Where’s the green bag? Did we leave the green bag? Oh my God, Beck, the green bag, where is it?”

My wife wanders around our bedroom, frantic, eyes crazed looking for a bag that is held tightly in her hand.

“Saucy, it’s in your hand.”

Looking down, she notices the bag and clutches her forehead, falling to the floor. “This was a bad idea. What were we thinking? I’m not ready for this. How on earth will we be able to—?”

“Rylee, take a few deep breaths. Take them with me.” I join her on the floor and pull her into my lap. I lean against the wall and stroke her hair as I look at the three bassinets lined up by our bed. So much fucking joy right now, I can’t contain it. We breathe in and out together until Rylee’s body stops shaking. “We’ve been to all the classes, we have a schedule set up with the helpers, and we have everything you can possibly need for raising a baby.”

“Beck, not a baby, three, three babies!”

“I know.” I can’t contain the smile. “Three babies, Saucy. We’re going to be a family of five. How lucky are we?”

She relaxes when I press a kiss against the side of her head.

“Three babies. Three little ones to call our own. Three little lives we get to mold and shape. Three little souls we get to love and devote our lives to. We’re lucky. And I’m not going to promise you it won’t be hard, but we have so much help. And when we’re sixty and looking back at this moment, we’re going to wish we could do it all over again because it’s going to be so goddamn fulfilling.”

Her head rests against my chest. “This is why I love you, why I married you a year ago. You instill a sense of calm inside of me.”

“And here I thought it was my cock you liked inside of you.”

“Oh my God.” She swats my chest and pushes away. “Way to ruin a moment.”

I laugh and pull her back to my chest. “You love it just like I love you, and just like I’m going to love Isaac, Taylor, and Zac.”

She shakes her head and dislodges herself from my grip. When I see her pointing her finger at me, a stern look on her face, I burst out in laughter.

“We are not naming our children after the Hanson brothers.”

“Come on . . . it’s funny.”

“No.”

“Taylor can be the girl, and Zac and Isaac easily can be the boys. It just makes sense.”

“You’re deranged.” She takes a deep breath and says, “Come on, Stacey is probably already at the hospital.”

“Because her mom drives like a mad woman.” I stand from the ground and pick up the green bag full of snacks and things to keep us busy while we wait for our triplets to be born.

Yup, triplets. All I have to say is, thank you, prom season.

It was no secret in Port Snow that Rylee and I wanted to have a family, but given my background, we’ve had a bit of a hard time trying to make that happen. That was until Stacey Higgins approached us, a cliché of unprotected sex on prom night. She has aspirations to go to college and become a marine biologist, and there’s no room for triplets in those aspirations.

When she first came to us, Rylee laughed and tried to pat the girl on the shoulder and walk away, but I scooped up the opportunity, found a lawyer, and made it happen. The birth father, Shane, signed the papers quickly not wanting to have to father triplets at such a young age, and Stacey followed closely behind.

Of course once Rylee saw it was a real possibility, she started nesting immediately, which meant we moved out of her little cottage, our love cottage, and into a bigger house on the shoreline—with a fence, of course, for any wandering little kids—and we bought a minivan. Don’t believe me? It’s black—stealth color—has all the bells and whistles, and I look hot as fuck driving it. We have three car seats strapped inside and lullaby music tuned up on the stereo. We’re ready.

We’re nervous, but we’re ready.

We head out to the black rocket—minivan—and Rylee takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. “What if they don’t love me?” She bites her bottom lip. It’s a concern she’s had ever since we went through the adoption classes. Attachment and bonding has been a big concern of hers.

I cup her chin and meet her watery gaze. “It’s impossible not to love you. From the first moment they lay eyes on you, they’re going to love you, just like I do. The moment I first saw you, covered in puke, frazzled, and cute as fuck, I knew I’d love you. It was inevitable, and it will be the same with our babies.”

I place my lips on her forehead and then help her into the passenger side of the van. When I hop in, I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. “I couldn’t imagine going on this journey with anyone else but you, Saucy. I’m one lucky motherfucker.”

And I mean that.

From a broken and torn marriage, to the worst day of my life, to six years in jail . . . I’ve come a long way to live in a small town with the love of my life, my best friends, Chris and Justine—only a few houses down now—and three small babies we’ll call our own on the way . . .

Hell, life doesn’t get better than this. All it took was crashing a wedding to begin the best days of my life and the incredible love-filled—and no doubt chaotic—future ahead of me.

Cheers to the bride and groom!

* * *

Do you have any regrets about getting into that fight with Marcus Miller?”

“No.”

Flashes of light repeatedly go off, the clicks a sound I’ve become accustomed to.

A sound I hate.

Sip my water.

Look around the room.

