“You have dimples.”
“She’s six.”
“The internet doesn’t care about science.”
I toss the blanket aside and pace to my kitchen barefoot while snow whips across the frozen lake outside.
“This is insane.”
“Actually,” Maddie says carefully, “this is incredible.”
I stop pacing. Uh-oh.
That tone means she’s about to say something I hate.
“You’ve gained nearly four hundred thousand followers overnight,” she continues. “Your jersey sales jumped twelve percent before six a.m. Women who spent the last year calling you emotionally unavailable are suddenly making edits of you carrying that little girl.”
“Edits?”
“Oh, honey. So many edits.”
I do not want clarification.
“I’m deleting the internet,” I mutter.
“Colby, listen to me. This is the best public reaction you’ve had in almost two years.”
And there it is. The real conversation.
I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes.
Two years ago, I was hockey’s golden boy. Then came the playoff collapse, the locker-room rumors, the ugly breakup with influencer Vanessa Sinclair, and every sports podcast deciding I was selfish, arrogant, and impossible to work with.
The truth barely mattered anymore.
Didn’t matter that I was burned out.
Didn’t matter that I was exhausted.
Didn’t matter that I barely recognized myself by the end of last season.
Public opinion had already picked a villain. Apparently now I’m a father instead.
“Absolutely not,” I say flatly.
Silence.
Then Maddie sighs. “I knew you’d react this way.”
“Because you know me.”
“Because you’re emotionally difficult before coffee.”
“Still no.”
“You haven’t even heard the proposal.”
I push off the counter immediately. “No proposal.”
