Page 107 of Shootout Daddies
The three of us sit there, hands tangled, the words pressing in from all sides. The clock ticks past nine, the house hums quietly,and from the monitor we hear Chloe stirs in her crib, a soft cry breaking the silence.
I glance toward the sound, then back to Ivy. “Guess this house might be louder sooner than we thought.”
Her laugh is wet, broken, but real this time. And my chest feels so full it could burst.
The kitchen smells like coffee and sizzling sausage, sunlight spilling across the table in gold stripes. Chloe is in her high chair, banging a plastic spoon against the tray like she’s got her own percussion section going.
Ivy sits beside her, a mug cradled in both hands, eyes soft but shadowed like she hasn’t stopped thinking since last night.
“I’ve got an ultrasound,” she says quietly, breaking the hum of the morning. “At six weeks, so next week. The doctor wants to check on everything.”
Instant. All three of us jump in, voices overlapping.
“We’ll go with you,” I say.
“Of course,” Rhett adds from the stove, tongs in his hand.
“Yeah,” Landon echoes, calm as ever, already reaching across the table to brush Ivy’s wrist with his thumb. “You won’t be alone.”
Ivy gives a small nod, eyes flicking down. Her fingers twist on the mug. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do about New York.”
The words fall heavy, like rocks dropped into water.
I feel my stomach tighten, but Landon leans in before anyone else can speak. His voice is measured.
“You don’t have to deal with that today. Or tomorrow. You have two weeks, sweetheart. Right now, focus on taking care of yourself. That’s all that matters.”
I watch him as he says it and I realize—not for the first time—that somewhere along the way, Landon Shaw, the forty-two-year-old lawyer I thought would be a stiff, temporary fixture in our lives, has become one of my closest friends.
Last night, after Ivy had gone upstairs, he told us about Halpern. About Allyson being poached. About how he’s going to stay on with the Icemen for the season.
We were ecstatic. Me, Rhett, even Ivy when she heard. The idea that he’d still be here, still part of this mess of a family we’ve built—it feels right.
Now, though, I’m watching him spoon yogurt into Chloe’s mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I can’t help but wonder what’s really going on in his head.
Rhett flips sausages onto a plate, moving like he’s running a machine line. Efficient. Focused. He’s always been good with Chloe—phenomenal, really—but I know two babies aren’t what he pictured. Not yet. Not like this.
I make a mental note. I’ll need to check in with him, too.
But Landon first. Because while he says he’s happy, while he looks calm, I know there’s more under the surface. There has to be. You don’t spend decades telling yourself kids aren’t in the cards and then just… smile your way through the possibility of two.
Ivy leans forward, resting her chin in her palm, her eyes still distant. Landon brushes her knuckles again, steady as stone. Rhett sets the plate of sausages down, the scent flooding the room, and Storm noses his way under the table for scraps.
I take it all in—the chaos, the sunlight, the woman who’s carrying a baby, the men who are already orbiting her like planets around the sun. I’m beyond happy with this newdevelopment into our relationship, but I need to find out if the others are on the same page.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ivy
The paperon the exam table crinkles beneath me as I shift, cold gel already slick across my lower belly. I’m clutching the edge of the table like it’s going to keep me steady. Beside me, three men pace different corners of the small room like caged animals.
Hunter stands by the sink, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the monitor like he’s about to take notes. Rhett leans against the wall near the cabinets, silent but steady, his hands flexing like he’s trying to decide if they should be in his pockets or fisted. Landon sits on the chair closest to me, elbows on his knees, his whole body angled toward me like he’s ready to move the second I flinch.
Dr. Naomi Patel, thin-framed with kind eyes behind square glasses, wheels the ultrasound machine closer. “Okay, Ivy,” she says softly. “We’re going to take a closer look today. You’re measuring about six weeks, correct?”
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
“Good. We’ll check viability, placement, and listen for cardiac activity if we can pick it up this early. You’ll see the screen once I get a clear picture.”
