Chapter 1

Drew turned disbelieving eyes on the man who’d just spoken so crudely to the woman seated next to him at the bar. Did he really just ask her if she’d ever fucked a real man?

“Uh…” She glanced nervously at Drew.

“Does that line really work for you, asshole?” Drew asked him. “Pretty sure a ‘real man’ wouldn’t use it.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” the guy said. “She’s talking to me.”

“No, she’s not. She’s with me.”

She wasn’t, but this jerkwad didn’t need to know that.

“Come on, bitch. I’ll show you a real man. Not a pansy-ass hockey player with a bum knee.”

Greeeaat. The fucker knew who he was. “Okay.” Drew stood, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-three height. “You can fuck right off. Now.”

The dude shot him a dirty look but moved away.

The woman gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Whoa. Thanks.”

He hadn’t really been talking to her, just sitting beside her at the bar. “What a dickhead.” Drew followed the guy’s movements with narrowed eyes, watching him stop next to another woman.

“Are you really a hockey player?”

“No.” He picked up his beer and drained it, then signaled the bartender for another one. He’d lost count of how many he’d had tonight.

“I’m Savannah.” She held out a hand.

Drew took in her blond hair, spidery eyelashes, and high-maintenance manicure with her nails painted red and black in what looked like butterfly wings. She reminded him of his ex-wife.

“Drew,” he said, shaking her hand.

“It’s so nice to meet a gentleman.” Her shiny pink lips curved up.

“I’m not really a gentleman.” He attempted a smile.

“Well, you rescued me, so I think you are.”

Drew watched as Dickwad returned, this time with another guy. Their eyes focused on Savannah with undisguised lechery. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Annoyance burned in his chest. Along with the alcohol he’d consumed, the driving rhythm of the music in the bar, and the frustration he’d kept pent up for months, a wild, reckless feeling buzzed through him.

He was already pissed at the world. Apparently, it didn’t take much to make him bloodthirsty. And hell, a woman should be able to tell a guy to get lost without being harassed. He didn’t even know her, yet he somehow felt responsible. So when Dickwad slid a hand around Savannah’s upper arm and said, “Let’s dance,” Drew was on his feet in an instant.

“Seriously, dude?” he said to the guy. “Are you fucking hammered? Let go of her.”

“We’re going to dance.”

Savannah was trying to pull her arm out of his grip.

“No, you’re fucking not.” And Drew lunged at him.

Savannah squealed as Drew landed a right cross on the guy’s jaw. With a roar, the other man fought back.

Rage rose inside Drew in a burst of heat. He threw a flurry of punches, felt a crunch of bone, and had the asshole over the bar and helpless in minutes.

Bouncers pounced on Drew and dragged him off the guy. Blood dripped from Drew’s eyebrow and he swiped it away with the back of his hand, his chest heaving.

“Get the hell out of here before we call the cops,” one of the big bouncers said to him in a low voice, giving him a shove.

“Gotta pay for my drinks,” he mumbled, reaching for his wallet.

“Forget it. On the house.”

Drew stumbled out of Jimmy’s Kitchen and Bar, one of his favorite local watering holes, onto Southport Avenue. What. The. Fuck. Drunk, bleeding, and now he was fucking laughing. Damn, that had felt good. He shook out his throbbing hand as he walked unsteadily down the sidewalk to his Porsche. He had his hand in his pocket looking for his keys when he paused.

He closed his eyes. Okay, he was drunk and he’d been doing a lot of stupid, risky things lately…It was only a few blocks to his place. Driving was so much easier than trying to track down a cab, but…aw, fuck. Even he knew better than to drive drunk. With a sigh, he walked past his car and kept going toward Wrightwood.

Drew flashed the cute barista a smile the next morning as he accepted his large Americano and turned to leave the coffee shop. At nearly eleven in the morning, the café was almost empty. He’d slept in after a late night, but what difference did it make what time he got up when he had nothing else to do?

