Page 45 of The Perfect Snipe

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Oh, really? Didn’t you pretty much say I’m too independent for my own good?”

Leo chuckles, the corner of his mouth lifting up and this has to be the first time I’ve seen the man smile at me.

“But you're right,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “And it's not just from being on my own. Proving I can handle things also comes with the territory of being a woman, andLatina. But I'm not a people pleaser either. I'll open my mouth, show you what I'm capable of.”

The problem with that . . . it wasn’t any better. Some people just hate a strong woman. With them, it’s a no win situation. One I’ve encountered too many times for a lifetime.

“Sorry you’ve had to deal with that. I can’t even begin to relate.”

His words, simple as they are, make something warm bloom in my chest. “Thank you. For listening, for offering to help . . . or everything.”

“Always,” he murmurs, his hand squeezing mine gently.

We sit there for a moment, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. I find myself studying his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the fading light.

“So,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “Any ideas on how to convince my grandmother that assisted living isn't the seventh circle of hell?”

Leo turns to me, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, I could always take you up on that thong idea. . .”

I burst out laughing, the tension of the day finally breaking. “Oh, God. Please don't.”

Chapter 19

Leo

I lean against the boards, the cold seeping through my jacket, as I watch the kids skate laps around the rink. The scrape of blades on ice mingles with the excited chatter of young voices. Normally, the sound soothes.

But today, it's just noise, grating and dissonant.

The fingers tighten around the butt end of my stick. We got our asses kicked in Raleigh last night. Wyatt’s partly to blame. The asshole spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Coach was ready to tear him a new one, and me, because as his captain and his friend, his shitshow performance is somehow my responsibility.

Again.

I roll my neck a few times, trying to chase away tension building. Sometimes I think I’m too old for this shit. The drama, the politics, and even recovery is taking longer than it used to. Except I’m not ready to retire. Not until I’ve won the Cup.

The boards creak under my weight as I shift my stance and focus on the kids. Except the reason for my current stress is making his way over.

Wyatt sidles up next to me, his eyes fixed on the ice as he lets out a long breath. “Jake’s looking more comfortable out there.”

I follow his gaze to his future stepson, who happens to be my son’s best friend. Jake’s skating with more confidence, keeping up with the rest of the team rather than hanging back.

“The team's been great. Having the kids over, showing him it's okay to be back on the ice . . . it's made a world of difference.”

I grunt in response, my eyes scanning the ice for Mason. He's at the front of the pack, his face set in concentration. Pride swells in my chest, but it's tinged with something else.

Regret, maybe.

My career has not been conducive to me being around often.

I skate along the edge of the rink, each stride a ticking clock, a reminder of the moments I've missed. The late-night games, the endless practices, the constant travel—they've all chipped away at my time with my son.

With Stella, too.

Every summer I monopolize their time, trying to make up for what I missed during the season. But how much longer can that last before they’re teenagers and don’t want me around.

Sooner than I care to fucking admit.

“All right, gather 'round!” Bob's voice booms across the ice. The kids skate over, forming a loose semicircle around us.

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