Page 27 of Twin Babies for the Pucking Billionaires

We head straight to Coach’s office, a small space cluttered with hockey memorabilia. A Chicago Icebreakers jersey hangs proudly on the wall, flanked by photos of past teams and trophies. The room smells faintly of old leather and sweat.

Coach motions for us to sit down. “All right, boys. The club owners want to make some changes.”

Finn shifts his shoulder under the ratty UCLA T-shirt that he’s wearing. “What kind of changes?”

“They’re talking about expanding the team, maybe bringing in some new blood,” Coach explains.

I exchange a glance with Finn, feeling a knot form in my stomach. Changes in sports teams usually mean uncertainty.

“We’re on board with whatever the team needs,” I say, trying to sound confident.

Finn nods in agreement.

Coach leans forward, his expression serious. “Here’s the deal, though. The loss in our last game has the investors antsy. We need to step up our game.”

I resist the urge to curse under my breath. The loss was tough, but we’re not about to let it define our season.

“We had an off game,” I jump in, “but we’re mobilizing the team to put in the work. Extra hours, whatever it takes.”

Coach nods approvingly. “Good. We’re also going to need to win the people’s vote.”

I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

“Public support. We’ll need to engage the fans, get them excited about the team.”

“Any ideas?” Finn asks.

“Not yet,” Coach admits. “But I’ll let you know when we have something for you.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “What time’s practice?”

“Noon,” Coach replies. “Get yourselves ready.”

“All right,” I say, standing up. “We’ll see you there.”

As Finn and I head out, the weight of the meeting settles on my shoulders. Finn breaks the silence on the drive.

“Should we be worried?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “Nah. We had a rough game, but we’ll make sure it’s the only loss we have this year.”

Finn nods, seeming to accept my optimism. “Let’s hope so.”

Chapter Eight

Finn

‘We going to the game together?” Declan asks.

“You know it,” I reply, slapping him on the back before heading into my apartment. The place is filled with plants. Ferns hang from the ceiling, succulents line the windowsills, and a monstera sprawls in the corner, its leaves almost touching the ceiling.

I drop my bag by the door and turn on the TV. I put on some classical music on my phone and connect it to the TV. I need something to calm my racing thoughts. Beethoven floods the room, filling the spaces between the leaves all around me.

I grab my watering can and make my rounds, giving each plant a drink. They’re like my green children, each one with a name and a personality.

Next, I step out onto the patio. The small outdoor garden is my pride and joy. Cherry tomatoes, basil, and a couple of strawberry plants—it’s my little urban oasis. I water everything thoroughly, the earthy smell of damp soil rising up to greet me.

Back inside, I head to the bathroom and peel off the ratty UCLA T-shirt I got from a girl I spent the night with. It was oversized on her but it fits me like a glove.

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