Page 63 of Shootout Daddies
Who is the father of that baby?
I know she’s with Rhett and Hunter. I know because I’ve seen it, far more intimately than I should have.
But nothing about what I just saw felt like some casual arrangement. There was too much instinct in the way they went to her, too much familiarity in how Hunter held the baby.
The possibility that one of them is the father isn’t exactly far-fetched. But the way they both moved, how they both seemed equally invested—it leaves the question unsettled.
I keep it to myself, but it festers. Every time Cam says something about the team, about their camaraderie and unity, I picture that moment again.
Ivy in the stands. The baby in her arms. Rhett’s kiss. Hunter’s quiet sway as he held the little girl.
By the time we make it to his office for the meeting, my brain is miles away from the sponsorship clauses and contract amendments I’m supposed to be discussing. I nod at the right points, ask the necessary questions, even make a few notes. But beneath all of it, the question gnaws at me.
Is Ivy really dating both of them?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hunter
Chloe squirms against my chest,her little fists thumping lightly at my shoulder. Her face is red and blotchy from crying, and I can feel the heat of it against my neck. I sway her gently, murmuring soft nonsense into her ear.
“Shh, baby girl. Daddy’s got you. We’re all good now, huh? You’re safe. You’re okay.”
She hiccups once, then lets out a tiny whimper, the sound breaking into something closer to a whine. I press my lips to the crown of her head. Her hair is so fine it tickles my mouth, soft as spun silk.
“Want a cracker?” I whisper, pulling one from the little bag Ivy shoved into my hand before we left the bleachers. I wave it in front of Chloe’s face.
She blinks at it, then grabs with clumsy fingers, shoving it immediately into her mouth.
Crumbs scatter down my jersey, but I don’t care. Her chewing slows her fussing, her cries dissolving into quiet little hums as she leans into me.
I glance over at Rhett. He’s got one hand at the small of Ivy’s back as we walk down the concourse. She’s got Chloe’s diaperbag slung over one shoulder and that look on her face—half worried, half resigned.
“Are you sure Coach wasn’t mad?” she asks, her voice low. She keeps her eyes on Chloe as if she’s afraid the baby will start wailing again if she looks away.
Rhett squeezes her side, answering before I can. “We explained it. You heard the way the guys reacted.”
I nod, shifting Chloe higher on my hip. “Yeah. Nobody gave us a hard time. If anything, they were curious.”
Curious might be an understatement.
The moment Chloe’s cry echoed across the rink, everything stopped. I swear, every head turned toward the bleachers like the puck had frozen mid-play.
The sound didn’t belong out there, not in the middle of drills. A baby’s cry is sharp, it slices right through.
And when they saw us heading toward her, grabbing gear to get off the ice, the looks started. A couple of the guys shouted up at us, half-joking but half not.
“Since when do you bring your kid to practice?”
“Hunter, man, are you even allowed to hold a stick with a baby in your arms?”
Someone else yelled, “She’s got better lungs than you, Rhett.” That one got a laugh.
Coach Leo, though, wasn’t laughing. He blew the whistle so hard I thought my eardrums would burst. When we got to the boards, he leaned in, voice sharp.
“What’s going on?”
Rhett didn’t flinch. “Family situation. We need to step out.”
