Page 18 of Slap Shot Daddies

Ambrose snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “And here I thought hockey players had it rough.”

Their easy banter continues, each comment light and quick like a dance that keeps the mood buoyant. But my mind drifts, my eyes flicking between them, taking in every detail.

I’m acutely aware of how incredibly attractive these guys are. I look at their broad shoulders that suggest strength and protection, their strong hands that speak of capability, and their sharp grins that hint at mischief and charm.

My overactive imagination has already cast them as the dashing leads in a romance novel so captivating it would make my mother faint. A furious blush heats my cheeks, and I jerk my focus back to the present.

Kenzie, get it together.

I chastise myself silently, but the idea of having more than one man doting on me lingers tantalizingly in the corners of my mind.

Then, like a sudden splash of icy water, the thought of my ultra-religious family crashes over me, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

I can almost hear my mother’s voice reverberating in my mind, clear as day. “Kennedy Louise Wood, are you telling me you’re entangled in a sinful arrangement with not one, but THREE men?”

The mental image is so vivid and absurd that I nearly let out a laugh, picturing her incredulous expression and the dramatic flair of her words. Yeah, that conversation would go over as smoothly as a porcupine in a balloon factory.

My parents, with their steadfast beliefs and unwavering expectations, still hold onto the illusion that I’m their pure, little veterinarian daughter who spends her spare time engrossed in the Good Book.

If they ever caught wind that I was contemplating juggling not one, but three men, they’d likely rally the entirecongregation for an intervention that would rival any fiery Sunday sermon.

My moment of amusement is abruptly interrupted by a sharp, biting tug on my skin. “Ow,” I exclaim, wincing. The nurse looks up at me with a mix of patience and mild exasperation. “If you stop squirming, this will be easier,” she advises, her tone both firm and understanding.

I glance down at her work, noticing she’s stitching me up using a simple interrupted stitch rather than the horizontal mattress technique I had suggested earlier.

Unable to resist, I start, “You know, the stitch pattern…” but she cuts me off with a weary, yet affectionate tone.

“Doc, I swear, if you micromanage one more thing…” Her eyes meet mine, a silent plea for cooperation. I snap my mouth shut, biting back further commentary.

Ambrose, standing nearby, lets out a quiet chuckle, his amusement barely contained.

Reggie claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “So, doc, what’s the game plan? You’re going to be out of commission for a while, aye?” His voice carries a mix of concern and curiosity.

I stare down at my hand, tightly stitched and wrapped in a bandage, the reality settling in like a heavy weight on my chest. The idea of not being able to work properly at my vet clinic gnaws at me.

Suturing, bandaging, even just handling the animals, it’s all going to be a daunting challenge.

I exhale sharply, a frustrated sigh escaping my lips. “Yeah. This sucks.”

Braden, ever the optimist, flashes a wide grin. “You’ve got, what? A week or two of one-handed living? You’ll survive.” His voice is light, almost teasing.

I scowl, my brow furrowing. “You say that like I don’t run a vet clinic by myself.” The thought of my responsibilities weighs heavily on me.

Ambrose, who has been quietly observing, finally speaks up, his voice calm and steady. “You don’t have staff?”

“Just a part-time tech, but I do most of the work myself,” I reply, my voice tinged with a touch of resignation.

They all exchange a look, a silent understanding passing between them, as if they’re hatching some secret plan.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing,” Reggie replies, his tone far too innocent, a mischievous glint in his eye.

The nurse finishes the stitches, the thin black sutures lying neat and snug against my skin like tiny, precise railroad tracks.

A doctor arrives, flipping through my chart with a practiced ease. He’s an older man, his round glasses perpetually sliding down his nose as he peers over them to examine my hand with a discerning eye.

“Clean stitches,” he remarks with a nod of approval.

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