Page 98 of Diary from an Inked Throne

But now they had the addition of a bright, aqua arm band.

My son’s name printed in the middle.

I snapped my gaze up to French’s. “You put James’s name on your uniforms?”

He nodded, staring at me. “I noticed the media has died off a little lately, and I just…I know how important family is. I wanted to do something to bring the focus back. We didn’t want to do a black armband, since that signifies…”

“A death of someone important to the team,” I barely whispered.

“So we did a blue one. Since its part of his name.” He shrugged. “I really want you to get your son back.”

There was a ripple of agreement around the team, and I had to do a fast blink to keep the tears at bay.

I stepped in and hugged French, squeezing him tight. “Thank you.”

For a moment, he didn’t really return the hug, but then his arms came around me slowly, and he squeezed me. “It’s the least I can do. I’m so sorry.”

People had said those same words over and over again for the last few months. And I knew they all meant well, but it was mostly said in an offhand tone, like they knew they should say something and that felt like the standard response.

But when French said it, his voice was filled with so much emotion, and he held me tighter, for longer than was socially acceptable. So long, I eventually stepped back and looked at him questioningly.

“Are you okay?”

He pulled his shoulders back and lifted his head. “Of course.”

He turned away quickly, and I realized I’d probably embarrassed him. I mentally kicked myself for making a big deal over a man in his twenties actually having feelings, especially in a setting like this, where it was all hockey and testosterone and growling.

I moved across the room to Luca and studied his rapidly swelling hand.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot with a probably broken hand,” he complained.

I grinned and pointed down the corridor toward the rink. “Plenty of ice out there.”

“Your jokes are so bad.” But he did smile.

I tucked my arm into his. “Come on. We’ll get one of the guys to scrape some up for you.”

“Or we could just check the first aid kit?”

“Boring, but sure.”

A few minutes later, we had an ice pack and took a seat on the bottom row of the bleachers, Bruno and Viktor sitting behind us so they could finish their conversation with Luca.

I listened but watched the guys walking out from the locker room and stepping onto the ice. They made slow, lazy laps of the rink, warming up. Nobody paid us any attention. No one but French, who kept peeking over in our direction.

Luca eventually leaned in, his mouth close to my ear. “I think you have your first groupie.”

“You?”

He laughed. “French.”

I made a face. “He’s a baby.”

“He’s a fully grown man who has the hots for you.”

“He definitely does not. I’m old enough to be his mother.”