Offside Devil (Phoenix Angels Hockey Book 1), page 3
“Did the pizza make it there safe and sound?” she asks. “Do you like the loaded breadsticks? I know how much you like bacon, so I went with the bacon and cheese filling.”
I frown and scan the counter. The marble top is bare except for the one nearly-empty box of pizza. “I didn’t get breadsticks.”
“What?!” I can hear the horror in her voice. “They should be there! I tipped that delivery driver fifty percent to rush everything over.”
“It’s fine. The pizza is enough.”
“But I wanted to celebrate your news,” she mutters. “Our news, really. I’m going to be the personal assistant to the captain of the Phoenix Angels. It feels like a promotion for both of us.”
Hanna has been my P.A. for the last two years. I never had one before I got sober, but I quickly realized the only way I could force myself to sit down and fill in a weekly planner is if I was high out of my mind. Without the option of a mind-altering substance, I settled on Hanna. She’s been organizing my life ever since.
“It’s not a done deal. Coach hasn’t made his decision yet.”
“Coach Popov isn’t an idiot. You’re the only man for the job. You’re incredible, Zane. He knows that.”
I clear my throat. “Were you just calling to check on the pizza or do you need something?”
“Oh, right. Well, now, I need to call Marco’s and get your money back, but that’s not why I called.” She chuckles. “I know you wanted me to clear your schedule for tonight, but what about tomorrow morning?”
“Do I have something tomorrow morning?”
“It’s just that brunch with the reporter from Phoenix Mag. For the piece about the role of athletics in addiction recovery. I cleared it with the PR director for the team, so that’s not an issue. But I didn’t know if you were still interested.”
I planned to cancel. But what better way to show Coach—and anyone else who doubts me—that I’ve turned over a new leaf than with some good press?
“Fuck it. Might as well,” I tell her. “It’ll help with the whole captain thing.”
“Not that you need the help,” Hanna chimes in warmly.
Someone knocks on the door, saving me from needing to respond. “I gotta go.”
“Is someone at the door?” she guesses. “Maybe it’s the breadsticks! If it is, let me know. Otherwise, I’m calling in fifteen minutes to get a full refund.”
“Roger that.”
“Goodnight, Zane,” she sing-songs cheerfully. “See you at brunch tomorrow.”
I hang up and pad barefoot and bare-chested to the door, then yank it open.
“Oh.” The adult woman on the other side is wearing a tweed pantsuit and a look of mild horror. No pizza or breadsticks in sight. “Are you Zane Whitaker?”
I’m about to answer when I notice the small, blonde head peeking out from behind her leg. The little kid jerks back behind the woman when he sees me looking at him.
He’s a little young to be a fan, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone made their way to my door for an autograph.
I sigh. “Unless you’re hiding breadsticks in your suit jacket, I’m not interested. Every other appointment goes through my agent or my personal assistant.”
“I know this is out of the blue…” the woman begins, untucking a folder from under her arm.
I wave her off before she can open it. “This is where I live, lady. If you want an autograph, show up at the games like everyone else.”
I start to close the door, but the woman shoves her sensible white sneaker into the gap. “Mr. Whitaker, do you know a Paige Foster?”
The blood in my veins turns to ice. Of all the sneaky, stalker-esque ways to get an autograph, that’s a new one.
“Who’s asking?” I croak.
“I’m Jodie Barnes, the social worker assigned to Aiden’s case.”
I frown down at the little blonde head that disappears behind the woman’s leg again. “Who is Aiden? What does this have to do with Paige?”
What does this have to do with me?
“Until I know your full relationship to my case—”
“None,” I interrupt. “I don’t have a relationship to your case or anything at all to do with Paige anymore. That was a long time ago.”
“About four years ago?” she guesses.
If I was smart, I’d slam the door closed and call Hollis. As my agent and a former attorney, he’d want to know the second someone came knocking on my door talking about Paige and my past.
But curiosity gets the better of me.
“Give or take,” I confirm. “What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry to tell you like this,” the woman continues, “but Paige Foster recently passed.”
The edges of my vision go hazy. All day long, time has been stretching and condensing like a slinky going down the stairs. My past—a past full of Paige—has felt closer than it has in a long, long time.
Now, this.
“‘Passed’?” I breathe. “Like, she’s—Is she—”
“She’s deceased, I’m afraid. And this is her four-year-old son.” The woman steps to the side, revealing for the first time the little boy standing behind her. He’s standing pigeon-toed in a pair of scuffed light-up sneakers. His blonde hair is too long, too shaggy, hanging down into his blue eyes.
Blue like mine.
I shake my head as the roar in my ears grows louder. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I didn’t want to do it like this, but I didn’t have a choice. According to the hospital records and everyone in Paige’s life, you were the person I needed to call.”
“Because I’m her emergency contact?” I guess. I might vaguely remember filling out some forms in an ER one drunken night. “That was years ago. I haven’t spoken to her in—It’s been years.”
“Four years,” the woman repeats slowly, like she’s handing me the pieces to a very easy puzzle.
