Page 77 of Ice Daddy
Coach was staring at his wristwatch the second Lance walked into the dressing room. “Aaaaaand he made it, with less than ten seconds to spare.”
Lance, and everyone else in the room, breathed a collective sigh of relief. The punishment for being late? Missing the game. Whichreallywould've put a damper on his night, all things considered.
But Lance was in an exceptionally good mood. The day had been a roller-coaster—from thinking Paige hated him to seeing the look on her face when he showed her Irie's bedroom. And who could forget the sweet little kiss they'd shared in his bedroom?
He wanted her so bad, and he wanted her for the rest of his life.
And he wanted her to know that, too.
Tonight would be the night—all he had to do was make sure that the Brawlers won this game.
Lance took the center of the room. “Listen up, boys! We're winning this game, alright? I've got my girl sitting front row, with my daughter and my sister, too.”
The team shot confused glances around the room.“Wait, did he just say his daughter?” “Uh-huh, that's what I heard.” “Something you wanna tell us, Lance?”
Lance shook his head. “Yeah, I just told you. I've got a daughter, alright? Her name's Irie, she's fifteen months old, and she's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen. So this is a big game for me. Don't let me down. Battle hard out there. I need this one, boys.”
The boys grunted and grumbled in agreement, and then an unquestioning cheer broke out among them:“For Coots!”
Then the door to the dressing room swung open. In walked Mr. Tremblay with the real, flesh-and-bones Kip Sterling in tow.
“Oh, great,” Lance muttered. “Just the guy I needed to see.”
“You have a moment, Lance?” Mr. Tremblay asked. “Kip and I need to have a word with you.”
Lance stood from his stall, sneering at Kip. “Let's do it.”
The three men went to Mr. Tremblay's office at the top floor of the arena. Lance took a seat.
“As you can probably guess,” Mr. Tremblay began, “Kip filled me in that a woman claims she had your baby.”
Lance shook his head. “Her name is Paige. And she's not justclaimingit. I know it's my daughter.”
“You're sure?” Mr. Tremblay said, his eyes widening.
“Positive.”
“But do you have the paternity test results?” Kip asked.
“Not yet. We took the test today.”
Kip sniveled. “Oh … well I suppose that's a start, at least.”
“But I'm telling you, that child is mine. Everyone who sees her knows it. And I knew it from the second I saw her. I'm telling you, there's afeelinga man has in his heart when he looks at his own child—”
“Oh, Lance!” Kip interrupted, doubled over in laughter and pounding his fist on the table. Apparently, he found that sentiment hilarious. Then he said rather abruptly, “Ten percent.”
“Ten percentwhat?” Lance asked, his eyes narrowing at the PR man.
“That's how many men are estimated to be raising what theythinkis their child, but is actually the offspring of another man.”
“Ten percent?” Lance repeated skeptically. “That number sounds pretty damn high to me, don't you think, Kip?”
Mr. Tremblay agreed. “Yeah, Kip, I have to agree with Lance. That can't be right.”
“Well, of course, it's difficult to get a truly accurate number, and some estimates are as low as one percent while others are as high as thirty percent.” He bristled, quick to sweep the shakiness of his data point under the rug. “But whatever thetruenumber is, I'm quite sure those men would say the same thing you just did: that they know in their heart that the child is theirs. When in fact it is not.”
Lance sighed. “Look, man. I'm starting to get the feeling that this is something weirdly personal for you. I don't know what you've had to deal with in your own life, Kip, but—”
