Page 9

“No.” Her button nose wrinkled, the blonde waves sticking out from under her Stars hat flinging around as she shook her head. “Das still a mad face.”

“Honey, that’s your dad’s default face when he’s not around you,” my mom teased, tossing a wave to a group of people walking by with their phones out. I caught a few mentions of my name and something about an article, but was too busy pulling Goldie further away.

I tugged her brim down, shielding her with my body. Unease settled back in my gut. “Momma, people might have to buy a ticket to get into this section of San Pedro, but they’re still strangers. You know how I feel about them digging into my personal life.”

Maybe I should’ve insisted they stay home, but I’d wanted the most important women in my life here to celebrate my achievements.

My mom sighed. “Get out of your head, Josh. You worked hard for this. You deserve to enjoy it. Most people have fun at these types of things.”

“Most people don’t have to go be questioned by a pack of hungry lions.” Denim scraped against my knuckles, my pockets barely surviving my hands shoving into them.

She let out another sigh. “Just…try and smile a little, won’t ya? You’re the youngest head coach to win the Cup. That’s what they’re going to ask you about. I bet all the other stuff is old news now.”

I grunted. The media section loomed in the distance, mocking me.

My dislike for the NHL’s ass-kissing was a constant sore point. I loved the game, my players, the chill of the rink, and even the fans, when they weren’t shoving to be up in our face. But being on display?

That part I hated.

“Daddy, you know what’s a good idea?”

Her little voice pulled me back to the present, along with the insistent tug of her hand on mine.

“What’s a good idea, Golds?”

“If we get a little treat.” She pushed her bottom lip out and stared up at me with pleading eyes.

Jimenez was skating lines for teaching her that look.

My mom nudged her shoulder. “That is a good idea. You make your dad get ya something good. I’m gonna go grab me a candy apple and be right back.” She shot me a wink before disappearing into the throng of people.

So much for acting as a strong front against sugar.

“So, can we?”

I looked down to where a little hand was tucked in mine. “Did the ice cream you ate before we left the house not count?” I asked, shaking my head and steering us toward a row of food vendors, dodging people clutching paper trays and precariously balanced drinks. Savory and sweet perfumed the air. There was everything from tacos to chocolate-dipped cones.

“No, Daaaaaad. Ice cream isn’t a treat. It’s a drink.”

I barked out a laugh. The guys joked that I didn’t find anything funny. None of them were funny. But this little five-year-old? Had me laughing all the time.

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, I can’t bite it. Cause it hurts my teef. So I have to lick it.” She held her free hand out to the side, palm up, flinging it around. “So it’s like a drink on my tongue.”

“Right…”

I used to try and fight her on this stuff but quickly learned that little kid brains are…well, they’re fucking weird, and she was stubborn as hell.

We wove through more fans rushing to find their favorite players. Goldie tucked into my side as I scanned the crowd, glaring anytime someone stepped too close. “What about cotton candy?”

“No, Dad. Das a drink too. Remember, a drink is something you can’t bite.”

“Logically.” I searched the stands for something that qualified as “a treat” under her stipulations.

“Hey, Golden girl.”

My back went ramrod straight, freezing at the sound of a voice I hadn’t heard in months. Not since Thatcher, Jimenez, and I showed up in that bar three blocks down so Thatcher could get Ariella back.