Page 18 of The Sweetest Chirp

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

But hurt all of us even more.

I watch as he reaches out but then pulls back. I’m about to encourage him to touch her, but Thatcher Orlov doesn’t need encouragement. He follows his gut feeling. His brows pull together as he slowly runs his fingers along Arwen’s spine. His touch is gentle, his hand shaking as he trails his fingertips over the rolls of her back. Even though it’s hard, I look up to watch as his brows unfurrow, his lips tip up, and tears flood his brown gaze. Burning shame suffocates me, and I don’t know how to handle the overwhelming feelings that threaten to snuff out every ember inside me.

My sweet Arwen settles almost immediately, and I don’t allow myself to sob the way I want. I have pictured this moment since I had her—Thatcher holding his daughter, caring for her—but before I could make it a reality, I was reminded of how angry he got. How deeply he cut me with his words and degraded me in front of the whole team.

I expected this reunion to be round two of that behavior, but it hasn’t been.

I expected him to lose his cool, start blaming me for ruining his life and demanding proof that Arwen was his. It was my biggest fear about seeing him again, about introducing him to Arwen, but he proved me wrong. He is known for running his damn mouth on the ice, and it carries off the ice, too. He is one of those guys who has to have the last word and can verbally stab anyone in ways they’d never expect. I had never been on thereceiving end of his cutthroat words, but the moment I was, I ran.

And then I stayed away.

In his eyes, I was the puck bunny who was running through the roster. But in reality, I was just a girl who got knocked up by the MVP of her heart.

“She’s stunning,” he whispers, trailing his fingers along her skin, and it’s too much. I look away, my stomach turning in on itself. I swallow hard, willing myself not to melt into a puddle of sobs and beg him to forgive me for hiding her. “When is her birthday?”

My lips tremble as I whisper, “January 3rd.”

“So, she’s turning two soon?”

“Three,” I correct, giving him a look. “Still suck at math, I see.”

He shrugs, a grin pulling at his lips. “I can count how many goals I score, so I’m good.” I roll my eyes, but before I can call him a dumb jock, he adds, “And I can teach her to count to ten.”

My heart squeezes. “Hopefully.”

He scoffs, his eyes only on her. “When did you know she was hard of hearing?”

“When she was born,” I answer, tracing her fingers with mine. “They did a hearing test, and she didn’t respond, and I knew.”

A tear rolls down his face as he nods, and once more, I have to look away. I have never seen Thatcher cry, and his tears are tearing me apart worse than his words did. It hurts too much, and knowing I’m the reason for his pain is downright sickening to me. With his other hand, he drags out his phone and lets out a long sigh before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Did you tell my parents?”

He slowly shakes his head, looking up at me. “Not yet.”

“That’s surprising,” I muse, and he shrugs. “Figured you’d call in reinforcements.”

“Do I need them?” he asks, his eyes burning into mine. “’Cause the way I see it, you’re living in a box, working a job you don’t want, and our daughter is suffering.”

“She isn’t suffering,” I protest, but he isn’t convinced.

“She is sick.”

“Kids get sick, Thatcher.”

“I know, but if she had top-of-the-line earwear and was seen by the best doctors, there would be less of a chance of her getting sick like this.” I know he’s right, but I refuse to acknowledge that. “Has the doctor called back yet?”

I check my phone. “Not yet.”

“She seems really warm.”

I nod. “She’s better than she was,” I reassure, and he sits back up, getting his phone once more.

With a groan, he looks over at me. “How do you see this going?”

I pull at the threads of Arwen’s blanket. “What do you mean?”

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