Chapter 1: Hockey After Dark
The apartment was a cave of quiet when Shane let himself in, the lock clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that sealed out the roar of nineteen thousand voices. His ears still rang with the echo of the final horn, the sharp crack of his stick against the ice, the thunder of his own heartbeat in the final shift. A win. A good one. But the adrenaline was already bleeding out of him, replaced by the deep, bone-tired ache that always came after.
He toed off his dress shoes by the door, leaving them in a careless heap beside Astrid's heels. She'd left them there this morning, black patent leather, a little scuffed at the toe from the walk to the courthouse. He smiled at the sight, a small private thing, and hung his suit jacket over the back of the dining chair instead of the closet. He'd get it pressed tomorrow. Or the day after. The tie came next, a deep navy silk that he loosened with two tugs, then let dangle from his fingers as he padded down the hall.
The master bedroom was lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, turned low, casting everything in warm amber. The curtains were open, and the city sprawled beyond the glass, a scatter of golden lights against the dark. And there she was.
Astrid lay on her side, facing the window, one arm curled under her head. She'd kicked the duvet down to her knees at some point, and the thin cotton of her nightgown had ridden up over the swell of her belly, leaving a pale crescent of skin exposed. Her hair, that rich dark wave, spilled loose across the pillow. She was breathing slow and deep, her lashes dark against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted.
Shane stopped in the doorway, just to look at her. His wife. His lawyer, his fierce, impossible, beautiful wife, who argued cases in front of judges and still melted into him like butter when he came home late. The pregnancy had been hard on her, the way it was hard on anyone who liked to be in control of her own body. He'd watched her struggle with it, watched her rage quietly against the limitations, and then soften, slowly, into something almost radiant.
Careful not to wake her, he stripped off his shirt, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid them off. He left his boxers on, not wanting to presume anything, and padded around to his side of the bed. The mattress dipped as he climbed in, and he held his breath, waiting to see if she stirred. She didn't. She just made a small sound, a hum of contentment, and rolled partway onto her back.
He settled behind her, sliding one arm beneath her neck and draping the other over her side. The warmth of her body seeped into him, that familiar scent of jasmine and clean hair and something private that was just hers. He buried his nose in the curve of her shoulder, letting the last of the arena noise drain out of him.
His hand found her belly of its own accord. It rested there, palm flat against the taut, warm swell, and he closed his eyes, breathing in sync with her. And then, it happened.
A small, insistent kick, right into the center of his palm. Then another, a little shift, like the baby was turning to press against him.
Shane's breath caught. He stayed very still, his hand frozen there, waiting. And then again, a solid thump, unmistakable. Hi, he thought. Hey, little one. I'm home.
The kick came again, answering, and something in his chest loosened. The win on the ice had been good, but this. This was the thing he came home for.
"Shane?"
Her voice was sleep-rough, barely a mumble.
"Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to wake you."
She didn't open her eyes, but her hand came up, fumbling across the sheets until it found his, pressing it more firmly against her belly. "She knows you're here," Astrid murmured. "She's been doing that all night. Waiting for her daddy."
His throat went tight. He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, then to her shoulder. "You weren't waiting up, were you?"
"Mm. Tried not to." She shifted, turning to face him, her cheek against his shoulder, her swollen belly pressed against his hip. Her eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "How was the game?"
"Won. Three-two in overtime."
"Good." She yawned, small and cat-like. "You got your goal."
"I got the assist." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. "Didn't need to shoot. They gave me the space, so I gave it to the kid on the wing."
"Selfless Shane Tanaka." Her hand drifted over his chest, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. "Being a captain suits you."
He caught her fingers and brought them to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Being a dad is going to suit me better."
Her smile deepened, then flickered, just a little, the way it sometimes did these days. "I'm scared."
"I know." He said it simply, without trying to fix it, because that was what she'd asked of him. Don't fix it. Just hear it. "I'm scared too. But I'm here.