Cameras point in my direction, stage lights blare from above, the bill of my hat being the only protection from the onslaught of light. I adjust it, curving down the sides as reporters raise their hands for the next question.

I know what they want to prove, what they want to get at, but I’m not taking the blame.

“So you don’t think the fight cost you the advancement in the playoffs?”

Of course the squirrel-faced guy would ask that question.

Bob I think his name is.

He’s a dick. He makes it his mission to turn any story into something completely fabricated for more reads on his news site. I’ll never understand why the Brawlers still let him in the media room.

“The shots O’Reilly deflected cost us our advancement. He played a hell of a game and shut down our offense.”

“But you were tied heading into the last five minutes of the game, right before you were sent to the penalty box, leaving your team short a man. You don’t think that has anything to do with the loss?”

I place the cap on my bottle of water and clear my throat. Pinching the microphone with my fingers, I lean in and look directly at the smarmy reporter with yellow teeth, sporting a brown suit and a cue ball of a head. “Tell me, Bob, if someone came up to you and slapped a hockey stick across the back of your legs, would you bend over and ask for another? Or would you have retaliated?” He’s about to answer, but I cut him off. “From the look of it,” I eye him up and down, “you would have bent over, but that’s not how I handle things. Miller deserved to be brought down to the ice and I won’t apologize for my actions.” I grip the table’s edge and look around, ready to stand. “Unless you have any other questions about the actual game, I’m done for the night.”

Questions fly but I don’t listen, I zone out and stand from the table, taking my water with me.

Gripping the curve in the bill of my hat, I walk down the steps of the podium and head out of the media room, my publicist hot on my heels.

“You could have handled that better.” he says, trotting next to me to keep up with my pace.

“Well, we just lost our chance at fighting for the cup, so excuse me for being fucking pissed.”

“Steinman is not going to be happy about that comment.”

Greg Steinman is the owner of the Philadelphia Brawlers and the controlling nitwit sure as hell won’t be happy with that comment but he can deal with the repercussions. I’m allowed to be pissed. I answered their questions, I played the media game but I don’t deal well with being blamed for the loss. There are a lot of factors that went into that game resulting in us being knocked out of the playoffs.

Do I regret cracking Marcus Miller’s jaw with one solid punch to his face? Fuck no. That dickhead has been on my ass the whole series taking cheap shots with his stick, this was the only time when I lost my cool, which is hard for me to do. It takes a lot for me to shuck my gloves and fight on the ice.

And maybe the Renegades will be going to the championship, but Marcus won’t be playing, that’s for damn sure. I made sure of it when my fists connected with him over and over.

I squeeze my hand, pain searing through my bruised and swollen knuckles.

“I’ll deal with Steinman,” I huff out. I turn the corner to the locker room, the space silent, my teammates either quietly packing up or already gone after coach’s speech.

Next year, we will train harder. We will study harder. That cup will be ours.

It’s the same damn thing you hear after every hockey season. I might be a rookie in the NHL but I’ve heard my fair share of end of the year speeches and this one is no exception. Did I think we would win the championship my rookie season? No, but fuck it would have been awesome.

“Are we not meeting?” James asks, looking so goddamn put together that it’s pissing me off. One hair out of place would have been nice, one button undone, one showing of how upsetting our loss was would be fucking comforting right about now.

“Does it look like I want to meet with you right now?” I toss my water bottle into my locker and shift around my gear, pulling my wallet and keys from my lock box. My phone is already in my pocket and the suit I’m supposed to be wearing is hanging from the coat hook. Fuck that shit, I’m walking out of here in a t-shirt and athletic pants. “Can’t you tell now is not a good time?”

“When will be a good time then?”

Head turned down, my hand gripping the back of my neck, I answer, “When I’m fucking ready.”

Doesn’t he get it? The last thing I want to talk about right now are endorsement deals and positive publicity during the off-season. Let me fucking mourn my loss for a day. He should know this, working with athletes, we take a loss hard, let alone a loss that ends your season.

Shifting behind me, his shoes rubbing against the short carpet of the locker room, he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow then.”

Tossing an almost empty roll of tape across the room, I spin on my heel, suit hooked in my finger and hanging over my shoulder, I say, “Don’t bother. I’m heading up to Binghamton for a few weeks, clear my head. I’ll call you.”

“Hayden.” He walks next to me as I make my way to the parking lot. “We have some important matters to discuss. You have business meetings you have to attend.”

I ignore him and continue on my path.

“What about the power drink deal? They have a promotional photo shoot scheduled.”

“I’ll be there, just send me the information.”

“I really think we need to talk about this.”

Halting, I come inches from James face, bending at the knees to meet his shorter height. My voice is menacing when I speak, my jaw tight with each syllable uttered. “If you want to keep your job, I suggest you leave me the fuck alone for now. Give me fucking space, man.”

