Another Goal, page 2
I didn’t want to tell Luka. I didn’t want to be pregnant!
The chance to work in this paradise coincided with a need to show my bosses that I deserved not just this position, but a promotion. I clutched the gown tighter and groaned. This was a nightmare. I began to tick with molecular structure, needing the comfort of chemistry to calm myself.
Babies were made up mostly of carbon, but also oxygen, nitrogen, calcium, magnesium… I continued to list the basic building blocks that made up a human life.
I was growing a human inside me.
The very thing I’d fought so hard against when I was with Trent.
My hand slid to my flat stomach. I was having Luka Stol’s baby. A kernel of excitement lit me up. I’d never planned to have a child. Now, now…oh, I wanted the baby.
I was having a baby!
This was my choice. Mine. Only mine.
I lifted my gaze to Dr. Perera’s. “I can’t function right now.”
He nodded. “We may need to consider more drastic options than an antinausea medicine. And we might have to consider bed rest if you aren’t feeling well enough to travel to and from work.”
I shook my head, which made it seem like my neck was a string and my head a plummeting, snapping kite.
No bed rest. No. That—no, I’d lose my job, have to go back to Houston. Back to Luka. Yes, I wanted to see him, have him hold me, share this experience with me, but that also meant back to my father and Trent.
So, no. I wasn’t going back.
I despised the anxiety that rooted through my body, its shoots flickering out into my petrified limbs and squeezing my quelled heart. I hated that I continued to give Trent the power to sear off my independence and well-built life and send me back to being a crumpled, shuddering form in the bed.
I gritted my teeth and forced away the memories. They lived in a small box with a blue lid. The blue was cesium, element 55 on the periodic table. They’d named it after the Latin word, caesius, which meant blue sky.
After a few more repetitions, I breathed normally. A child was simply a change of direction. I smiled at Dr. Perera, striving to be normal. Once he left, shutting the door with a soft, firm click, I rested against the bed. My eyes slid shut, and I moved through my breathing exercises.
Luka wasn’t anything like Trent. And I wasn’t the same naïve young woman who’d believed wholeheartedly in love and perfect marriages to a dream man. I was Millicent Anne Jones, and I was strong, forged into it by circumstances. I was in control of my destiny.
Behind my lids, more moments of my time with Luka bubbled forward. I’d handed him control of my body, but that had been only for one night. I’d made a calculated decision and reveled in every second. Adored it. I’d felt empowered by my decision, my choice, to be intimate with such a perfect man on my terms.
But even then, even now, I would never give Luka or any other man control over the rest of my life. Nonetheless, my future, the one I’d planned down to the freaking hour for the next three years, crumbled around me.
And I had only myself—and Luka Stol—to blame.
Luka
I woke up with Millie’s name on my lips, my hips grinding into my tangled sheets. I collapsed on my back and stared up at the ceiling as I tried to regulate my breathing.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I looked over at the clock on my bedside table. Five forty-five. It was a cheap clock—and a cheap nightstand. Buying real furniture would happen once I was certain Houston wanted to keep me. I wanted a long-term contract like Cormac and Maxim had. Then, finally, I’d be able to move into my forever home. So I couldn’t mess up this season by doing stupid shit.
My phone. Where was my phone?
I found it on the nightstand and called Cruz. He answered with a groggy curse, followed by, “Do I need to kill you or someone else?”
“Want to go for a run?” I asked.
“Hell, man, I was sleeping.”
“And now you’re awake. Run?”
“You’re getting really annoying, you know that?”
I waited. He liked it when I spent time on conditioning—it was one of management’s issues with me. The top brass seemed to think I didn’t give weight training and diet the full respect they deserved. I liked to party. What twenty-three-year-old man didn’t? Weirdos and nerds, that was who.
When I first sat down at that table the night we met, I would have classified Millie as a straight-up nerd. She’d worn pearls and a dress that buttoned to her neck. But when those pretty eyes met mine, not even her thick frames could hide the gorgeousness in those peepers.
