Page 63 of Crossing the Top Line

Once we’ve laughed ourselves breathless, she lets me pull her down beside me on the bed, and I sigh with contentment.

“It’s very bold of you to assume that we would do this again on another day, by the way,” she says into the silence.

I look down at her and quirk an eyebrow in challenge. “It’s bold of you to assume I’m going to wait for another day to have you again,” I reply.

She laughs, but that laugh turns into a shriek as I roll over and slant my lips over hers again.

We’ve only got a few more hours until Spencer and Eli get back, and I want to have her as many times as I can before then.

Afterspendingthatafternoonin my hotel room, I’d expected Oliver to want more of the same attention when we got home. But we are both so busy the week after we get back that I hardly see him for more than a few minutes at a time. He still texts me multiple times a day, and yes, we’ve sent plenty of dirty messages, but we haven’t made any plans to meet again. Eli’s been texting more, his good mornings and goodnights one of the few constants in my life. I know we probably need to talk soon, but I barely have enough spare time to sleep, let alone schedule a heart-to-heart. And then, on a rather innocuous Thursday before Halloween, the hockey circus rolls into town.

A handful of times every season, the Mystic have to play host to a small army of people that makes up the national broadcast team. Camera operators, producers, photographers, and, of course, the commentators. While most of the organization dreads it due to the chaos of trying to fit two crews into one space, I always look forward to it like a kid looks forward to Christmas. Because it means Dad is coming to visit.

After he retired from playing hockey, he quickly found his way into the color commentary slot for the national broadcast. He’s always been great with the media, and his friendly, disarming nature, combined with his vast hockey insight, made him a natural fit. With both of our schedules, I don’t get to see him as often as I would like, which makes these games even more special.

On the morning of the game, I practically vibrate as I try to get some work done. I’m alone in the office, everyone else being busy getting things set up for the game or out on assignment, so in theory, I shouldn’t have any distractions. But it’s hard to focus when I know the team is set to arrive soon. I check my phone, giggling with excitement as I see the text I’ve been waiting for all morning.

Dad: Hey Chip! We’re all checked in at the hotel. Should be heading to the arena in the next hour or so. Sit with me at lunch?

Me: Wouldn’t miss it!

I bounce a little in my chair, grinning from ear to ear. He’s called me Chip ever since I was a kid after one of his teammates called me “an ice chip off the old block.” I turn back to my computer screen, eyes glazing over almost immediately. I’m several days ahead on my work, so I only feel the slightest pang of guilt as I shut down and gather my things into my new messenger bag and head down to the ground floor.

When I reach the tunnels, I blink in surprise at the amount of activity already happening, even though we’re more than six hours from the broadcast. I see a few familiar faces among those bustling around, and they spare me a quick wave and a smile but never slow down. It doesn’t take long to find the on-air talent, Gene’s laughter acting as a beacon among the din that leads me to the table they’ve commandeered. My cheeks hurt from smiling all day, but my grin stretches even wider as I see my favorite relative lounging in one of the purple plastic folding chairs.

As if sensing my presence, Dad looks up and his smile is incandescent as he spots me in the crowd. I rush toward him, meeting him halfway in a tight hug. Inhaling deep, his familiar scent of teakwood, clove, and sweet tobacco fills my lungs and sends me right back to my childhood when he would stand behind me and hold my hands as I learned to skate. When we pull away, I get a good look at him. His hair is still dark brown, a match to my natural color, but there’s a touch of silver to the temples that isn’t entirely unflattering. His bright blue eyes sparkle as he takes me in, hands on my shoulders as he holds me at arm’s length.

“God, Chip. It’s good to see you,” he gushes.

I blush a little, but shove his chest playfully. Yeah, I’m a bit of a daddy’s girl. Just a smidge.

“There you are, ’chere. Got a few minutes to share for the Old Man’s Club?” Gene calls, his booming laugh making me giggle in response.

“You’re not that old, Gee. Mike, though…” I trail off, shooting Mike Martin a teasing smirk.

The small group laughs, and Dad tucks me under his arm as he and I walk back to join them. They talk about everything and anything, though I don’t contribute much to the conversation. I’m too busy basking in the warmth of my father’s smile and presence.

“What have you been up to? You haven’t texted me or your mom in a while,” Dad says, twisting in his chair to face me while the others start talking about football.

I grin bashfully, tucking my chin. “It’s been a crazy season. With the trades and our new coach—”

“Logan McQueen, I’d heard. How do you think he’s doing?” Dad interjects.

I sit back and cross one of my legs over the other as I consider. He’s got his interviewer voice on, and my PR training kicks in.

“On or off the record?” I ask seriously.

Dad scoffs in mock offense, putting a hand to his heart. “Off the record, of course. I would never try to fish for information from my own daughter,” he says, batting his eyelashes.

I give him a skeptical look. He jokes, but I’ve been doing this too long to take him at face value. I love my father dearly, and I don’t doubt he’s being sincere, but it’s my job to protect this team.

His smile drops a little, morphing into a softer, genuine expression. “You’re good, Chip. I’m not going to use anything you say in my broadcast. I promise.”

I let the tension slide from my shoulders as I smile back. My father has made me many promises over the years, and he’s never broken a single one.

“Logan’s really good. I mean, you saw where we were last year. It’s like night and day, and the fans are all the way on board,” I say emphatically.

Dad nods in approval, which makes my heart soar. Commotion near the entrance pulls our attention, and I perk up as I realize the team is here for lunch. I turn back to my dad with an eager smile.

---