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I’m already striding across the room. For weeks, I’ve felt this strange hollow feeling like I lack purpose when playing hockey was all I ever needed before. Now, I’m filled with direction. My child. The beautiful, perfect woman carrying my baby. I have to be with her. I pull out my suitcase, lay it on the bed, and push clothes into it.
“Haven’t you got a game, Logan?” Emma says.
“I don’t give a damn. I need to be with my child.”
“L-Logan,” she stutters. Her voice tells me she’s confused. Part of her likes this. Did part of herwantthis? “There’s no baby here yet. You’ve got a game tomorrow, haven’t you?”
I smirk. “Been keeping track, have you?”
“There’s nothing for you to do here.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to see me?” I growl.
“No,” she whispers. I can hear so much emotion in her voice. “But what about your team? What about Dad?”
I clench my teeth. There’s a new feeling working its way through me. I wonder if I will have to get used to that—the idea that new, strange feelings will grip me occasionally. Maybe that’s what happens if a person spends so long trying to lock down everything inside of them.
My mind is speeding ahead to ugly ideas. What if this baby thing is a trick somehow? What if she’s trying toget her hooks in, as Chuck once said about an ex-girlfriend attempting to blackmail him? She’d Photoshopped some photos of them together, threatened Chuck, but he said screw it, release them, and the internet proved she was a liar. That sort of thing happens all the damn time.
Another thing I’m feeling is jealousy, like I’m being abandoned, likeEmmais abandoning me. I sound like a child—an infant. I clench my teeth harder, my fist following suit. My entire body becomes tense. “Don’t you want me there?”
“How the heck am I supposed to answer that?” she replies.
“Honestly,” I growl, then add even more emphasis to my voice. “You have to be honest with me always. Otherwise, this doesn’t work.”
“What, you think I’ve lied?”
“I need to be there to see.”
“To seewhat?” she says, lowering her voice. I guess she has to be quiet. Her dad, brother, and mom might overhear her talking to a man twice her age. “Do you want to watch me pee on a stick?”
It’s almost like there are words trapped in my throat. There’s so much I want to say, but I have to be smart about this. I can’t let my feelings take over. Logic, just like the ice, works through the possibilities. If I tell her, right here, that she belongs to me, that I owned her the moment I saw her… What would she say? I have no clue, and even if she immediately agreed, what wouldMichelsay? What would her mother think?
“Logan?”
“Do you want me there or not, Emma?”
“Are you saying you want to be involved?” she counters.
“I asked you first,” I say, remembering another incident with my teammate. Funny, I didn’t think of it until now, considering I reached out to Michael.
One of my teammate’s old friends called him a few years back and pretended they were just talking. Then it turned out this so-called friend was recording my teammate secretly, trying to make him say something shocking or what? Worthy of leaking to the goddamn media, I guess.
“Am I going nuts here, Logan? It sounds like you don’t believe that I’m pregnant. Why would I lie about that?”
“If you’re preg—”
“Iam,” she hisses, then hangs up the phone.
I quickly stand, fists clenched even harder, trembling at my sides. My entire body is shaking. This isn’t good. It’s like when I get into a fight on the ice. Not like the enforcers, but a scuffle that involves strength and rage. However, this is so much more intense.
When I call her back, she answers with a small sigh, “Sorry for hanging up on you. I got mad.”
I sit on the bed again. It’s like I’m covered in heating lotion suddenly, the type they put on a sore muscle. The tension is relieved. I was ready for a fight, but that was low of me. I shouldn’t fight with the mother of my child. I believe her. That’s the truth. That’s how Ifeel, but I have tothink.
“You have a game tomorrow,” she says after a pause. “So when I answer, it’s just about that, okay? It’s not about making up a story or anything.”
“I haven’t accused you.”
