Page 15 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
Everything. Including Luna. My daughter. My entire world. The baby born out of the best night of my life.
And now, maybe… maybe her father is skating twenty feet away from me in Avalanche colors, with no idea.
The nausea rises like a wave. My hand trembles around the mic. I try to steady it, try to breathe.
Get a grip, Leighton. You can’t afford to fall apart and get fired.
The camera light flashes red in the booth window. We’re live. I force a smile, though it feels paper-thin. “And it looks like we’ve got a power play situation developing. Avalanche holding strong at one-zero,” I manage, my voice scraping itself back into function.
Wilson shoots me a sideways glance, one brow raised, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows. Maybe he doesn’t. Right now, I don’t care. All I can think about is what happens next.
Because if David really is Lion, then he deserves to know. Right?
Or maybe it’s better if he never finds out.
God help me, I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.
When David is off the ice, I have to force myself to focus on what’s happening on the ice instead of sneaking glances at the bench. But it’s damn near impossible not to gawk at the captain, my pulse spiking every time he adjusts his helmet or leans in to speak to a teammate. I keep replaying every interaction we’ve had, every flirty remark, every sidelong glance, and wondering if he could be Lion. His build fits. Broad, strong, commanding. Shit, I think he just might be.
There are two ways I can confirm. I either catch a glimpse of his left hip in the locker room to see if that foot-long scar is really there, or I ask him outright. But if I open that Pandora’s box, there’s no going back. If David Decker turns out to be Luna’s father, it changes everything. My life, her life—upended.
Then another forward catches my attention. The left-winger. He hovers next to David like they’re attached at the hip. Something about him feels familiar.Too familiar. It’s the way he plants his feet wide and folds his arms like a soldier ready for battle before he finally drops down on the bench beside David. My stomach knots. A chill slices through me.
No.No fucking way.
Could that be Wolf?
God, please no. Please let this be some stress-induced hallucination from flying with a toddler recently and surviving my brother’s farewell guilt trip. My breaths turn shallow. Too fast, too close together. I’m spiraling.
Just as I’m teetering on the edge of full-blown panic, logic claws its way back in. That player, Shane Jacobson, is on my interview schedule for next week. He wasn’t even on the Avalanche roster at the time of the masquerade ball. He couldn’t have been there. I’d remember his name. I’d remember Ava talking about him. Wouldn’t I?
But who the hell am I kidding? You didn’t have to be on the team to score an invite tothatparty. Hundreds of people were there—players, staff, sponsors, the who’s who of the entireleague. It was a celebration of Coach’s birthday and a win. Anyone with even a sliver of connection had a reason to be there. And now… I can’t shake the feeling that he was one of them.
But David was there. And what if Shane had been with him?
Lion and Wolf.
The thought crashes into me like a glass to the head.
Maybe I’m just seeing things. The human brain loves patterns, right? Even the absurd ones. I try to shake it off, clinging to the hope that the universe isn’t that cruel. But I’m rattled. Badly. On a wing and a prayer, I continue commentary with Wilson, but it’s all a blur. I’m pretty sure I’m forming actual words, but internally, I’m a hot mess.
These are just freakish coincidences, I repeat like a mantra. Until I seehim.
Another man on the bench, this one wearing scrubs, either a team physician or trainer, taps a player on the elbow. The player rises and shifts down the bench toward Shane. He’s the third of the first-string forwards, the right winger.
My heart plummets.
He pulls off his jersey for some shoulder taping, and as his arm is exposed, I notice a tattoo on the outside of his bicep. I squint, trying to make it out. It’s not an image like David’s, but words. They’re faded, inked in all caps.
The camera pans across the bench, zooming in, the lens lingering just long enough for me to catch it:
ARMY BR…
My heart stops.Brat.It says Army Brat. Just like the tattoo on Jester’s arm that night.
Suddenly, the room feels like it's spinning.
This isn’t a coincidence. This is confirmation. Because the chances of David Deckernotbeing Lion, Shane Jacobsonnotbeing Wolf, and the right winger who I haven’t met yetnotbeing Jester have evaporated like smoke in the wind.
