BACK WHEN I was following Liam and Kow around the circuit, though I used to sit in the friends and family box at home games, I never integrated with the wives and girlfriends.
Most of them weren’t interested in me because I was just a sister, but I did get friendly with a few of the moms who used to hang out there—that’s where I met Jessica Condon and her daughter Lorie.
It’s always been my standard MO to sit in the corner and listen to their chatter, which is how I pick up on most of the info I have about the team, and I see no reason to change things just because I’m working for Liam. The majority of the women leave me alone and I’m not bothered about getting friendly until it’s time to manage egos on his behalf.
Still, that’s a ‘me’ problem, not theirs.
They could be nice as hell and I’d still maintain distance from them.
Mia and Charlotte are just two women who’ve betrayed me along the way.
I’ve no desire to make it three for three.
So, when Lacey Kerrigan sits beside me at the Stars vs. Bulldogs game, I cast her a surprised look.
In her arms, she’s got their daughter who, amazingly enough considering the racket, is sleeping against her shoulder. Maybe it’s how pink and plump the little girl is that draws my attention to how bad Lacey appears.
I mean, she’s beautiful but frail. Really frail.
I’d even go so far as to say… ill.
We smile at each other in greeting, but it’s only when the third period hits and Matt, one of my billet brothers, stops yet another goal from the Stars and she growls, “You asshole,” at the same time as I do that we start chuckling.
“It’s Bradley’s fault. You can always tell when he’s feeling like his manhood’s being questioned—”
“He has them playing defensively. Ruben goes crazy about that.”
“I don’t think any of the offensive lines like Bradley,” I agree with a snort. “Come on, LIAM!” I shout as he races around the back of the net, swiping the puck away.
He shoots, fails to score, but snags possession back after Matt deflects his shot and takes it toward center.
When the baby gurgles at my holler, I mutter, “Oops, sorry.”
“You’re kidding, right? She could sleep through a hurricane,” Lacey says wryly. “That’s why I bring her here. Honestly, it’s great for sleep training. My mom always said to me, ‘Lacey, don’t tiptoe around your babies when they sleep because you’re just causing yourself a whole lot of work in the long run.’”
“Huh, that’s pretty smart.”
“Yeah. She knew her stuff,” Lacey agrees with a chuckle. “She had four kids, just like your mom, and billeted a few players as well.”
Unsurprised she knows that about my family because every hockey lover in North America knows about the kids who billeted with us, I ask, “That’s how you and Ruben met?”
“No. We went to high school together. I hated his guts throughout and even into his first year of college.”
I chuckle. “Wow, I didn’t expect that.”
“Yeah, turns out the jackass was mean to me because he liked me.” She rolls her eyes. “True schoolyard stuff. Can you imagine?”
“Yes, because men are idiots.”
“They so are.” Lacey presses her lips to the baby’s head. “So many wasted years…,” she whispers, her tone somber before she clears her throat. “Anyway, I sat next to you for a reason.”
“You did?” I ask, watching as a Boston right winger gets in Raimond’s face when he takes possession.
With a fight imminent because everyone knows Raimond fucked that player’s girl and got her pregnant, he slaps the puck toward Gagné, who clears it down to the other end.
“Yeah,” she mutters absently, her gaze locked on the ice. When Lewis snatches it and finally scores, we both shriek with relief before she continues, “It’s looking as if we’re going to be in the playoffs—”
“Damn straight we are!”
“—and no one else dared approach you.”
“Approach me?” I repeat, both unsurprised and surprised. “About what?”
“For, you know, the PALs playoffs jackets.”
“I’m neither a P nor an L.”
She arches her brow at me. “Yeah, okay.”
I scowl at her. “We’ve been dating for a day.”
Lacey hitches her shoulder. “If you know the signs…”
Absently, I rub my temple. “I forgot about the playoffs jackets.”
“To be fair, the last time you were on the circuit, it wasn’t a thing.”
“No, it wasn’t, and I wouldn’t have worn one because I wasn’t a wife or a girlfriend back then,” I drawl.
Her nose crinkles. “Are you going to turn me green for bringing it up?”
I snort. “No. I did that once. It’s not something you can make a habit out of. People start to look suspiciously at you whenever you’re near a body of water.”
A soft laugh escapes her but it balloons into a coughing fit that hacks through her small frame with such ferocity that when I offer, “Do you need me to hold the baby?” Lacey actually accepts, leaving me with the kid and her to—
Shit.
I try not to stare when I see her press a tissue to her mouth and it comes away pink.
As her coughing fit lessens, I swallow as I look down at the tiny body in my arms before I pass her back to Lacey.
“Sorry about that,” she rasps, her voice hoarse.
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
We share a glance.
It’s an odd one.
It’s a language that I’m sure only women speak.
That would go over the head of any and every man in the vicinity.
One that we know intrinsically, that’s in our very DNA.
“The doctors say I have a year left.”
My eyes flare wide. “I’m…”
“Please don’t say it. It’s not like you gave me cancer.”
“No, but… that sucks.”
“Yeah.” Her focus is on her baby who’s still sleeping peacefully in her arms, not the chaos as Boston manages to get one past Greco with two minutes left to the period. “It does.”
Both of us focus on the game until the buzzer sounds and OT starts.
Hesitantly, I offer, “If there’s anything I can do—”
Lacey peers at me just as her man misses a shot. “Get Liam to stop giving Ruben such a hard time?”
I blink. “He’s captain. He has to push them.”
“Yeah, and I know Ruben’s game is suffering, but we’ve got a lot going on…”
“You really do,” I agree huskily, and even though Boston scores and the game ends 2-1 with a Stars’ loss, I assure her, “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you.” She sucks in a breath that ends in a choked cough, one that she manages to control. Barely. Around a hoarse exhalation, she rumbles, “Now, the PALs jackets. We were thinking…”
