Page 67 of Meant for Mayhem

One buckle, then the next.

One slow breath.

Longer out.

Coach finished the final instructions, and my pulse climbed again. But I reminded myself that it always did this, even before Leena.

Adrenaline. Not anxiety.

I rolled my shoulders, then followed my teammates down the tunnel for warmups. The walk between the locker room and the ice seemed longer than I remembered, but I focused on my feet.

One foot in front of the other.

Fans roared beyond the concrete walls, and my pulse ticked higher.

Leena is safe.

Another breath in.

Longer out.

Cold air rushed over me as I neared the rink, like a blast of reality, a reminder of why I loved this game so much. I pushed off the boards and followed Logan onto the ice.

The arena cheered seeing me back with the team, and I tried to soak it in. To feel their excitement. But for one terrifying second, every instinct told me to go back to the locker room. To go home.

Instead of giving in to the impulse, I looked for her.

Lower bowl.

Left of the bench.

In seconds, I found them. Except Shannon wasn’t sitting in the seats I’d picked for her. No, she stood against the glass with Leena balanced on one hip, both of them already looking for me.

My daughter wore a tiny Yeti jersey with the sleeves rolled up. I grinned before I could stop it, moving toward them as if drawn by a magnet.

Like she warned me, Shannon wasn’t wearing a jersey, but there was more to her outfit than her typical band tee and combat boots. She’d somehow supported me in the most Shannon way possible. A blue knit beanie covered her dark hair, a matching one perched on Leena’s head. Around Shannon’s waist was a blue-and-white flannel that was suspiciously coordinated with our team colors.

I brushed a gloved hand over my mouth, appreciating this view.

Sometimes all it took was a simple glance at Shannon to steal my breath, every inch of her so gorgeous I couldn’t look away. But like this? Holding my baby? Wearing my colors and my ring?

She looked like mine.

I skated toward them before warmups officially started. Leena spotted me first, leaning toward the glass.

“Da!”

It wasn’t a perfect word, but she’d started saying it often enough it made my chest ache. Shannon spun so I could see the back of my daughter’s jersey where white letters spelled out Dada. And beneath it, my number. 68.

I tapped my glove against the glass, and her whole face lit up. “That’s right. I’m Dada.”

She slapped her tiny hand against the same spot, giggling when my hand lined up with hers.

Shannon smiled at me too, the biggest one I’d seen yet. Not worried. Not asking if I was okay. Just confident, like she already knew I could do this.

Breathe in.

Longer out.