Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) (32 page)

It felt like London and I were at a complete impasse. I couldn’t live with what she wanted of me, but I didn’t know if I could live without her, either. Which was a scary thought.

Before I could type anything in, the screen lit up again with one more message from London.

Since we’re both awake, there’s something I need to tell you, and I can’t do it via text. Is it okay if I call you?

I dialed her number instead of replying.

“Hey,” she said before the first ring had even finished.

“Hey.” I didn’t know what else to say. But then, she was the one who supposedly needed to talk to me, so maybe I didn’t need to say anything at all. I fell silent, waiting for her to fill me in on whatever was going on in her mind.

She took her time getting around to it. I’d never known her to be hesitant about anything, so I wasn’t sure how to feel about her reticence now. She usually just jumped straight into whatever was on her mind, often without thinking. I both loved and hated that about her.

“I didn’t want to tell you, at first, but I had a long heart-to-heart with my dad, and he convinced me I owe you that much.”

“Tell me what?” I bit off. If she didn’t want to tell me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. In fact, I was almost positive of the opposite. It was probably better to stop now. My thumb hovered over the button to end the call.

But she didn’t stop, and I didn’t hang up on her. “I’m pregnant,” she said after what felt like forever.

The phone slipped out of my hand, and I had to scramble to dig it out of the blankets so I could keep talking to her. “You’re what? You said— No. You said you were fine, after…”

“I know I did. And I thought I was. I used the morning-after pill as soon as I could, but it was a few days after the fact, and it’s not a hundred percent effective even in the best circumstances.”

“But you can’t—”

“I think we’re both grown up enough to realize that, yes, I
can
be pregnant. No form of birth control works all the time other than abstinence, and the two of us definitely weren’t using abstinence.”

“I…” I didn’t have the first clue what to say. The thought of sleep was getting further and further out of my grasp.

London was pregnant.

With my baby.

But she wouldn’t let me be with her. Or would she? Considering the circumstances, she’d have to loosen up some and allow me back into her life. Wouldn’t she?

“So now what?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I want to come to your house. I need to see you.”

“And I need you to let go of what happened with your accident.”

Again with the incessant
let it go
bullshit. “Can’t change who I am.”

“I don’t want you to change who you are. I only want you to see yourself the way everyone else sees you.”

“So we can’t even talk about the baby?” My frustration was ramping up to an epic level.

“We’re talking about the baby. And about us. And about how there can’t be an
us
if we don’t find some sort of compromise.”

“Compromise means both have to change.”

“I know that,” she said, sighing. “What do you want me to change? Tell me what you need from me.”

“Need you to let me be part of this.” That was the only thing registering in my brain at the moment. I could tell her I needed her to stop being such a hardheaded woman, but I doubted I’d be happy if that happened. I liked the way we butted heads all the time, even if it made me a sick bastard.

“I want you to be part of it.”

“I need to come over. Need to see you.” I needed to be with her more than I would ever be able to understand.

“Dima…” She let my name trail off into nothingness.

“You won’t let me come over.”

“Have you done anything about moving on from the wreck? About forgiving yourself for making a mistake? Anything at all?”

I knew it was impossible to forgive myself for all the things I’d done wrong. Anyone who thought otherwise was full of shit.

“I take that to mean you haven’t,” she said dryly after a protracted moment of silence.

“Are you keeping the baby?” I asked.

More silence. She might have sniffled. Then, “I don’t know. It’s a big decision. Especially…”

“Especially what?” I asked when she didn’t elaborate. Her answer was like a knife to my gut. Within the span of five minutes, she’d told me I was going to be a father and then hinted that she might take it away from me. It was too much. Too fast.

“Especially if I might be on my own for whatever decision I have to make.”

I didn’t want her to be alone for this. I wanted to be with her. “Will you let me be part of decision?”

“I wouldn’t have told you at all if I wasn’t going to allow at least that much.”

Then there was hope. A tiny sliver of hope, maybe, but it was something. I grasped on to that, hoping to hold it tight enough that it couldn’t escape but not so tight that I smothered it before it could sprout roots.

“I really do miss you,” she said softly.

“Just not enough to let me in.”

“It’s not that. I want to let you in. I just want you to make an effort to live the life I know you can, and right now, you’re not.”

“It’s not that hard. Let me come over. Let me see you.”

“So we can fall into bed again? That won’t solve anything,” she said.