His temples pulsed with a faint headache, the result of those Fireball shots and too many beers last night, not to mention the small bar brawl. He was about to slide his sunglasses back onto his nose and step outside into the bright September sunlight when a woman stopped in front of him.

“Drew?”

The blond hair first made him think of Savannah from last night. But no. He eyed her. Not one of the women he’d partied with lately, either, so probably just a hockey fan who recognized him. He summoned a smile despite the small hockey sticks tapping inside his skull. “Yes?”

“Drew Sellers?”

“That’s me.” He studied the woman, taking in her thin frame and pale face, stylish short blond hair, and dark blue eyes. Something about her tweaked his memory, but he couldn’t place her.

She was studying him, too, those blue eyes big and hesitant as her gaze swept over him, lingering on the cut above his eyebrow. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked quietly, not in an accusing or even disappointed tone, as he’d heard a couple of times when he’d run into women he didn’t recall meeting before. “That’s okay.”

“I’m sorry…we’ve met?”

“Yes.” Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and her fingers twisted the strap of her purse around and around. “A long time ago, though.”

This was getting awkward and he wasn’t sure how to extricate himself. Damn, he needed some Advil. “I’m sorry,” he said again, lifting his eyebrows.

“Sara Watt.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you ever knew my last name. We met one night at Notre Dame.”

“University of Notre Dame?” He frowned.

“Yes.”

Jesus, that was going way back. He’d played two years of hockey at Boston University, and they’d played against the Fighting Irish a couple of times a season.

“I didn’t know your last name, either,” she continued quickly. “Until a few weeks ago.”

“Uh…okay.”

Her smile stretched her lips but it held no humor. “We, uh, hooked up one night.”

Drew nodded. Yep, awkward. Not remembering that was insulting, but even if he did remember, it would still be awkward twelve or thirteen years later. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Forgive me,” he said, trying not to be an asshole.

She licked her lips quickly. “It’s okay,” she said. “It was one night. It’s not like you broke my heart.” That tense smile appeared briefly again. “Look, um, I know this is weird. But I need to talk to you.”

Drew’s body went cold and still. Because those words were always enough to strike frozen fear into the heart of any man. Fuck, no…it was too ridiculous. This woman he didn’t even recognize appearing out of the blue was not about to tell him he had a child he’d never known about. Why was he even thinking that?

He wouldn’t be the first guy that had ever happened to, but it would be pretty fucking bizarre if it happened now, when his career was over, his wife had dumped his ass, and his life was basically a goddamn wasteland of broken hopes and dreams. Sure, there were women who tried to claim a pro athlete had knocked them up. Didn’t this chick know he had nothing to offer? It wasn’t like he’d just signed a five-year, thirty-million-dollar deal with the Blackhawks. He was done. Done like lobster in butter sauce.

So that couldn’t be what was happening here.

He held up a hand. “Look, honey, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got the wrong guy. And maybe you haven’t heard, but I’m a washed-up, retired winger. There’s no point in even trying this.”

Her mouth dropped open. Those big blue eyes stared at him, and then cobalt sparks flashed in them. She snapped her mouth closed and her lips thinned. “I think you should hear me out.”

Something about the expression on her face made him pause. She wasn’t disappointed, and she was holding his gaze in a way that made him think she wasn’t bullshitting him, whatever this was about.

He tugged the sleeve of his long-sleeved T-shirt to glance at his watch. “I have five minutes.”

A lie. He had nowhere to go other than his house for Advil and an afternoon spent playing video games.

“Fine.”

He gestured at a small table nearby. They moved over to it and sat. She had no coffee and he didn’t offer to buy her one. The coffee he sipped slid into his gut and lodged there like a burning rock.

“I know you don’t remember me,” she said quietly, her purse on her lap. “I barely remember you. We got drunk at a party one night and slept together. I knew your name was Drew and that was about it.”

No. No fucking way. No.

Drew closed his eyes.