After all the texts and a flurry of phone calls, after meeting up with her again, I was entranced by her brilliance. And she’d worn contacts to Naese’s party the next week, so I’d had a clear view of her beautiful eyes and the sweet, soft curve of her cheek. I’d been half in love with her before we had sex.
And then the sex blew my mind. So much so that I’d passed on the chance to fuck a lot of women since. I hadn’t been interested, because I was sure Millie had felt the connection, too. We could be so good together. We’d proven it—not just in bed, but with the thousands of texts that came before.
But she’d ghosted me.
I pounded my fist against the mattress and clutched my phone tighter. I had to stop thinking about her. She didn’t want me.
That hurt like a motherfucker, but it was true. I had to stop hoping for more than she was willing to give. I wouldn’t beg for crumbs of affection. Been there, done that, hated myself for it.
“Are you running with me or not?” I snapped.
Cruz sighed. “Give me twenty.”
That’s why Cruz was the best. I tossed my phone back on my nightstand and rubbed my hands across my face.
I had to stop thinking about Millie. Had to.
I didn’t. I texted her instead: Thinking about you. Missing you.
Same refrain, different day.
Miraculously, though, this time those three little bubbles appeared. I held my breath. They disappeared, and my chest seemed to cave.
They reappeared again.
Hope fluttered.
You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met.
Score! She’s talking to me!
But I’m in Sri Lanka for the next few years. I won’t be coming back to the States. I’m sure you’ll find someone in Houston you want to be with.
Why would she say that?
It’s best that we don’t talk any more. Nothing can come of it.
I slammed my fists into my mattress again and again. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to…
What?
I wanted to be with her even though she was halfway around the world? How would that work? Millie was being logical. Smart.
What was this about—shit! Emotions. I’d never caught feelings for a woman before, and then she’d moved away before I had the chance to explore what it could be like.
I rested my arm over my eyes and heaved a breath.
Being with Millie had been exhilarating. She was smart, funny, and truly interested in me. Me, Luka Stol, the dumb kid who’d barely finished high school and still struggled to finish a novel.
She’d mesmerized me, and then she was gone. I hated her leaving even as I pined for her. And now knowing she was literally gone from this city—this country—somehow made it worse.
I hated her.
Focus on that emotion. Harness it.
It was time to get off my ass and focus on what I could control: my conditioning. Next year was a contract year for me. I needed to show my coach, Silas Whittaker, and Gunnar Evaldson, owner of the Wildcatters, that I was the best player in my position.
Plus, maybe the run would clear my head of Millie fucking Jones.
It did, and it didn’t—story of my life. Cruz had set a punishing pace to torture me for waking him up. But I appreciated it, because I was worn out—sweat drenching my torso and sucking in great gulps of air—by the time we finished.
Today was a practice day. By the time we got to the arena, I’d tried to call Millie again. And she’d ignored me. Again. Which pissed me off. No doubt that was why I went in for the hard hit on Naese, shoving him into the boards. He pushed me off with a roar, dropping his gloves and pummeling my chest.
Coach blew his whistle, but it was Cruz and Maxim who plucked us apart—as if we were dolls in their big-ass world.
“Stop being a dick,” Maxim growled.
“Tell Naese to stop being so quick to react,” I snapped.
“Pot meet kettle,” Cruz muttered. He shoved Naese into the boards, causing him to grunt and curse.
“Both of you need to get your heads out of your asses and back in the game where they belong. Hear me?” Cruz glowered, looking like an angry bear with all that bristling facial hair.
I hung my head. “Yes, Father.”
He shoved my shoulder on the way past, but I caught a hint of a smile tugging at his lips—or it was a nervous tic? Probably a lip quirk because Cruz didn’t do nerves. Lucky bastard.
“Stol, Naese, I want fifty laps. Then meet me in my office,” Coach Whittaker yelled. He wrinkled his nose. “After you shower—you both smell terrible. Shit. I can’t stand this BS.”