“Yeah, four years,” I grit out. “It’s been a long time. I barely know her anymore.”
And now, she’s dead.
“Whatever you’re looking for, lady, I don’t have it.”
“What I’m looking for—” She runs a hand down her tired face. “Who I’m looking for, rather, is Aiden’s father. According to Ms. Foster… that’s you.”
7
ZANE
Paige is asleep on the couch where I left her. In the six weeks we were broken up, I’d managed to stay clean—but the discarded bottles on the coffee table and the reek of tequila rising up from my carpet are enough evidence that I fucked up last night.
In more ways than one.
She showed up at my place late, already tipsy, with her foot heavy on the gas towards drunk. Within an hour, I was right there with her. That’s the way it goes with Paige. She’s a whirlwind and she sucks everyone else down with her.
“We always have a good time together, Z,” she crooned, trailing her hand down my chest, slipping her other hand down the front of my pants. “Why can’t we just have a good time tonight? It doesn’t need to be anything. To mean anything. We can just have some fun.”
So we did. We had fun.
Now, I’m standing at the counter with her phone in my hand, staring down at a string of messages from the five different guys she’s been with in the last week, at least.
I missed you last night, baby.
U up?
Come over. I want to see you.
“It’s rude to go through a girl’s purse.” Paige snatches the phone out of my hand.
I was so focused on the messages that I didn’t even hear her walk over. “Considering I’m just one of many dicks you’re using to get yourself off, you shouldn’t talk to me about being rude.”
I don’t even care. Not really. Paige is only fun when I’m high. It’s during the comedown the next morning that being with her starts to lose its shine. I can see the cracks.
In her.
In myself.
“They’re nothing. Meaningless. There’s only you, Z.” She curls around me, her cold hands dragging over my chest. “It’s only ever been you.”
The door to the locker room swings open and I jolt back to the present. I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at my name engraved above my locker. Long enough that I’m the last one still in here.
I pull my sweaty jersey off and toss it in the laundry basket in the center of the room, just as Daniel walks in.
“What are you still doing here? You’re usually the first one gone.”
“I stayed to run a few extra drills.”
More like, I stayed to burn off the anxious energy that’s been eating me from the inside out. It’s been two days since a social worker stood on my doorstep and told me I had a son.
That I might have a son, actually. Paternity results are still pending.
“Putting in the work to make sure you’re the next captain?” Daniel claps me on the back as he walks past. He bends stiffly to grab a few jerseys that missed the hamper. “Sure, just throw your shit everywhere, guys. Let the dude with the prosthetic leg clean up after you. Real nice.”
Daniel was one of the guys until four years ago. Now, he’s the equipment manager with a titanium leg. Yet another person caught in the carnage of Hurricane Paige.
I had a role to play in that, too.
“I’ll chew everyone out before practice tomorrow,” I assure him.
“Don’t bother,” Daniel says. “You’re not their dad.”
Dad.
The word makes me nauseous. Holy shit, I might be someone’s dad.
Then I remember all of the texts on Paige’s phone and think again. The kid could belong to any of those guys in her phone. When I finally left for good, Paige was spiraling. She was blacking out most nights. She called me for months after I’d last seen her to ask if I knew where she’d been the night before. The social worker said she had nothing except for Paige’s word that I was the kid’s father.
I hate to speak ill of the dead, but her word doesn’t mean shit.
Suddenly, Daniel is leaning around me, eyebrows raised. “Where did you just go, man?”
“Nowhere.” I turn away from him and yank my street clothes out of my bag. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
I barely slept last night. Or the night before.
The social worker showed up on my doorstep with the kid, but I’m not allowed to see him until they know if I’m the father or not. Seeing him again might help answer that question, though.
I saw blonde hair and blue eyes. But I should have looked closer. News of Paige’s death had me spiraling. I was so busy thinking about her that I lost sight of what was right in front of me.
“You just need to keep your eye on the prize.”
I whip around. “What did you say?”
“The prize,” Daniel repeats with a confused frown. “Becoming captain… Shit, man, are you okay? You look green.”
No, I’m not okay at all.
My head is a mess and I can’t focus. I’ve been so lost in flashbacks and hypotheticals all day that I could barely track the puck. Forty-eight hours ago, becoming captain was the only thing I could think about. Now, it’s taking everything in me to be here—to condition and scrimmage and be a team player—when all I want to do is track down everyone who might have known Paige and figure out what the fuck is going on.
“I’m fine. I just need to get home.”
Daniel grabs a water bottle from his cart and smacks it against my chest. “You’re being weird as hell, bro. You need to hydrate—and also, you need to not let Carson get to you. Speaking as a member of team management, I’m impartial. But speaking as your best friend, he’s a bastard and I’d send him onto the ice with dull skates every damn day if it wouldn’t get me fired.”
I give him a tight smile. “Save the sabotage. I can handle Deluth the old-fashioned way.”
“Amputating his leg?” he guesses. I choke on my water, but Daniel just shrugs. “What? That’s how you got rid of your last real competition.”
