Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
“You ever think about how fucked up this is?” he asks, not looking at me. “A year ago, I’d have bet my left nut you’d wind up alone, retired to a cabin, talking to your thirteen cats.”
I snort. “Do I really seem like a crazy cat guy?”
He almost smiles. “You never let anyone know you. No one had any idea what kind of guy you are.”
“Until Harper,” I offer, letting the truth fall between us.
“My sister really is a miracle worker.” He tips his face toward me, a smirk flickering across his mouth. “I just wish she’d picked some other needy bastard to work her magic on.”
“Good thing she didn’t. Otherwise, I’d have to murder the fucker.”
He shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. “You know it’s not very smart to admit you’re totally pussy whipped, right?”
The rest of the evening is easier. We trade barbs about practice, rip on Mick for that dumb goal he celebrated like a playoff winner, and agree that the new rookie is a “walking disaster.”
Outside, the city moves on without us. Inside, the weight of the day recedes, replaced by something that feels like I’m making headway with my brother-in-law. Fuck. I can’t believe I’m putting in effort into winning over Ryan “Pain In My Ass” Coleman.
He leans back, arms stretched along the top of the booth. “You’re still an asshole, Ice Wall.”
“Right back at you.” I hold up my glass to him.
But I think he means it less than he used to.
We sit there a long time, watching the neon flicker and the beer foam die down, two rivals slowly recalibrating. I let myself picture the next few months, and for the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to all of it.
Tomorrow, we’ll fight again. It’s what we do.
Tonight though, we just exist. And for once, that’s enough.
“I need to head home. I have a wife to satisfy,” I mutter as I stand up and drop a few bills on the table.
“Motherfucker,” Ryan growls, sticking his fingers in his ears. “I need to wash my brain out, or I’m going to have nightmares.”
I laugh all the way to my car, the image of Ryan doing his best toddler impression warming me more than I want to admit. My feet are dragging, but my brain’s already sprinting ahead to Harper. All I want is to get home, bury my face in her hair, and forget about the insane circus I just left.
Traffic’s a bitch. By the time I key into our place, my clothes stick to me, and my knees are throbbing. The lights are low, everything soft and quiet, except for the faint sound of an old crime show drifting in from the living room.
Harper’s stretched out on the sofa, one arm flopped over her eyes, a damp washrag barely hanging onto her forehead. Something’s wrong. My pulse cranks into overdrive.
I drop my keys and cross the room in three strides, heart beating so loud I swear the sound fills the room. “Hey, firecracker. Are you sick?” I kneel at the couch, ready to call in a damn medevac if she croaks out a yes.
She shifts the rag and gives me a look. “Sorta. Look at this.”
She hands me something. For a second, I’m positive it’s a thermometer. But it isn’t. I squint, then stare.
Holy. Shit. A white stick with two very distinct pink lines.
My hands shake. “Are you serious?” My voice cracks wide open.
She nods. That’s all it takes—I scoop her off the couch and onto my lap. “You just made me the happiest man alive,” I whisper into her hair.
I want to shout, break out in a happy dance, and text Ryan just to see if his head explodes. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
Instead, I lock my arms around Harper and just breathe her in. “My girl’s having my baby,” I choke out. “I love you, firecracker.”
“I love you, too.” She snuggles against my chest. “And before you ask, yes, you can tell Ryan.”
God. She really does love me. “Why don’t we tell him together?” I laugh.
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Life just doesn’t get any better than this. The ice wall is completely gone.
EPILOGUE 1: HARPER
Seven Months Later
The morning light filters through the oversized windows of our new lakeside home, catching the dust motes that dance over a half-assembled crib. A quiet, rhythmic sound, the soft scrape of a screwdriver against wood, anchors me to the present. I lean against the doorframe of the nursery, one hand resting instinctively on the solid, high curve of my stomach. The baby kicks, a sharp, insistent drumming against my ribs that feels like a private conversation only we’re privy to.
Jaxson is on the floor, his massive frame hunched over a pile of Scandinavian instructions that would baffle a structural engineer. He’s wearing an old, faded Seattle Knights t-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. He looks less like the 'Ice Wall' and more like a man engaged in a life-or-death struggle with a wooden dowel. Seeing him like this, stripped of the pads and the pressure of twenty thousand screaming fans, still makes my breath hitch in a way that has nothing to do with pregnancy-induced shortness of breath.