Scoring with the Wrong Twin (Ice Chronicles Hockey #2)

37. Blaze

37

Blaze

I pull my truck into the parking spot, the sleek glass building of Finnegan Law reflecting the morning sun. My hands grip the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. The familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, but this time it feels different. Manageable.

Through the glass doors, my reflection stares back—composed, controlled. The same face I wear before stepping onto the ice. The same one I've learned to maintain through rehab and recovery.

“Blaze.” Paul Finnegan’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as I step into the lobby. His silver-streaked hair and sharp navy suit radiate the calm authority that’s made him the family’s go-to counsel for so long. I can’t believe it’s already been seventeen years since he helped us handle the legal aftermath of Mom’s death in childbirth—Emma’s whole life.”

"Right on time," Paul says, gesturing toward the hallway.

We fall into step, heading toward the conference room. Paul's presence has always brought a sense of order to our family's chaos, from contract negotiations to... well, situations like this.

"You sure she'll show?" Paul asks, his leather shoes clicking against the marble floor.

I nod, my jaw clenching. "She thinks she's getting a check. No way she'd miss this."

Paul's eyebrow arches. "You haven't promised her anything, have you?"

A smirk tugs at my lips. "Of course not. But knowing her, she saw this meeting was at your office and assumed it's about money."

"Let's hope she's as predictable as you think." Paul's chuckle carries an edge of steel.

The conference room doors open to that familiar new-leather smell. I take my seat, running my fingers along the polished mahogany table. The stack of papers and photos laid out before me tells a story—one that's about to end.

Savannah's face flashes in my mind, and suddenly the weight of what I'm about to do feels right. This isn't just about clearing my past anymore. It's about protecting my future. The future I want with Savannah.

***

I check my watch again, the quiet of Paul's office pressing in around me. The lawyer's eyes move methodically across the documents spread before him, each page turned with deliberate care. My fingers drum against the polished wood of his desk.

The door clicks open. My breath catches as Delaney sweeps in, her designer heels striking a sharp rhythm against the floor. Her maternity dress—clearly chosen to emphasize her condition—probably costs more than most people make in a month. The practiced curve of her smile hits me like a punch to the gut. How did I miss all these little tells before?

"Blaze." Her voice drips honey, but there's venom underneath. "And this must be the famous lawyer."

Paul rises, extending his hand. "Paul Finnegan."

Delaney settles into the chair across from me, crossing her legs with calculated grace. Her hands fold in her lap, perfectly manicured nails gleaming. "So, what's all this about? You finally coming to your senses?"

I lean forward, keeping my face neutral. "Yeah. That's exactly what this is."

The envelope from my PI slides across the desk.

Delaney flips through the photos, her smirk faltering. "What does this have to do with anything?" The sharp edge in her voice betrays her. "And why do you have photos from my friend Keisha's birthday party?"

"Look closer." My voice stays steady, but cuts like ice. "See who's in the background— with you ." I tap the incriminating image. "That's Martin Schwartz, your married boss. And the date? Just a day after you 'disappeared.' Kidnapped? No, Delaney."

Her mouth pinches tight, eyes flashing. "That doesn't prove the baby isn't yours."

"No, but it proves you've been lying to me, likely long before you disappeared." I hold her gaze. "But you're not getting away with it anymore."

Paul takes over, his tone measured and professional. “Ms. Daniels, the simplest way to resolve the baby’s paternity in question is through a non-invasive prenatal paternity test. It’s safe for you and the baby. All it requires is a blood sample from you and a cheek swab from Blaze. The results are over 99% accurate and admissible in court.”

Delaney crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not giving you anything. You think I trust you not to mess with my blood?”

Finnegan adjusts his glasses, calm and collected, and presses on. “We were trying to avoid invasive procedures for the baby’s sake, but if you won’t cooperate, we’ll petition the court for amniocentesis. It’s a court-admissible test, though it involves collecting a sample of amniotic fluid directly from the womb. The court will approve it based on your refusal to cooperate and the discrepancies in your story.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “And once the results are in, if the child is Blaze’s—which we doubt—we’ll pursue full custody.”

Delaney’s eyes flash with anger, and she leans forward, her voice low and venomous. “Over my dead body.”

Paul tilts his head slightly, his expression unfazed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that—for your sake and the baby’s. But it’s up to you and your behavior moving forward.” He glances at me, giving a subtle nod.

I reach into my folder and slide another envelope across the table. My voice is calm but laced with steel. “Open it.”

Delaney hesitates but pulls out the contents, her face paling as she flips through the documents.

Paul continues, his tone sharp now. “Your arrest record shows you were driving intoxicated while pregnant. At eight months along, as you claim, that incident occurred well into your pregnancy. With this evidence, we’ll have no problem proving you’re an unfit mother.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of Delaney’s quickened breathing.

I watch her mask crack, her carefully constructed facade crumbling. The satisfaction I expected doesn't come. Instead, a hollow feeling spreads through my chest as I lean back in my chair. "Sign the release." I push the final document toward her. "If you're so sure about your lies, you're welcome to test me and see where it gets you. Or you can walk out now with nothing. Your choice."

Her eyes bore into the paper, her fingers trembling slightly before she snatches the pen, and then the scratch of her signature fills the quiet room. She shoves the paper across to me, grabs her purse, and storms toward the door.

Pressure builds in my chest. This was supposed to be about protecting myself, my future—not getting tangled in someone else's web of lies. But I can't shake the image of that innocent baby, trapped with her. Even if it's not mine, the thought of any child in Delaney's care makes bile rise in my throat.

Thank god Paul and I planned for this too.

"Ms. Daniels." Paul moves with surprising agility for a man his age, stepping between her and the door. He reaches into his pocket, producing a business card. "A moment, please."

She keeps her back to us, her spine rigid. Classic Delaney—never showing weakness, even in defeat.

"Mr. Ice has arranged for a comprehensive support package," Paul continues, his tone measured. "My firm will provide legal assistance at no cost to you, should you need help with addiction treatment programs, adoption services, or establishing paternity with the child's father. Everything will be handled with complete confidentiality." Paul holds out the card.

Delaney's fingers close around it after a moment's hesitation. "Why?" Her voice cracks, just slightly.

I lean forward in my chair. "Because that baby deserves every chance possible."

She slips the card into her purse and finally glances back, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. Something passes between us—not forgiveness, exactly, but understanding. Then she's gone, the door closing softly behind her.

I slump forward, dropping my elbows onto the table. The stark difference hits me—how Delaney and I had fun, partied, fucked like hell, but there was no depth. She'd ask how my day was, then cut me off the moment I tried to tell her about a rough practice or a bad game. All she wanted to know was when my next endorsement deal was coming through. While Savannah... Savannah sees me . Not the Ice fortune, not the NHL player, just Blaze. The guy who makes her laugh, who she calls out on his bullshit, who she challenges to be better.

Where Delaney played games and manipulated, Savannah's brutal honesty cuts through every wall I've built. She doesn't need my money or my name—she's built her own life. She wants me for who I am, flaws and all.

I let out a heavy breath. "You think she'll actually call?"

Paul's shoulders lift in a slight shrug as he returns to his seat. "Whether she does or not, we've done everything we can. The rest is up to her."

"Yeah." I rub my face, thinking of Savannah and how she once told me that karma has a way of working things out. The hollow feeling in my chest slowly gives way to something lighter. Sometimes the best closure comes from choosing to be the better person.