“It’s empty,” Maxim answered. “It has to be.”
“Right.” I nodded.
The car seat rocked back slightly, and the distinct wail of a pissed-off infant filled the air.
“Oh fuck,” I muttered, jolting forward. I gripped the black carrying handle, and turned the carrier around to face us.
A baby—a girl, if all the pink was any indication—looked up at me with teary, indignant eyes and shook her fists as she let out another yell.
“That’s a baby,” Maxim said slowly.
My chest constricted as I stared at the infant. Her hair was dark and her eyes were a brilliant, bright blue, but there was something about the shape of those eyes that had my pulse pounding an erratic beat. The tiny upturn at the tip of her nose and the heart-shaped face were familiar enough to knock me on my ass.
The kid looked just like baby pictures of my mom.
And the way she was screaming at the world? Like someone had dealt her the shittiest hand possible? That was all me.
What the actual fuck.
“Okay, and what other proof do you have?” Asher asked an hour later as we crowded into into his glass-walled office at the top of Reaper Arena.
“Besides the baby with my mom’s eyes and the letter stuffed into her car seat that says, ‘Hey, remember that one-night stand you had in Miami last August? Well, this is your daughter, Skye, and now she’s all yours?’” I motioned to the note Asher held in his hand as he leaned back in the chair behind his desk. “That’s it.” I sat back on the edge of the desk and stared at the red-faced infant that was supposedly mine.
“She’s the cutest!” London said as she bounced the baby on her hip, making laps around the conference table that took up the rest of the office. Apparently, that was the only way to calm the tiny human down. Maybe she hated that pink, one-piece pajama-looking thing she was wearing. It looked like she could hardly stretch out in it.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Sterling said to London with a smile, enjoying his seat at the table as Maxim looked on with a furrowed brow.
“There’s no paternity test,” Asher muttered, flipping the letter over and examining the back. “Do you remember anyone named Tiffany?”
I shook my head. “That whole fucking weekend is a blur.” It had been a single guy’s trip—the last before the season started—and I’d tied one on pretty fucking well.
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Asher said, cocking a brow at me.
“She obviously knew where you live,” Maxim noted, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the table as London passed by, carrying the baby.
“That’s not hard to find online,” Asher countered. “And look—” He put his hands up. “I’m not saying that’s not your kid, but I’m not about to sit by and let you get taken advantage of if she’s not.”
I nodded, which was pretty much all I’d managed to do since calling Asher from my front porch. His answer had been instant and easy—meet him at his office. He handled every issue on our team as a family matter first and foremost.
Holy fucking shit, did I actually have a family? Was that kid mine?
I always wore protection. Always. But what if I’d been so trashed that I’d slipped up? How the fuck would I have let that happen?
The door burst open and Axel, our captain, appeared. The giant Swede was carrying a car seat that looked just like Skye’s, except blue. His firecracker of a wife, Langley, walked in right after him.
“You’re supposed to be on maternity leave!” Asher snapped.
Langley narrowed her eyes at Asher, which was something not many people did without fear of repercussion. “I think this calls for an exception, don’t you?”
“Fuck, Langley, you just had him like four days ago or something,” Asher muttered.
“It’s been two weeks,” Axel countered, “And trust me, I did everything I could to keep her at home, short of tying her to the damned bed.” He set the carrier down on the floor, clear of London’s pacing path.
London passed us again, and I turned in my chair to watch. The baby was gnawing on a fist in between spurts of yells that bounced off the glass walls and only seemed to increase in volume.
“Well, she yells like you,” Langley said with a slight smile.
“I’d be yelling too if I’d just been dropped on my porch, too,” I muttered, tearing a hand through my dark hair, which I realized was the same shade as Skye’s. “What are we supposed to do?” I asked Asher. “Procedure wise, we call the cops, right?”
The women in the room gasped and both spun to face me, outrage lined on their features.
“What?” My jaw ticked. “If someone abandons a kid, you call the cops.”
“They’ll put her in foster care!” London hissed, covering one of Skye’s ears like she’d understand.
Shit. When had I started thinking of her as Skye and not the baby? Wait. Foster care? Nausea rolled up to my throat. I’d been in foster care for the first month after Mom and Dad died and I wouldn't wish that kind of hell on my worst enemy.
“You don’t know if she’s yours!” Langley argued.
“There’s something to be said for that,” Asher said slowly. “I’m not saying don’t inform the police. But maybe we should have a rush paternity test done before that happens. You have a better chance of keeping her in your house with one of those in hand.”
In my house?
What the fuck was I supposed to do with a baby? Ice-cold tendrils of panic raced up my spine, freezing my muscles and my thoughts. Father.
I couldn’t be a father. That kid—hell, any kid—deserved someone a hell of a lot better than I was. They called me Demon on the ice, and it wasn’t just because I was faster than a bat out of hell. It was because my temper was legendary. I was one of the Reapers’ enforcers, a fighter by nature. My hands were built for beating the shit out of my opponents, not holding a baby, and there was way more to parenting than holding a baby. There was...everything.
Shit, she was still crying.
“Does she have a bottle or something?” I asked, my grip tightening on Asher’s desk. The sound of her cry made me want to rip apart the room until I found something to make it stop.
“Now I know why the army uses baby cries for psy-ops,” Maxim muttered, flinching when she hit an especially ear-piercing pitch.
“I already fed her,” London said, adjusting her hold. “She’s clean, too.”
Thank God, because I’d never changed a diaper. Ever. Fuck. Diapers, wipes, cribs, clothes, bottles, formula...babies needed a lot of stuff, and I had nothing.
She might not even be yours.
The logical thought kept beating around in my skull, demanding to be acknowledged. NHL stars were banks to some people, and there was a good chance that this was just a scheme cooked up for an easy payday.
But there was something...an intangible, unidentifiable feeling that defied logic and screamed that she was mine.
“Brogan, are you listening?” Langley asked, waving her hand in front of my face.
“Sorry,” I muttered, shaking my head a little. “I can’t really think with her screaming like that.”