Page 62 of Shootout Daddies
I take the elevator up and flash my access credentials to the receptionist. A quick nod, a gesture toward the ice, and I step through the double doors.
The cold blast of arena air hits me like a wall. The ice stretches out in front of me, crisp and bright under the overhead lights. Players in full gear weave across it, pucks rattling against boards, blades slicing through the surface in sharp, clean cuts.
I spot Rhett easily—he’s built like a wall, broad and commanding, taking a shot that snaps past the goalie into the net. Hunter isn’t far off, skating in with a kind of smooth precision that looks effortless but clearly isn’t.
I’ve never been much of an athlete. Growing up, the closest I came to sports was an occasional half-hearted gym class or tossing a baseball with my cousins in the backyard.
It wasn’t until years into practicing law that I picked up running and weight training, not because I enjoyed it but because it helped bleed out the frustration that built up in my work. Frustration that, more often than not, came from Teresa.
I grit my teeth and push the thought of her away before it can pull me under. Our marriage might have ended bitterly, but the truth is the cracks had formed long before we signed the divorce papers. We were incompatible in every way that mattered.
I don’t miss her, not in the way I should miss someone I once thought I’d spend my life with, but the echoes of our dysfunction have a way of surfacing at the worst moments.
I force my focus back to the rink. Coach Leo is pacing the boards, shouting directions that echo in the cavernous space. He claps his hands sharply, pointing players into new formations.
The entire thing is a well-oiled machine, every pass and drill clean, every player locked in. But then I hear it—a sound that doesn’t belong here. A sharp wail.
At first, I think it’s something from the speakers, some weird feedback. But then I look up, and my stomach tightens.
High in the bleachers, there’s a lone figure. Ivy. She’s got a baby balanced on her hip, shifting her gently while trying to soothe her.
The sound cuts through the noise of the rink, and I watch as both Rhett and Hunter stop mid-play. Their attention snaps instantly toward the stands. They skate hard to the edge, exchanging a few quick words with Coach Leo.
Whatever they say earns them a clipped nod, and then they’re ditching the drill entirely, skating toward the exit.
The doors to the stands open, and seconds later they’re climbing up toward her. Hunter reaches her first. He takes the baby from her like it’s second nature, settling the little girl against his shoulder.
She stops crying almost immediately, those small fists curling into his jersey.
Some of the other players are watching, calling out comments I can’t quite catch over the hum of voices and skate blades. There’s a mix of curiosity and teasing in their tones, but it rolls right off the three of them.
Rhett steps in close, brushing a kiss against Ivy’s forehead. The gesture is brief, easy, intimate in a way that makes my jaw tighten. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He just does it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Then they turn, making their way back toward the exit. It looks like they’re leaving entirely, practice be damned.
I tell myself to look away, to stop tracking them with my eyes like some nosy neighbor. But right before she steps out of view, Ivy glances over her shoulder.
Her gaze snags on me.
Her expression is impossible to read—surprise, maybe a flicker of confusion. Like she hadn’t expected to see me here. Iknow my face must mirror some of that. Because I’m surprised. More than that, I’m unsettled.
Then she’s gone, disappearing with them into the shadow of the concourse.
I’m still staring at the spot where she stood when a voice breaks into my head.
“Landon.”
I turn to see Cam striding toward me, helmet under his arm, hair damp from sweat. His grin is easy, familiar in the way of someone who’s used to charming an audience.
“Glad I caught you,” he says, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it down here this early.”
“I had some time,” I answer. My voice feels steady, but my mind is still caught on the image of Ivy in the bleachers, the way those two players moved to her.
“Perfect. My meetings ended way sooner than I had expected. We can grab a quick coffee before we sit down later. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I let him lead me through the maze of hallways that run behind the rink. The conversation stays light—training schedules, media day logistics, the sponsorship negotiations I’m supposed to be reviewing—but my focus is fractured.
I can’t shake the question forming in the back of my mind.