Startled, James backs up, hopefully well aware of the kind of damage I can cause despite my usual sunny and outgoing disposition.

I’m a fucking fun guy, easy-going, but when it comes to my sport, my job, I take it seriously and expect nothing but the best from myself, so when I lose, I need time.

Succumbing to my request, James backs off and leaves me to walk alone to my black Range Rover, one of three cars still left in the parking lot.

Unlock, toss the suit in the back.

Sitting behind the wheel, I let out a long breath and press my forehead against the cool leather.

“Fuck,” I whisper and push the start button, the car coming to life.

The car is freezing for a late-May night, the leather seats cold against my thinly covered thighs, and since I’m just wearing a t-shirt, my entire body stiffens, my body aching from the temperature.

But I welcome the cold.

Letting my car warm up for a few minutes, I take my phone from my pocket and let out a long sigh.

After the game text messages are either fun to read, or fucking dreadful. Tonight’s round of messages are going to fall under the category of torture, especially when I get to my dad’s text. I know it’s sitting in there and I can tell you what it’s going to say before I even read it.

Call me.

It’s two simple words that hold so much weight in them that I dread seeing them come from my dad. I might be an adult now, twenty-three to be exact, an old rookie in hockey years, but I still fear the wrath of my dad, the lecture I get whenever I get in a fight.

I’ve taught you better than that.

True men don’t fight on the ice, they prove their point with their foot work.

Do you enjoy upsetting your mother?

It’s the same thing every time and frankly, even though I am grateful for the time my dad has put into getting me to where I am today, I’m not up for the lecture.

Bringing my phone to life, I press on the green text message button.

Ten.

Scrolling through, I see a few from Calder, one of my best friends, telling me to call him when I’m done with press. Some from my friend Racer congratulating me on a stiff right hook—I chuckle at that one—one from my publicist—insert eye roll—a few from my mom and the infamous text from my dad.

Ignoring the text from my dad, I can deal with that when I’m in a better headspace, I call Calder.

“Where are you?” he answers.

“In my car, in the player’s parking lot.”

“Rachel made some bread pudding and I have some beer chilled. Come over.”

I strap my seatbelt on. “Does the bread pudding have raisins in it?”

“No.”

“Be there in twenty.”

* * *

My keys fall against the marble counter top as I take a seat at the kitchen island of Calder’s house. One of our defensemen, Calder Weiss knows exactly how to sulk, in private with beer and sweets.

When I joined the Brawlers, Calder took me under his wing and through the season we grew incredibly close, relying on each other for the good and the bad. This being the bad.

“Saw your interview.” Calder hands me a beer and chuckles. “Steinman is going to have your ass.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He chuckles some more. “But the guys are worshipping you for finally telling that piranha off. Bend over . . .” Calder sips his beer a smile on his face. “Man, that was great.”

Taking a gulp of beer, I feel the faint tug of a smile on my lips. “I’m not sorry.”

“It’s evident.”

Rachel strolls into the kitchen wearing an apron, looking domestic and right at home. A month ago Calder met Rachel at a Mexican restaurant . . . outside of the bathroom. Romantic, right? The best part, Calder was dressed up for his little girl, Shea, as a fairy so he was decked out in fairy wings and a tiara, looking like a real man-lady and for some reason, Rachel couldn’t say no to giving him her phone number.

That’s some game right there.

They’ve been together ever since and I have to admit, I adore Rachel. She’s perfect for Calder and has really taken on the role of a female figure in Shea’s life. You can tell Rachel loves that little girl.

“Are we ready for bread pudding, or do you need more time to drink your manly beer?”

Calder takes the seat next to me. “Bread pudding.”

I nod in agreement. “Bread pudding.”

“You got it.”

Making her way around the kitchen, she pulls a couple of plates from the cabinets, some spoons, and dishes out three heaping helpings of her banana bread pudding. She tops them with some melted caramel and a little scoop of vanilla ice cream.

God bless this woman.

“Here you go, boys. Sulk away.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah, thanks, babe,” I mimic. Calder territorially eyes me, a playful warning, and then dives into his dessert.

I do the same, scooping up ice cream, caramel, and bread pudding all in one bite.

Heaven.

“Was this supposed to be a celebration dessert?” I ask, mouth full.

“I figured it could go either way but I did pop the congratulations balloons I got, figured a congratulations on our loss wasn’t appropriate.”

“It’s appreciated.”

We sit there in silence, enjoying our dessert, no need to speak about what happened on the ice. No need to hash it out. What’s done is done, we can’t go back.

When I finish my dessert, I take my plate to the sink, rinse it and then stick it in the dishwasher. “That was really good, thank you, Rachel.”

“Anything for the tripod.” She winks.

