Page 51 of Arresting the Hockey Player
The elevator doors open, and Noah stands at the front door, staring at me pointedly. "What are you doing here?"
So much for pleasantries.
"You left in a rush. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
There's crying from a child behind him somewhere in the house. Unless he has the television on, but I doubt it. It sounds pretty damn real.
"I'm fine. Did the guys give you my address?" There's no sparkle in his gaze, no smile. He doesn't seem happy to see me.
But he hasn't pushed me away or told me to leave, either.
"Mama!" the little boy wails, and I push past Noah, inviting myself inside his home. The little boy, who is all of two years old, is lying on the kitchen floor, crying and screaming for his mommy.
My heart aches for the kid. "Do you make it a habit of kidnapping little kids?" I wince at my question. It came out harsher than intended, but he told me he never wanted kids, and finding one screaming on his kitchen floor makes the whole situation befuddling.
"He's my son," Noah snaps at me.
I didn't honestly believe he kidnapped the little boy. Noah doesn't seem the type. But he clearly lied to me about wanting kids, because he has a son. Does that mean that he didn't want him?
I bend down, crouching at the little one's level. "Hey," I whisper, my voice soft and warm.
The little boy glances up and sniffles. My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces when I see the toddler's black and blue eye.
"Who did this to you?" I ask, my voice catching in my throat.
"Daddy," the little boy whispers, and more tears pour like its monsoon season.
I sweep the child off the floor and into my arms protectively. "You're a monster!" I shout at Noah, grab my phone from my pocket, and immediately call 9-1-1.
"Charlotte, what the hell are you doing!" Noah shouts at me, his voice livid as he stomps toward me to grab the phone. "Give me the damn phone!"
The 9-1-1 operator hears the exchange before I can say anything further. "Is this a domestic situation, ma'am?"
"Yes," I say. "My boyfriend, Noah Reece, beat his son." I shout the address for the condo complex over the phone.
"Charlotte, that's not what happened!" He yanks the phone from me and slams it across the wall, breaking it.
"Really? You didn't hit him?" I wrap my arms around the child, protecting him as I turn my back to Noah. "Are you going to hit me too, coward?"
"I didn't fucking hit my son!"
"Daddy hit me," the little boy sobs.
"You're a fucking liar!" I shout at Noah, heading for the door.
Noah blocks me from leaving. His hand presses against the door as he refuses to let us leave.
"Seriously?" I can't believe the nerve of him. "Are you going to hold us both as hostages? Because I am walking out that door, and you're never seeing your son again!"
"You can't do that. Listen to me, Charlotte, you're not seeing the whole picture."
"Oh, I see it pretty damn clearly!"
"Daddy hit me!" the little boy shouts between tears.
"Let me explain."
"Explain how you hit your son?" I refuse to listen to any excuse that he gives. I know he's rough on the ice. It's not unusual for the players to get into a fight, but to hit a child, there's no excuse. No explanation that would make up for what he did.
