Page 66 of Meant for Mayhem

Leena rubbed at one eye with a sticky fist before letting out a dramatic yawn.

“Looks like somebody’s about done for the morning.”

I stood, scooping her into my arms. She rested her head against my shoulder with another sleepy little hum. As I started toward the hallway, I paused and looked back. “Do you know what you’re wearing tonight?”

Shannon turned to look at me, the last bite of her grilled cheese in hand. “Mikko, you can boss me around all you like. But I draw the line at dressing me.”

This time it was my turn to smirk, loving the bite in her words almost as much as I loved the way she was so sweet to my daughter. “Wasn’t trying to. But if you wanted a⁠—”

She held up a hand. “I will wear your ring and be your hot wife. But do not ask me to wear your jersey. No can do.”

I chuckled, even as the image of her wearing my last name across her back came to mind. Normally I wasn’t a possessive asshole, but I liked the idea of that.

Someday.

“Combat boots are good.”

She kicked a foot out to the side, showing her black boots and ripped jeans. “Good, because I still like my Docs more than you.”

Leena let out another yawn, and I walked with her down the hall. But instead of turning into her nursery across from my room, I took her into my bedroom. With the touch of a button, the sheer shades gave way to blackout curtains, washing us both in darkness.

“Wanna nap with me today, sweet girl?” I kissed her temple, and Leena leaned harder into me.

Together, we lay down on my bed, my hand resting on her tiny chest until I felt her settle next to me. Within minutes, her breathing changed into the slow, even rhythm that had become my favorite sound in the world.

I lay there a little longer, my hand still resting against her ribs, feeling them rise and fall beneath my palm.

From somewhere else in the apartment came the faint clatter of dishes and Shannon humming to herself while she cleaned up lunch, even though I repeatedly told her that wasn’t her job. But every time, she insisted she’d do the dishes in her own home, so what was different about this?

The corners of my mouth tugged into an involuntary smile.

Home.

This time last year, home was an empty penthouse, quiet and lonely. Now, it was the sound of little feet running across hardwood floors, the faint smell of floral perfume, and the feeling of peace I found within these walls.

I closed my eyes, letting the familiarity of it all wash over me until sleep finally claimed us both.

Logan and I pulled into the players’ garage beneath the arena later that afternoon, and the calm I’d felt settled into something halfway between nerves and anticipation.

“Nervous?” Logan asked as we climbed out of his truck.

I fiddled with the label on my Gatorade. “That I’ll punch the next person in the mouth who asks me that? Yes.”

He bumped my shoulder. “Oh good. The asshole is back.”

Before thousands of fans filled the seats, the arena was quieter than people imagined. All I heard were the sounds that made hockey possible—the rumble of the Zamboni, tape tearing in the equipment room, skate blades being sharpened somewhere down the hall.

We walked into the locker room buzzing with its usual pregame routine. Music thumped through the speakers while someone argued over where the players were going for post-game drinks. Logan was already spouting inaccurate Star Wars references to piss off Kozy, and everyone else chirped them both.

Normal.

I got dressed slowly.

Tape.

Pads.

Skates.