Page 137 of Twisted Needs

I glance across the bench. Bishop is sitting there with the other twin tucked against his chest like he’s done this a hundred times before. Which, to be fair, he probably has. The man has a million kids and the emotional stamina of a suburban mother—the true heroes. “Bish is an actual father,” I point out, adjusting the fragile baby more securely in my arms. “I’m just trying not to drop him.”

“For the sake of your future children, I hope whichever poor idiot marries you knows what they’re doing.”

“That’s what nannies are for.”

Bish snorts loudly.

Matty points her stick at me. “See? This is why you’re single.”

If only she knew the truth.

Eventually practice wraps after another miserable hour of drills and line adjustments. I know I’m going to miss this. That realization hits harder lately. Especially the loud rooms after a night on the ice. And the sacred routines no one dares to break. And definitely the way our team can go from hating each other to being brothers after a single clean shot. It’s not that I’ve taken it for granted, I know I haven’t. I just think it isn’t the most important thing to me anymore.

I’m midway through stretching when Matty walks past me with a clipboard tucked under one arm and one twin balanced against her hip. “Morozov.”

“Coach.”

“You look like shit.”

I nod, accepting it. “Thank you.”

“I’m serious. Your recovery times are slowing down.” She lowers her voice slightly. “We need you good tomorrow. Vandy plays better when you’re on his wing.”

My chest tightens a little at that. The kid trusts me. Makes me feel like I’m doing something right as captain. “Got it,” I say.

She studies me for another second before softening just slightly. “You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Umm…” Not remotely. I’m exhausted in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey. Anders has completely destroyed my ability to function like a normal human being. I’m thirty-eight years old and somehow getting bullied by a twenty-one-year-old with blond curls and insomnia.

It’s been five times a day. Minimum. His stamina is at superhuman levels.

“You’re smiling again,” Matty says suspiciously.

Fuck. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

She grins. “That little soft old man smile. It’s precious.”

“We’re the same fucking age.”

“I just wanna take a picture of it and frame it. I’ll hang it in between the twins’ baby pictures.”

Before I can defend myself, my phone buzzes beside me. Instantly, everything else in the room dulls.

“You’re good to go,” Coach says, stepping away.

“Thanks, Matty.”

I grab my phone and limp toward my locker before answering. “Hey, sweetheart,” I murmur, digging through my bag for clean clothes. “You just wake up?”

“No, Parker,” Anders says slowly, already irritated. “I’ve been awake all morning.”