Cormac Bouchard skated over, concern on his handsome face. It sucked having a team captain that looked like freaking Prince Charming and acted…well, like a charming fucker.
I couldn’t live up to that standard.
I scowled as I dropped my chin to my chest, moving toward the exit. Maxim settled in for the skate next to me, matching my stride as I sped around the ice.
“Gonna do a cute little jump and spin?” he asked as I turned backward.
I rolled my eyes. The guys were so funny. “No, but I was thinking about shoving you under the zamboni.”
Maxim pushed ahead of me. “You can try.”
He didn’t even say it with any heat. I wanted a fight, a release of tension. But no. Maxim, who was now with Ida Jane, Millie’s best friend, couldn’t even give me that. Just a matter-of-fact reminder that he was bigger, stronger, and more experienced than me.
I gritted my teeth and skated on. Cormac was still talking to Naese, who appeared agitated. At least I’d gotten under someone’s skin.
“You gonna admit you’re acting out about the nerd girl you hooked up with at his party?” Maxim tipped his head toward Naese.
“Her name is Millie, and no,” I said. My legs felt like deadweight; I could barely lift my skates.
This conditioning had better help in our game this weekend. I needed a win—both in my stats and for the team if I wanted to stick around with Houston next year.
“Nothing wrong with a little vulnerability,” Maxim offered.
“Have you traded personalities with Cruz? And yes, there is. You get hurt.”
I clenched my fists inside my gloves, pissed I’d admitted Millie’s refusal to talk to me hurt my feelings. I was Luka Stol, a hot-shot hockey star with the money and looks to bag any woman in hockey nation…except the one I wanted.
“What would be good is to channel that aggression into a W on Friday.” Maxim smacked my shoulder hard enough for me to wince. “You have ten more to go.”
He headed toward the exit while I considered what he’d told me, and what he hadn’t said.
Gunnar Evaldson also slapped my shoulder as he exited Coach Whittaker’s office when I trudged down the hall after my shower. I didn’t have time to wonder why he was there, because Coach laid into me the moment I crossed the door’s threshold.
“You either get your head together or be prepared to be benched.”
I stared at him, halfway into the seat, my hand on the back of the chair. Instead of settling down, I popped up. “Sure, Coach. Whatever you say.”
He thumped his butt into his chair as I turned toward the door, jaw tight with my effort not to spew the additional shit my ego demanded. That would definitely get me benched.
“Sit your ass down, Luka. Now.”
I returned to the chair and sat with my fists tight against my thighs.
“You’re wound tighter than Mac was before we signed him,” Coach said, leaning forward. The gray at his temples seemed more pronounced. He was still young, but he’d been through a lot of life changes since coming to Houston. I hadn’t been here for his wedding or his adoption of his niece, but I knew about it. We all did because Coach had all the guys at his place a few times each season.
I liked both his wife, Paloma, and his daughter, Trix. Not that I spent a lot of time with women or girls.
The closest thing I had to a mother, Alyssa, said that was because I didn’t know how to interact with women, especially those who had potential to be in my life long term. I had to admit, she seemed to be on to something with that theory.
I preferred to keep my relationships with women superficial—some flirting, getting off, and getting out. Until Millie.
“I’m sorry,” Coach said, scrubbing his hands over his face, which caused his glasses to push up on his forehead.
He’d gotten the readers this year, and I thought they made him look like a TV dad. Coach didn’t seem used to them or comfortable with them yet, which made it funny as hell to watch him forget where he put them.
“You have so much promise, Luka. Such talent. It’s hard to remember you’re just a kid.”
I stiffened, but kept my mouth shut. Barely.
“I know you’re going through some stuff—who isn’t? But I need you to keep your off-ice romances off the damn ice. You hear me?” He sighed. “You and Naese… I can’t have my starting line this twisted up over women, especially when I know you boys were the ones who created the drama in the first place.”
