Page 20 of Punked By the Playmaker
“It is,” I confirmed. “Tomorrow, I will send over the listings that are still available of the ones we’ve toured, and you can let me know which one you’d like to make an offer on.”
Levi waved a dismissive hand. “No need. They were all phenomenal. Pick whichever one you like best.”
My jaw hit the floor, and I sputtered, “Th-that’s not how this works.”
He looked me dead in the eye. “You want to make the sale or not, Arizona?”
I barely managed to contain the frustrated scream that threatened to claw up my throat.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
Those were my parting words before I stormed off.
With any luck, I would never lay eyes on Levi Nixon again.
Chapter 7
Levi
ThemoverscamewhileI was on a road trip to the Midwest, and the interior designer I’d hired took care of everything else. Her crew unpacked every box, so that when I returned and set foot inside my new house for the first time, I didn’t have to lift a finger.
For the first time in months, I felt settled. San Diego—the city and the team—was slowly growing on me, and I could picture rolling into retirement here. You couldn’t beat the weather or the views, that was for damn sure.
Cracking open a cold beer, I dropped onto the couch to enjoy a rare Sunday afternoon off, with the intent to catch up on the action from around the league on the streaming platform that featured every game.
No sooner had my ass hit the cushion when the doorbell rang.
Go figure, the only thing that hadn’t been set up in my absence was replacing the standard bell with one that featured a live video feed.
Grunting, I heaved myself upright, padding my way to the front door and pulling it open.
On the other side was a girl. If I had to guess, she was maybe eleven or twelve—firmly in that phase where she was not quite a child, but not yet a teen.
“Are you Levi Nixon?”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “Yeah, that’s me.” When I noticed the prosthetic leg sticking out from beneath the hem of her shorts, the pieces fell into place. “You with the sled hockey team?”
Through the Connecticut Comets Foundation, I’d been assigned to work with the youth sled hockey team as part of our required community service. It was actually kinda cool seeing kids with lower body impairments—whether it was due to limb difference, paralysis, or other physical disabilities—overcome the challenges life handed them and kick ass on the ice. They were definitely more resilient than I would have been if placed in the same situation, and I admired the shit out of them.
The girl’s brows furrowed, and she shook her head. “No.”
“Selling cookies, then?” My stomach grumbled, eagerly anticipating that seasonal treat only sold door to door or via booth sales now that I’d mentioned it.
Another slow shake of her head.
“All right. What can I do for you then . . .” I let the end of that sentence hang when I realized she’d never offered her name.
“Maisie,” she supplied.
“What can I do for you, Maisie?”
Shifting on her feet and twisting her hands, she stared up at me with big brown eyes. “There’s really no easy way to say this.”
I frowned. “Say what?”
“I’m your daughter.”
Like I’d been sucker punched, all the air left my lungs. The lack of oxygen to my brain caused it to short-circuit.