It’s a dark joke. Once upon a time, it was Daniel skating on my left every game. Through club teams, college, and then our rookie NHL season.
Now, because of me, he watches from the bench. The fact he still calls himself my best friend after everything I’ve done is a testament to the kind of man he is. Better than me, that’s for damn sure.
“You’re so fucking twisted,” I mutter, wiping water from my chin.
He laughs again and claps me on the back on his way out the door. “Hydration and concentration. Those two things are the key. You’ll be fine.”
As soon as he’s gone, I drop the water bottle into my bag and my thoughts turn back to the social worker. The paternity test. The kid that might or might not be mine. And the green-eyed Wednesday Addams who ran like hell away from me.
Hydration and concentration.
I hope one out of two is enough. Because my concentration is fucked beyond all repair.
The call comes an hour after I get home. I finally stop staring at my phone long enough to hop in the shower, so of course the social worker waits until then to dial.
As soon as I hear the ringtone, I lunge out of the shower, slip on the tile, and barely manage to catch myself on the edge of the sink.
“Mr. Whitaker? This is Jodie Barnes, the social worker assigned to Aiden’s case.”
The only social worker I know. Cut to the fucking chase, woman!
I swallow the words down. “And?”
“I have the results of the paternity test.” Her voice is clipped, efficient, emotionless.
“And?” I growl. “What are the results?”
“The probability of paternity is calculated by comparing the results of your paternity test to the results of the child’s DNA against an unrelated, random individual,” she rattles off, talking so fast I can barely tell what she’s saying. “Based on the results obtained from the sample you provided—”
“Stop reading from some script and tell me,” I snap. “Am I his father or not?”
She sighs. “The test puts it at a 99.9998% chance that you are the father.”
I don’t know what I expected her to say.
I don’t know what I expected to feel.
Relief, maybe. Or dread.
But I feel nothing. My chest is hollow and I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“How did Paige die?”
“I, er—We—The coroner determined it was an overdose.” Her voice turns gentle. “Aiden wasn’t with her at the time.”
I don’t even know this kid, but I’m glad—so fucking glad—he wasn’t there to see it.
“Is he… okay?” I shove a hand through my still-soapy hair. “Paige never got clean. If she was pregnant, then… Is he okay?”
I only saw the kid for thirty seconds. He seemed shy, but normal enough, whatever “normal” means. He had all of his limbs. He could walk. What else do four-year-olds do?
“Aiden has been through a lot.”
“I know that. I mean, in general. Is he okay?”
Jodie hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is sharp. “Listen, Mr. Whitaker: your son doesn’t have anyone else. There aren’t any maternal relatives stepping forward and, as the father, you are the agency’s first choice for guardianship. Every case that crosses my desk comes with its own baggage. Kids don’t come to me unless something has gone wrong at home. None of them are ‘okay.’ But they can be—if the right person steps up and takes care of them. It’s my job to find that person.”
The only thing I’ve been able to think about for days is whether I’m the father or not. I didn’t step beyond that. I didn’t think about what the answer would mean.
“It is your choice,” she continues. “Now that paternity has been established, you can take Aiden in. Or you can choose to sign away your rights so he can be adopted by someone who wants to take care of him.”
“I’ll do it,” I blurt.
I can’t believe what I’m doing. None of this feels real. I’m naked with shampoo dripping down my neck, and I’m becoming a father.
“I need to make sure you understand the commitment you’re making, Mr. Whitaker. You are going to have full custody of this child. You will be the only person responsible for his well-being.”
“You said there was no one else,” I grit out.
“There isn’t.”
“Okay. Then there’s nothing else to talk about.” I crack my neck once in each direction. “I’m all he has. I’m his father. So I’m going to take care of my son.”
The only thing left to do is figure out how in the fuck I’m going to do that.
8
MIRA
A key slides into my apartment door and I freeze.
My entire body goes still as I listen to the shuffling feet and movement coming from the hallway.
When the knob twists, I slam into motion. I lunge, breathless, for the knife block on the counter. Then I hold the blade to my pounding chest and stare at the door, waiting.
“Mira?” Taylor’s muffled voice filters through the thin door. “Are you home?”
I’m so relieved I could cry. Actually, a small sob does in fact burst out of me as I lower the knife and wrench the door open.
My best friend is standing on the other side, wearing an effortlessly chic jersey sundress—and, when she spots the knife in my hand, a worried frown. “It’s moments like this that I understand why I’m your only friend. You can’t open the door like that, babe. It’s spooky.”
“I was… cooking.” I spin around and drop the butcher’s knife back into the block.
Taylor Hall breezes past me into the kitchen. She looks at the bare counters, glances in the empty fridge, and lifts one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Cooking air for dinner? Grim.”
I shrug wordlessly, stuff the knife back where it belongs, and turn away so she can’t see me blush in shame.
Taylor comes stomping after me, though. “I’m serious, Mimi. It’s bleak in here. First, you quit your job. Great! I’m thrilled. You aren’t nice enough to be a good barista and you were overqualified, anyway.”
