitchen and looked up at his dad. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold her undershirt down so it doesn’t come off with the jersey.”
“Stop,” she protested through a laugh. “Conner, go to bed! I mean it.”