“I’ll just get right to the point,” she continued in a low, steady voice. “I got pregnant.”

“Knew that was coming,” he said drily.

Her forehead creased. “What? You did?”

“Honey.” He leaned over the table. “You’re not the first chick to think she can make bank by claiming a pro athlete knocked her up. Why do you think so many guys carry their own condoms and nondisclosure agreements around with them?”

Her lips parted and she gaped at him again. “That’s what you think this is?” She swiped a hand over her face then focused on him again. “Of course you think that’s what this is. I don’t blame you. Let me just set your mind at ease—I don’t want anything from you.”

“Then what the hell is this about?” Anger edged his tone, and he fought to keep from snarling the words.

“If you’d let me finish, I’ll enlighten you,” she said calmly. She sucked in a deep breath. “Yes, you have a nearly twelve-year-old daughter. Her name is Chloe and she’s awesome. She doesn’t know about you or that you’re her father. I didn’t know myself until a few weeks ago.”

“I’m supposed to believe I’m the father if you didn’t even know it yourself? If you slept with a bunch of guys, what makes you think I’m the father? Jesus.” He pressed his fingers to his temples, which were now throbbing even more. “This doesn’t make sense.”

This really couldn’t be happening.

“I didn’t sleep with a bunch of guys.” Surprisingly, she didn’t seem offended by his comment. “I slept with you. One guy. One time. We used a condom, because I was drunk but I wasn’t stupid. However, shit happens.”

“Fuck.”

“I’ve had over twelve years to accept it,” she said wryly. “Sorry, this is new for you. Anyway, I didn’t even know that you didn’t go to Notre Dame. I tried to track you down, but I couldn’t find you. Nobody else knew you. One of my friends said maybe you’d just been visiting someone that weekend.”

“I went to Boston University,” he said slowly. “Played hockey there.”

“I didn’t know you were a hockey player.” She met his eyes again. “I did know we were both freshmen.”

He remembered now, vaguely. He was pretty sure the team had only traveled to Notre Dame once that year. He’d gone to a party after the Saturday night game with a couple of teammates…

“I’m really sorry. Believe me, I’ve had many years to curse myself for doing something so stupid. This is a lot for you to handle in five minutes.” She gave a pointed glance at her watch.

“How did you find me?”

“It was a complete fluke, actually. I saw a picture of you in a Sports Illustrated magazine while I was waiting at the…doctor’s. Once I knew your last name and that you were a hockey player, it was pretty easy to track you down.” She paused. “I might not have done it, except…” She closed her eyes briefly.

Drew once more noticed how pale she was, blue veins visible at her temples, tendons in her neck standing out.

“I have stage four metastatic melanoma.”

Drew blinked, his body stiff.

“Like I said, I don’t want anything from you. Chloe and I have done fine. But…well.” Once more she met his eyes and this time they shone. Her chin lifted and her voice was steady as she said, “I’m dying. And since I have the chance I never thought I would, I thought I should do something about it before I’m gone. If you don’t want to know Chloe, that’s fine. It’s your prerogative. She doesn’t know about you, and if that’s what you choose, I won’t tell her.”

Dying. Drew’s chest felt flash-frozen. Breathing strained his lungs. He didn’t even know this woman. He didn’t even know if she was telling him the truth. But courage glowed in those blue eyes along with unshed tears and her terrible words felt real. “How long?” he asked, his voice sounding like a hairbrush was scraping over his vocal cords.

“Maybe a few months.” She drew in a long breath. “I’ll give you my name and contact information. I know this is a lot to take in. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll understand. But if you’re interested in meeting Chloe, I feel I owe it to her to give her that. If she wants to meet you.”

“You don’t even know me.” The words grated out. “I could be an asshole.”

She gave a small smile. “I did some research on you, but yes, you could be an asshole.”

“What kind of research?”

“Come on, you’re an NHL player. There’s all kinds of information about you.”

“Was.” He cleared his throat. “I was an NHL player.”