I didn’t create shit with Millie. Well, I had, but I’d planned on it being more than a wham-bam-drop-the-man scenario. Silas Whittaker wasn’t interested in my hurt pride, though. I wrenched my lips open enough to offer, “Yes, Coach.”
He leaned forward, his expression implacable. “You’re up for a new contract next season. Right now, you’re looking like a good trade option.”
I bit my tongue and met his gaze, though I wanted to drop my head. I’d focused on playing for Houston from the get-go. I’d followed hockey for as long as I could remember, and I’d liked what the Wildcatters owner, Gunnar Evaldson, was doing with this program. This was where I wanted to retire. Not only was Silas Whittaker a fantastic former player and brilliant coach, but he’d also managed the impossible and already led this new franchise to two Stanley Cup runs in five years.
Most teams never got that far.
I inhaled through my nose. “I understand.”
“Do you, Luka?” Coach snapped. “You have the build, the speed, the stick work to be one of the greats. You also have a chip on your shoulder and an impulsive streak that screws up all that talent. I’m not sure I can coach you—not if you’re not willing to trust me.”
I inhaled again. “I hear you, Coach.”
He waited, but I remained silent. “Get your act together, Luka. I’ve given you all the chances I can.”
Chapter 2
Millie
Single parenting wasn’t for the weak, not even when the baby was still inside me. Wiping my mouth with the back of my shaking hand, I flushed the toilet. I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t been ill.
I rose, my legs unsteady, and rested my hands on the cool porcelain of the sink. Dark bags sat thick and menacing under my eyes. My skin was sallow, patched with dryness, and my hair was lank. But it was my eyes that caught my attention. I squinted, then shook my head.
They were bright, filled with some internal glow the rest of me was not feeling. My eyes told the rest of the story—the one I’d hidden for the last few weeks.
“You’re okay, Mil-bil,” I murmured. Using Ida Jane’s nickname for me raised a longing in my chest. I missed her. I curled my fingers tighter against the sink. With a heavy sigh, I picked up my toothbrush and cleaned my mouth.
Then, before I could change my mind, I padded out of the bathroom and through the living room, ignoring my high-rise view, and to the bar in the kitchen where I’d left my laptop. I settled into the chair and opened the chat app. I picked up my now-cool tea, wrapping my fingers around the ceramic mug as if it were a talisman that would save me from the censure I would receive.
The digital chimes continued for a few moments until Ida Jane’s pretty face filled my screen. Her tousled hair, droopy eyelids, and flushed cheeks told me I’d caught her at a bad time. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t hide from her any longer.
“It wasn’t Dengue fever. I’m pregnant,” I blurted, needing my friend’s comfort.
Ida Jane’s eyes widened, her lips forming a perfect O of surprise. “Okay. Well, that’s not what I expected you to lead with. I’m happy if you’re happy, which I’m assuming you are since you’re telling me about the baby. Who’s the father?” she asked.
Ida Jane and I had been fast friends since our college days at University of Houston, and she now practiced as an art therapist near the Galleria.
I relaxed enough to set the mug on the counter. Ida Jane wasn’t judging me.
“Luka. Who else?”
Ida Jane gave a curt nod, her gaze flicking upward, no doubt to Maxim. I still couldn’t believe she’d married the Wildcatters’ D-man in a private civil ceremony nearly two months ago—not long after they’d met the night we’d gone to dinner. But she looked well-loved and happy with her decision, so I was happy for her.
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” I said, teary. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“Be honest with Stol,” Ida Jane said.
I twisted my hands together, nervous energy running through me. But I was too tired to get up and run or do kata. “Do you think he’ll care? I mean, he must have moved on with, like, a million other women by now.”
“He hasn’t, and he’s a better guy than you’ve given him credit for,” Ida Jane snapped. “Look, he comes over every week. He’s a good man. Thoughtful and responsible. He has a past. So do you.”
