Page 5 of Hat Trick Holidate

“Take it.”

I study the photo and see my reflection in the window of her Maserati with my brows pinched and jaw tightened.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Five, almost six.”

I don’t even know how to explain my emotions. Gut punched. “Almost six?” Has it been that long? I guess it has. It was my second year in the league when I slept with any and all puck bunnies. After the night with the redhead, I tried everything to push her from my mind, and that includes Francesca.

There’s little question about this girl being my daughter.She has clear-blue eyes like mine and blond hair. But Lukas is Swedish and has similar features.

“Is this my daughter?” I question but don’t give her a chance to respond. “And if she is, why the fuck are just now telling me?”

three

BRYCE

Two weeks.Two weeks to do everything most people take nine months to do. Paint a room pink. Buy and assemble white, little-girl furniture. Everything I have will tower over a little girl—tall dressers, beds and cabinets built for people above six feet tall.

It’s still hard for me to grasp that I’m a father—not that I doubted it, but I still asked Francesca to prove it. We hurried the DNA test, and it confirmed that Jolie is my daughter and she’ll be arriving shortly.

I’ve had groceries delivered. And every cabinet has cartoon characters smiling back at me. Reed and Brooke have offered their support. Cannon is six, so they promised to bring him over to play soon.

The buzzer sounds, and I press the listen button. “Yes.”

“Sir, Mrs. Gustafson is here with a special little girl.”

My shoulders rise as I expel a deep breath. “Send them up.” Do I wait at the elevator in my foyer? Or do I let them wander in? I walk toward the elevator. My knee bounces as Iwait. My stomach flips and flops, and I’ve not been this nervous since the Frozen Four Championship game in college or my first game as a rookie in the league.

It’s coming. I hear the elevator lock in place, and the doors open. Will she like me? Will I be able to take care of her? Damn it, why did Francesca keep this from me? This would be a lot easier if I had held her as a baby.

She’s tiny. I don’t think I realized how little a five-year-old is. I mean I see Reed’s kids quite a bit since he got traded here. “Hi, Jolie.” My voice sounds like a twelve-year-old boy as words fight their way out.

She has her royal-blue bear in a headlock as she looks left and right before her eyes land on mine, then quickly dart away. “Do you like cookies? I have…”

Francesca says, “Jolie, say hello. Remember your manners.”

I almost choke. Francesca’s teaching manners? Is it proper to fuck your way through a locker room?

My daughter timidly releases her hand from the bear’s neck. Francesca’s lips form into a thin line. This isn’t going like she planned. How did she think it would go? She’s leaving her child with a man completely foreign to Jolie.

I crouch down in front of her. “Do you want to see your room?”

When she doesn’t say anything, Francesca’s voice is layered with frustration and annoyance. “Jolie. Mommy has to go soon. Please answer your dad.”

She’s practically body checking her little girl into me.

“It’s okay. Call me Bryce,” I say, quieter. “Your choice. Would you like to see your new room or have cookies?”

Timid, she nervously fidgets with thesatin bow around the bear’s neck as her body wilts into itself as if she’s trying to blend in with the surroundings.

“Give one blink for cookies and two blinks to see your room.”

Jolie blinks twice, and she follows me upstairs to see her new bedroom. I gesture for her to come in, but she’s frozen like a fragile butterfly in a photo when the wings are static. Unsure what to do or say, I ask, “Do you like pink?” I know she does. Francesca told me it was her favorite color.

Jolie blinks once.

“Is one for yes?”

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