“Right. I read that you had to retire because of a knee injury.”

“Yeah.” He hated to use the word retire, but he had to face the reality that his career was over.

“Also, I checked the sex offender database for this state and had a PI do a bit of digging.”

His eyes widened. “Jesus.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card and a photograph. She slid them both across the table to him. His gaze dropped to the small photo, a standard school photo with a blue background. A young girl’s face beamed up at him.

She wasn’t blond like her mother. Her hair was dark, like his.

That didn’t mean anything.

He studied the picture and couldn’t really say he saw any likeness between him and the girl. Nor did she look like her mother, although she did have the same eyes.

Sara rose to her feet. “Sorry, I’ve taken more than five minutes.” She nodded at the card and photograph. “Thank you for listening, Drew, and again, I apologize. Both for dumping this on you now, and for not being able to tell you when it happened.”

“We were eighteen years old.”

She nodded. “I know. We were young. Hormonal. Maybe a little drunk.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “But Chloe is the best thing in my life.” Her voice choked a little. She could talk about her own death, but apparently speaking of her daughter made her emotional. “I’ll never regret what happened for that reason.” Her chin wobbled but she smiled. “I think you’d like her, Drew. But it’s your choice, and I’ll understand whatever that is.”

She turned and left the coffee shop.

Drew watched her walk out, following her with his gaze as she passed the window. He turned back and his eyes fell on the picture again. He slowly reached out to pick it up.

His daughter.

Really?

Jesus fucking Christ.

He did remember that night. And he did vaguely remember Sara, now. He remembered a cute, curvy blonde with a bright smile. So different from how she looked now, yet it was the same person. They’d flirted a little, drank a lot, and somehow ended up upstairs in a bedroom at the house party. They hadn’t talked a lot and they’d both been clear it was just a hookup. He’d left the next day to go back to Boston and hadn’t thought more about her.

Had he really left her knocked up? Not knowing who the father of her baby was?

Hell, there was no maybe about it…he was an asshole.

He rubbed his face.

Wait, wait. Hold the fuck up. He’d had no clue he was a father.

And honestly…he still didn’t know for sure. Sara may have said she didn’t want anything, but he wasn’t born yesterday or even two days ago. It was entirely possible this was some kind of scam.

He set down the picture, shoved his chair back, and stood. He grabbed his coffee. And paused.

Was she really dying?

He picked up the photograph and card and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans.

He strode out of the café and down the sidewalk toward his Lincoln Park home. The one he’d bought less than a year ago, when he was still married to Christy. Stupidly thinking his career would go on forever, stupidly thinking they might want to start a family, he’d shelled out big bucks for the five-thousand-square-foot Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired house.

Now he lived there alone, rattling around like a marble in a crate.

Ah well, at least it was an investment.

At home he went straight to the big U-shaped kitchen and opened the cabinet where he kept a good stock of painkillers. His knee was much better now, and he tried not to take pills more than he had to. It was a lot easier now that he wasn’t playing. With his fucked-up knee, he hadn’t been able to play without painkillers. These days it was more often a hangover that had him reaching for drugs.

He popped an Advil and washed it down with a glass of water from the sink in the island. The sink that was full of dishes.

Ugh.

With his glass of water, he rounded the island and walked across the family room to the French doors that opened onto a deck and the yard, a big green space of lawn and shrubs. He turned and crossed to the huge gray sectional and sat on it.

A strange restlessness filled him. His muscles twitched and sitting still was impossible. He set the glass on the coffee table and rose again. Fuck. This was crazy. That woman had just walked into the coffee shop and dropped a fucking firebomb on him. What the hell?

He pulled his cellphone out and quickly entered the password to unlock it, then found Dougie’s phone number.

“Hey, man,” he said when his buddy answered. “What’s up?”

“Who is this?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Drew rolled his eyes as he paced across the room. “As if you don’t know. Listen, I’ve got a huge goddamn problem.”