Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
My heart is pounding hard as I skate over. The person holding the sign is in Lyla’s seat, but it can’t be her. There’s no way. It has to be a prank. A fucking horrible, twisted prank, if it is one. As I get closer, the sign covering my wife’s beautiful face lowers, and she smiles wide — my smile. She’s holding ultrasound pictures in one hand and the sign in the other. I’m still in shock, my brain struggling to process all of this information — Lyla’s here, not at her game. Lyla’s pregnant? We’re having a baby? Fuck. A knot forms in my throat as I reach the plexiglass and stand in front of her. I set a hand on it and look at her face, the ultrasound pictures, the sign, and her face again.
I swallow hard. “You’re serious?”
I’m sure she can’t hear me over the noise, and I can barely see her with my eyes blurring, but I catch her nod. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, as I drop my helmet and skate to the nearest door where she meets me. When I open it, she tosses the sign behind her and launches at me, wrapping her arms and legs around me. I bury my face in her neck, inhaling that gardenia scent that always comforts me.
“You’re serious?” I ask, voice hoarse.
She nods against me, and I pull away to look at her face. She wipes the tears from it and smiles, brushing some off my face for me. I hold her tight and skate us to the other side of the rink, setting her down on the ground. I step off the ice and grab her hand to pull her to the hall that leads to the locker rooms. I’m still in shock when I stop walking and lean against the brick wall.
“I... what are you doing here? Was your game canceled?” I ask, as my eyes take her in from head to toe and back.
“I know you hate it when I make decisions without you, but I’ve been talking about retiring for a while now, so I did it.”
“When?”
“A little over a week ago. I was supposed to sign my contract again and told Lang I wanted to retire.”
“Lang knew?!” My eyes go wide. He’s been my agent longer than he’s known her — that traitor.
She hands me the ultrasound pictures, and points and explains what I’m looking at, while my throat closes up again. A baby. Holy shit. She has been a little bloated lately, but it’s always something with the female body. Bloating, bleeding, fucking ovulating. I don’t question it anymore.
“A baby,” I whisper, setting my hands on her stomach. “We’re going to have a baby.”
“I know.” She smiles wide. “Did you like my sign, Daddy Duke?”
I lift her into my arms again and start walking. “It’s my new favorite.”
“Now, everyone’s going to take my idea and call you that,” she says against my ear.
“But only you’re going to call me that when I fuck you,” I respond, smiling when I hear her gasp.
“I like that idea,” she whispers.
“A baby,” I say again. “When did you find out?”
“Remember when I thought I had food poisoning?”
“In Phoenix?” I ask, frowning as I set her down.
She nods. “I took a test while I was there.”
“That was two weeks ago.” My brows pull tighter.
The moment she told me she had food poisoning, I told her to fly home immediately. Why would she keep this from me for two weeks? How could I not have known? I bet she texted Marissa about it. I wonder if she had it on her calendar. It’s not like I’d know. I don’t go through her things. Marriage has changed me a lot. I still don’t like men checking her out for too long, but I don’t go through her phone or emails. I don’t have to. She tells me everything. At least, I thought she did.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” I say quietly, looking at the pictures again.
“I wanted to tell you so bad,” she says, “But it took a week for the doctor to see me, and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” She bites her lip and looks at the ground. “I know how much you want this.”
“Hey.” I lift her chin. My chest tightens when I see the uncertainty in her eyes. “I want you. Of course, I want to start a family with you, but you’re my priority. You’re the only thing I need. You know that.”
“I know,” she whispers, visibly swallowing and blinking back tears.
“Is this why you’ve been crying during commercials?” I ask.
“Stupid fucking hormones,” she mutters, wiping her face.
I laugh. “Are you going soft on me, Lyla James?”
“I hate you,” she says, her lips twitching into her ghost of a smile.