It’s what we jokingly call ourselves, a nickname Calder doesn’t quite appreciate, being that Rachel and I get along so well that we joke around with Calder more than he wishes.

Calder takes his empty plate along with Rachel’s, presses a light kiss across her temple then hands me the dishes and I take care of them. It’s hard not to be a tripod when we look like a goddamn old married couple, a weird threesome married couple.

Wrapping Rachel up in his arms from behind, Calder asks, “What are you going to do now? Take some time off?”

Propped up against the counter, I grip the edge of the marble. “Yeah. I’m sure my parents are going to want me to stay with them for a few weeks.”

“Where do they live?” Rachel asks.

“Scranton.” I drag my hand over my face and let out a long breath of air. “Not sure I want to go there though. I know my dad, he’s going to want to rehash every angle of the game until I’m blue in the face. And staying here in Philly,” I shake my head, “I don’t want to be sequestered to my apartment out of fear of running into Brawlers fans.”

“They’re brutal.”

And that’s the goddamn truth. Beyond brutal. They’ve been known to flip cars over from a loss, I can only imagine the kind of beating the city is taking tonight.

“Vacation then?” Rachel asks. “I heard Europe is beautiful during the summer.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I wish. As much as I would love to leave the country after tonight’s game, I have some obligations that are keeping me close to Philly and New York City.” I push off the counter and snag my keys. “I think I might go visit my hometown, spend a few weeks up there.”

“Binghamton, right?” Calder asks.

I nod. “Yeah, my friend Racer lives up there. It might be good to play catch up. Thanks for the dessert and half a beer. I’m going to head out.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you guys later.”

As I’m leaving, Rachel calls out. “For what it’s worth, Miller deserved a hell of a lot more than the ass-beating you gave him.”

I shut the door with a smile, Marcus did deserve so much more. What a prick.

Reaching into my pocket, I scan through the contacts on my phone and press send.

Hopping into my car, I turn it on, and listen to the phone ring on my Bluetooth.

“Dude!” Racer answers. “You dropped that mother fucker so hard.”

I pull out onto the street and head to my apartment. “How are you, man?”

“Semi-drunk after watching that game, a little turned on from your right hook, and wondering why you’re calling me when most likely your dad is frothing at the mouth to recount your entire game for a good three hours.”

Racer is one of few people who knows my family so well, that’s what happens when you grow up together, you end up knowing the ins and outs of each other’s lives.

“Haven’t called him yet. Kind of waiting on that phone call.”

“Smart.”

Feeling awkward, I ask, “So, what would you say if I decided to come up to Bing for a few weeks?”

He doesn’t skip a beat when he asks, “Too afraid to go home?”

I laugh. “Not afraid, more like not in the mood.”

“Yeah, I would avoid that lecture train for as long as I could.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you asking if you can stay at my house? Because I’m on the hunt for a girl and I don’t want you stealing her away with your brawny athletic body and good looks. It would actually be detrimental to have you around.”

Racer is such a nitwit.

“I was going to ask Mr. Lockwood if I could stay at his place for a few weeks, he’s offered it up before.”

“You fucker. Of course he would offer up his house to you. Let me guess, you leave a few signed hockey sticks around the house and you call it even?”

Pretty much.

Mr. Lockwood is a teacher Racer and I both had in high school. He lives on a hill in a little cottage that over looks the area. He is retired now and spends his summers up in the Adirondacks, leaving his cottage up for grabs for any of his friends or formal students.

“If I leave a signed jersey for the man, that’s between me and him.”

“Such bullshit.” He huffs and says, “So you’re coming to Bing, huh?”

“I think I need to.”

“Then let me throw together a welcome home party, but you’re paying for it.”

I roll my eyes. Of course I am, the cheap fuck.

Hayden’s story, ONE BABY DADDY, the final book in the Dating by Numbers Series is releasing this Summer! To be the first to find out about release dates and be one of the first to preorder, click . And don’t forget to add the book to your TBR!

 

One Baby Daddy - - >

 

COME HANG OUT WITH ME! Join my reader group for weekly giveaways and fun. Click .

Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at 

 

Dating by Numbers Series

(Adventurous dating series full of laugh out loud moments and very heated scenes)

Two Wedding Crashers

One Baby Daddy

 

The Binghamton Boys Series

(Full of heart, humor, and heat and some HOT CONSTRUCTION WORKERS)

 

Standalones

(Full of heart, humor, and heat and some real laugh out loud moments)

The Romance Novelist Series

(Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies)

 

The Stroked Series

(HOT sports romance with plenty of humor)

 

The Bourbon Series

(Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male)

 

The Love and Sports Series

(New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.)

 

The Hot-Lanta Series

(My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!)

 

The Warblers Point Series

(Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.)