Talk of the Town - By Beth Andrews Page 0,88

she did?

She deserved that. Deserved to have a partner in life, a man who’d be there for her, through the good times and the bad, someone to share her life with, to grow old with. Maybe even to have more children with. To help her raise Bree.

The thought of it killed him. Maddie with another man. Smiling at him each day, making love to him at night. Carrying his child. Bree looking up to some anonymous, faceless stepfather. He’d help her with her homework, play cards with her, drop her off to school and drive her and her friends to the mall, the movies and parties. He’d be there for Bree’s first date, prom and high school graduation and on her wedding day, he’d walk her down the aisle.

Some other man who got to watch her grow up, help guide her through the tricky times and love her through it all.

Neil’s jaw ached, his hands clenched. Lucky bastard.

A cheer went up from the crowd and he focused on the game in time to see Bree have the ball stolen from her. It took him only a few minutes to realize why the coach had waited to put her in.

She wasn’t very good.

She was the slowest girl on the field and had no soccer skills that he could see. By the time the ref blew the whistle indicating the first half of play was over, she’d had the ball stolen from her twice, turned the ball over four times and, on one memorable occasion, kicked it toward the wrong goal.

She was a hindrance to the team.

Worse, she didn’t even seem to care. She moved in slow motion, looked sluggish and her expression was one that said that being out there, running around, kicking the ball, playing with a group of girls who could grow to be her good friends, wasn’t the joyful experience it should have been. It was torture.

During halftime he spent a few minutes talking with Gerry and Carl, somehow got roped into taking Mitchell with him as he went to the concession stand to grab a hot dog. While there, he had a surprisingly cordial conversation with Maddie’s father about the rumors surrounding the Knights’ draft choices. At the end of the break, Bree’s team walked back toward the field. Toward him.

The athlete in him, the man who’d made his living being a true competitor in every sense of the word, wanted to grab his daughter, demand she do better, to stop wasting everyone’s time. But the father in him recognized that wasn’t what she needed, wasn’t what would get through to her. It would only break her spirit.

“Hi,” he said, walking up to her, forcing her to stop.

She looked at the ground as the rest of her team walked by. “Hi.”

Okay, not exactly thrilled to have him there, but she hadn’t screamed at him again. Hadn’t insisted that she meant what she’d said Monday about not wanting him to be her father anymore.

“Good luck,” he said. “In the second half.”

“Thank you,” she said primly. That was his kid, he realized with a rush of love that made him dizzy, this little girl with her round face and guarded eyes. She was polite and sweet and always seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a chain. “Here.”

She looked at the necklace. The saint medallion swung back and forth. “What is it?” she asked as suspiciously as her mother.

“It’s my lucky necklace.”

Now she raised her eyebrows. “You have a lucky necklace?”

Hockey players were notoriously superstitious and it was paining him to even hand it to her because he’d never, not once, let anyone else wear it. He hoped doing so didn’t negatively affect it.

But for her, he’d risk a bit of bad luck.

“It’s Saint Sebastian,” he told her. “The patron saint of athletes. Your mother gave it to me.”

Bree finally took it from him. “She did?”

He nodded. “For my eighteenth birthday.”

“And it’s your lucky necklace? You wear it every day?”

“No, but I wear it for every game. Do you...can I help you put it on?”

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until she nodded and it exploded from his lungs on a soft whoosh. She turned around and he hooked the chain around her neck, gave in and ran his hand down the downy softness of her hair.

“There,” he said gruffly, “that’ll give you a bit of extra luck for the rest of the game.”

* * *

BREE WRINKLED

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