Page 8 of My One & Goalie

Jett nods. “If I have to eat it, I will.”

“You do,” I say, handing my son a fork. “And what do you say?”

“Thank you, Coach.” Jett spears a piece of lettuce and starts eating.

“Salad?” Xander offers the bowl to me.

“Sure.”

We eat in silence for a minute or two before Jett starts asking questions again.

“Where do you live?”

“Boston.”

“The city! That’s cool. Do you get to fly on airplanes all the time?”

Xander nods. “Yes. Usually about once a week.”

“I’ve never been on an airplane before.”

“Really?” Xander arches a brow.

“We were supposed to go to Disney World, but then Mom had to work. She works all the time.”

“Oh. Well, a lot of moms work. And I work all the time, too. It’s fun work, but it’s still work.”

“Wesley’s mom stays home. He got to go to Disney.”

“Maybe next summer, bud,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “Eat your pizza. We don’t want to keep Coach out too late.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” He smooths his hand over the checked tablecloth, our fingertips brushing, and I swear sparks fly up my arm.

Forget it, Rachel. The man’s a professional athlete. He may think about a quick fling while he’s in town, but no way will it mean anything.

“Mommy, is the pizza okay to eat now?” Jett’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I hover my hand over the cheesy slice.

“Should be fine.”

He bites into the pizza, a huge grin on his face, and despite the unfortunate circumstances, I relax and enjoy the moment.

The three of us eat and chat, Jett asking Xander a million questions about playing professional hockey. I sit back and marvel at the ease with which Xander handles the situation. Most men I know would sprint away from dinner with a mom and her five-year-old. Xander offered it upandseems happy about it.

“Do you have younger brothers and sisters?”

“I have a younger brother. My parents divorced when I was in eighth grade and my dad had another kid. So I spent a lot of time babysitting.”

“Ah, that explains it.” I fold my napkin, tucking it under my plate.

“Explains what?”

“How you’re so good with kids.”

Running a hand through his wavy hair, he shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You skated onto the ice tonight and coached a youth hockey team. Of five and six-year-olds. Not many guys can do that.”

He locks his eyes on mine, sending my heart racing, my pulse fluttering in my neck.