Page 97 of Slap Shot Daddies

I retaliate by snapping my towel at him, the fabric cracking sharply through the heavy air. “Course it is, ye dense bastard,” I retort, my words sharp and laced with frustration.

He locks eyes with me, his glare sharp enough to cut. “Then say it,” he demands, his voice a challenge.

I rake a hand through my damp, tangled hair, letting out a long, weary sigh. “She lied, Ambrose. She hid it from us. And Braden? He ran off because of it.”

Ambrose leans back against the cold metal lockers, his brows drawn together in a deep furrow of concern. “You think she’s gonna leave us too?” he asks, his voice softer now, tinged with uncertainty.

I don’t answer, my silence weighing heavy because the truth is, I just don’t know.

Suddenly, our phones buzz in unison, the vibrations cutting through the charged silence.

We both freeze, eyes darting to the screens.

It’s a text from Braden.

Then my phone starts ringing with an incoming call.

I exchange a tense glance with Ambrose before we both swipe to answer at the same time.

“Well, well,” Braden’s voice crackles through the line, static humming in the background. “I finally get service again and what do I see? You two idiots trying to make our girl leave us for good.”

“Braden,” I breathe, my voice a jumble of relief and frustration. “Where the hell are ye?”

“More importantly,” Ambrose interjects, his tone sharp and demanding, “what the fuck are you thinking, running off like that?”

Braden is silent for a moment, the pause stretching out like a taut wire. Then, in a voice quieter than I expect, he says, “I just needed time, guys, but I think I’m ready to come home.”

I press the phone tighter to my ear, my heart pounding like a drum as Braden's voice crackles through the speaker, distorted by static.

"What do ye mean, ye’re comin’ home?" I demand, shooting a glance at Ambrose, whose brows are drawn into a stormy scowl, his fists clenching as if he wants to throw the phone against the wall. "Ye made it sound like ye were takin’ a bloody month out there in the Russian wilderness!"

Braden's voice comes through with a weary sigh. "Yeah, well, I just got service again and saw all the messages. Jesus, guys, what the hell happened while I was gone?"

Ambrose exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "We had a fight with Kenzie. She’s not talkin’ to usanymore," he mutters toward the receiver, his voice laced with regret.

A tense silence fills the air, and then Braden mutters, "You absolute dumbasses."

His words hit like a slap, and I straighten up on the locker room bench, my back rigid with defensiveness.

"Aye? And what were we supposed to do, huh?" I retort, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She kept it from us! She bloody told ye, but not us. She doesn’t trust us, Braden!" My voice echoes off the cold, tiled walls, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Braden exhales sharply, his voice laced with exasperation. "Jesus, Reggie. She’s scared. You know what kind of family she comes from. You two losing your shit at her just proved exactly why she thought she had to keep it a secret!"

Ambrose lets out a string of curses under his breath, his pacing picking up speed across the locker room floor.

"So what now?" I snap, the tension in my voice cutting through the air like a knife. "What do ye expect us to do?"

"Nothing." Braden's voice is sharp, resolute. "I’m cutting my trip short. I’m coming home to fix things before you two ruin this even more." His words are followed by the abrupt click of the call ending, leaving us in the echoing silence of our own mistakes.

I stare at the phone, my fingers clenching around it, stunned by the message Braden just delivered. The guy had barely given us the time of day before announcing he was swooping in like some kind of white knight to save the day.

"Cocky bastard," I mutter under my breath, feeling the heat of irritation rise in my chest.

Ambrose exhales loudly, his breath echoing in the quiet room as he leans his head back against the cold metal lockers, eyes closed. "He’s right, though," he admits reluctantly.

I glance at him, my brows pulling together in confusion and frustration. "Aye? And what do ye propose we do, Ambrose? Ye think we just show up at her door beggin’ like lost puppies?" My voice is sharp.

Ambrose lets out a dry laugh, the sound hollow in the echoing space. "Wouldn’t be the worst idea," he replies.

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