“Just want to touch you. Smell you.”

“Fight with me,” she added, although there was a hint of laughter in her tone.

“I will fight. For this.”

“I hope you mean that. Prove it,” she said. “Show me.”

“How?”

“You know how.”

Yeah, I knew what she wanted. I just didn’t know if I could do it.

We hung up not long after that. I powered off my phone and shoved it in the top drawer of my nightstand so I wouldn’t be tempted to text her again.

The last thing I needed right now was another reason to lie awake in bed all night, but she’d just given me one.

VALTTERI FILPPULA HAD
the puck for the Lightning. He was barreling up the ice toward Hunter, and there was no one with a chance of catching him but me. I shouldn’t be the one trying to cover him because I wasn’t a defenseman. Didn’t matter. I had to do it. Travis “Prince” Royal had been pinching in, trying to keep the puck in play when Filppula had knocked it off his stick and chipped it out into the zone. I’d cycled back to cover the point when Prince had made his move. Huggy Bear was our other defenseman on the ice, but just as he’d turned to chase the guy, his skate blade had literally broken off, leaving him hobbled.

So now, I had to be the one to chase this guy’s ass.

I used to be a much better skater, back before the wreck. I hadn’t lost any limbs, but I’d needed about half a dozen surgeries to repair all sorts of injuries, and I’d gotten a severe concussion. The combination had completely altered the way I played. Before the wreck, I’d been one of the top offensive talents in the league. These days, I had to use my hockey IQ in order to excel as a defensive forward. Speed was no longer one of my attributes, though, so it was all about positioning—and at the moment, my positioning stunk to high hell.

I turned on my afterburners and gave it everything I had, but the guy was too fast. His teammate, Callahan, was on his wing, too, so I had to break up the possibility for a pass from behind, preferably without taking a penalty in the process. Hunter had his focus fully on Filppula, so I had to trust that my goaltender could contain him. I had to take Callahan out of the action in order to prevent a pass while Hunter was out of position.

I took two power strides and lunged, thrusting my stick into the passing lane at the last second. Sure enough, Filppula tried to get the puck to his teammate—he was more of a playmaker than a shooter. The puck grazed my blade, which I had been holding at exactly the wrong angle, apparently. Inadvertently, I tipped the puck directly at the goal. Hunter slid over and grabbed it in his glove, just in the nick of time. He held onto it and the ref blew his whistle to stop play, with two Lightning forwards bearing down on the goal.

The red light came on over the penalty box, signaling a TV time-out.

“You trying to fuck me over, Dima?” Hunter shouted as I skated behind his net. To this point in the game, midway through the third period, he was holding on to a shutout. His clean sheet almost came to an end right then and there, but at least we were up by two goals.

“Fuck you,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t even fucking let me in last night.”

“Sorry if laying my wife was more important than seeing your ugly face.”

I skated back to the bench and took a seat next to Razor.

“He biting your head off for that?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good. Get your fucking head on straight.” He slapped me on the back of my shoulder pads, like that might knock some sense into me.

I didn’t know how to get my head on straight, though. I’d only slept for about an hour last night after talking to London. I’d been too worked up all day to get my pregame nap in. I was a wreck.

“Tori wants to come over to your place tomorrow,” he said while the ice crew shoveled the snow in front of us.

That one threw me. I usually saw her at Razor’s place or sometimes at Hunter’s. I didn’t have people over at my house very often. “Why she wants to come over?”

“Said she has some things to make it feel like home for Mrs. Mironov.”

The TV time-out came to an end, and Spurs sent Razor out onto the ice for the next face-off before I could come up with a response.

Viktoriya wanted to make my place feel like home for Svetka. I didn’t have the first clue what she had in mind, but I was game to find out. In fact, I might have to kiss her for that.

Just not while Razor was looking.

WHEN THEY ARRIVED
at my house the next afternoon, Viktoriya came in carrying a china tea service and a
samovar
—a sort of plug-in tea maker—with a tote bag draped over her slim shoulder, while Razor was loaded down with an Oriental rug and all sorts of other things I couldn’t make out. Viktoriya was a ballerina, tall and lean, with a graceful, dark beauty that only hinted at the horrors she’d been through. I only knew bits and pieces, but it was enough to turn my stomach. She smiled when she saw me, something that was starting to happen with more regularity the longer she’d been around.