The Bad Boy Hockey Collection: A Collection Of Single Daddy Romances

“Right. Bethany.” I swallow. “Something’s happened, and I don’t know what. But it’s my girlfr—ex-girlfriend. I have to go. I’ll call you, all right?”

She swings her legs off the side of the bed, pressing her fingers into the edge of the mattress as a sad, knowing smile plays on her lips. “No, you won’t.”

I sigh, reaching for my keys and wallet on the desk. “You’re probably right.” I don’t have time for this, I want to add, but by a sheer miracle the words don’t leave my mouth.

“Thanks for the honesty,” she snaps, rising from the bed in only her panties as she begins to scan the room for her clothes. “You’re obviously a complete asshole, too,” she adds under her breath.

I run my hand through my closely cropped hair, blowing out a long breath of air as I head for the door. “You’re probably right about that, too,” I admit. “You can let yourself out whenever you’re ready.” I let the door shut behind me, heading for the elevators with only one word careening through my mind on repeat in time with my rapidly beating heart.

Ella.

***

The hospital is bustling with activity despite the fact it’s not even seven o’clock in the morning yet. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been here, not just because I’ve rarely needed to—the only times were due to a broken finger from a hockey practice and a concussion from one of the more rollicking hockey games I played in high school—but also because I despise hospitals. The sterile smell and the hushed voices and the fear that goes along with being inside those walls is not something I handle without an increasing blood pressure and a paranoid mind.

Right now, my paranoia is at an all-time high because I don’t know what I’m walking into, don’t know what I’ll find or what happened. Every person I pass in the corridors, every face that turns toward me in the elevator as I get in and press the third button in the row—I feel like they’re all watching me. Waiting. Observing.

I let out a long breath to steady myself as I step off the elevator without looking back to see if the other people in it are still fixated on me. I don’t want to see the looks in their eyes, don’t want to confirm whether they’re still watching with morbid fascination to see if I can handle whatever comes next.

“I’m Craig,” I say to the nurse behind the desk. “Craig Connelly. Someone named Marla called me.”

My estimation of taking twenty minutes to get there was accurate. Marla’s statements were just as accurate, because a nurse hurries out from behind one of the doors across from the nurse’s desk.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Connelly,” she says.

I can see it in her eyes immediately, and my stomach plummets. No amount of training or time can eradicate a human’s ability to hide the sad truths of life and the sympathies that come with them. Something has happened.

Something bad.

“Where’s Ella?” My voice is hoarse, thick with trepidation.

“Why don’t you come with me, and I—”

“Where is she?” I ask louder. My heart is beating more wildly each second the redheaded nurse fails to answer. She takes a step closer to me, hands out as though ready to steady me. Or maybe she’s steadying herself, I’m not sure. That’s when I realize she’s wearing a nametag that says Marla. “You said Ella was in an accident,” I say, almost as an accusation.

“She was, Mr. Connelly.” There’s a quiet, soothing quality to her voice that makes me want to scream at her to stop fucking patronizing me. But Marla continues, her tone remarkably even for a woman who can obviously see that I’m teetering on the edge of anger and frustration. “A pickup truck struck her car at a high rate of speed,” she explains. “She was rushed here via ambulance, Mr. Connelly, but her injuries were just too severe. I’m so sorry.”

The floor seems to fall out from under me, and I hit my knees right there in front of the nurse’s desk, purely because I can’t hold myself up any longer. “No,” I whisper shakily. “Ella can’t be dead.”

The notion seems ludicrous, and just saying it out loud makes it that much more unbelievable. I can’t breathe, can’t feel anything. Just numbness, like my entire body has shut down, refusing to feel the pain and hurt and regret that is threatening to completely destroy me.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Connelly.” Marla’s voice is closer to me now, and I can see her in my peripheral vision, crouching down to comfort me. “She tried to hang on as long as she could. She told us to contact you, and—”

“Stop.” I choke out, on the verge of tears. “Ella’s gone.”

“She is,” Marla says softly. “But Mr. Connelly, the baby’s fine. He’s premature, but you’ve got a remarkably healthy little boy.”

My head snaps up and I stare at her through wide, blurry eyes. “What?”

My confusion must be obvious, because her own eyes narrow. “Your son,” she explains apprehensively. When I don’t say anything, waiting for her to continue, she speaks again. “Ella was almost eight months pregnant. She told us to contact you...the baby’s father.”

My mind is racing, yet it’s somehow stuck, unable to process what she’s saying. “She wasn’t...she didn’t...”

Your son.

If Ella was pregnant, why didn’t she tell me?

If Ella was pregnant, why did she leave me?