Page 8 of Skate the Line

I grin. “I know.”

By the time we make it home, Ellie has fallen asleep. I know I should probably wake her up and get her in the bath or, at the very least, brush her hair, but after the game I just played, I’m near exhaustion.

Parenting is a full-time job, and I never expected I’d have to do it alone.

I never expected to be a parent in the first place.

When the court reached out and informed me that I may be the father of Ellie, I assumed there was a mix-up. After learning that it was Gia who had passed, recognizing her as a one-night stand, I willingly took a paternity test. I was always careful when it came to sex, especially with puck bunnies, so there was no chance the baby was mine.

But then, my life flipped upside down.

Considering that Gia didn’t really have a family of her own—none of whom could potentially gain custody of an infant, at least—it was up to me.

Now, here I am, a single father to a five-year-old girl who doesn’t have a mother. I’m not resentful, and I’m glad Gia put me on the birth certificate, though I wish she would have told me beforehand so I could have had at least an ounce of preparation. Regardless of all that, it gave me Ellie.

I exhale deeply after shutting Ellie’s bedroom door.

I head to the kitchen and open the fridge to snag one of the premade meals that Emory has introduced me to. High in protein, no mess, and they taste alright. Good enough for me.

As soon as I pop it into the microwave, my phone buzzes with an alert that only sounds when someone is on the property.

My hackles rise.

The door is always locked.

After having Ellie and becoming fully responsible for someone who is as helpless as it gets, my defensive abilities grew sharper. You don’t know protectiveness until you have a daughter.

I pull up the camera, and my shoulders tense.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

My blood pressure rises with each stride toward the front door. I swing it open before she can even raise a fist.

“Did you get lost?” I snap, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb. “Kidnapped? Tricked into getting into a van with hockey players willing to let you suck their dick?”

Laken’s cheeks turn red. She gasps with surprise, and I deepen my glare.

“Don’t act surprised, Laken. You tried to suck mine on day one.”

It’s true. I found her on her knees in my bathroom one evening after I stepped out of the shower. I gave her a warning and emphasized that it was heronlywarning. Sure, it was after I mumbled“shlyuha”under my breath, but unless she knew fluent Russian, she had no idea that I’d called her a whore.

“I forgot my things,” she mutters.

She refuses to meet my eye. I have the urge to grip her chin andmakeher look at me so she can see how angry I am that she left my daughter all alone at my hockey game just hours before, but the last thing I want to do is give her a reason to start any bullshit with the media.

“Seems you forgot my daughter too,” I jab.

“I…”

I interrupt her by pushing off the doorjamb and standing tall. “Leave my property.”

Her jaw slacks.

Before I push the door shut, I give her one more warning—something I said I wouldn’t do.One and donewhen it comes to me.

“If I ever see you around my daughter again, I’ll have a restraining order put on you.”

“Are you kidd?—”

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