Stealing My Rival's Wife And Her Twins

Rhea Summerlin POV:

My phone went to voicemail for the fourteenth time just as the nurse laid my newborn son across my chest.

"Still nothing from Dad?" the delivery nurse asked softly, adjusting the heated hospital blanket over Noah's tiny, shivering shoulders while my daughter, Lily, let out a sharp, demanding cry from the bassinet beside me.

"He's in the middle of a league charity gala," I whispered, my throat raw from eight hours of unmedicated labor. "The ice rink reception is terrible."

It was a lie, and the pity in the nurse's eyes told me she knew it. Everyone in New York knew who Landon Sterling was. As the captain of the New York Blades, my husband couldn't sneeze without sports media documenting it. Five minutes ago, while the obstetrician was stitching me up, I had stupidly opened my social media feed. The top trending video showed Landon at the Manhattan hockey gala, looking immaculate in a custom tuxedo, laughing as rising actress Amelia Hayes adjusted his lapel for the flashing cameras.

He wasn't in a dead zone. He had simply turned his phone off so his wife going into labor two weeks early wouldn't ruin his press run with the woman half the city already believed was his soulmate.

"I'll be right back with more warm blankets and your pain medication," the nurse said, squeezing my shoulder before hurrying out into the busy corridor.

The semi-private maternity room fell quiet except for Lily's escalating cries. My daughter's tiny face was flushed red, her miniature fists punching the air after kicking her thin hospital swaddle loose. Noah was asleep against my collarbone, warm and impossibly light. Moving him safely into the second bassinet took every ounce of strength left in my trembling arms.

"Hold on, sweet girl, Mama's coming," I murmured, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress.

The moment my bare feet touched the cold linoleum, a white-hot pain tore through my abdomen. Black spots swarmed my vision. My knees buckled, my hand missing the metal rail of the bassinet as the floor rushed up to meet me.

I didn't hit the ground.

A pair of large, calloused hands caught me securely around the waist, hauling me upright against a wall of solid muscle. The clean scent of winter air and cedarwood cut through the sterile smell of antiseptic.

"Easy," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled right above my ear. "Don't try to stand on your own yet."

I blinked through the dizzy haze, gripping a forearm thick with corded muscle beneath a dark cashmere sweater. When my vision cleared, my breath caught. Looking down at me with sharp, storm-gray eyes was Ciaran Whitlock-the thirty-four-year-old captain of the Boston Monarchs, a perennial Norris Trophy defenseman, and the man Landon hated more than anyone else on earth.

A quiet little boy, maybe five years old with the same dark hair, stood just inside my open doorway clutching a toy hockey stick, watching us with wide, perceptive eyes.

"Mrs. Sterling?" Ciaran's brow furrowed as recognition flashed across his rugged face. We had crossed paths twice at NHL awards banquets, where I usually stood five paces behind Landon in the shadows. Ciaran glanced around the empty, cramped room, taking in the lack of flowers, the absence of bags, and the glaring lack of a husband. His jaw tightened. "Where is Landon?"

Before I could invent another pathetic excuse, Ciaran guided me gently back onto the edge of the bed. Without waiting for permission, this six-foot-four bruiser who terrified forwards across the league walked over to the bassinet. With startling grace, he scooped up my crying daughter, cradling her against his broad chest.

"Hey there, little one," Ciaran murmured, rocking her with the practiced ease of a devoted father. Lily's cries immediately softened into tiny hiccups. Looking down at his son, he added, "Asher, hit that red button on the wall for the nurse."

The little boy obeyed instantly. Seconds later, a woman in a plush robe stepped into the doorway holding two extra fleece blankets-both stamped with the black-and-gold Boston Monarchs crest.

"Ciaran, the nurse said someone down the hall delivered twins alone and needed extra-" The woman stopped dead, looking from her massive brother holding my baby to me sitting pale and shaking on the mattress. "Oh, honey. I'm Maeve, Ciaran's sister. I just had my third two doors down. Look at you, you're freezing."

Maeve bustled in, wrapping one of the Monarchs blankets around my shoulders and tucking the other over Noah while the delivery nurse rushed back inside to check my vitals.

I stared at Ciaran, humiliation burning hotter than my stitches. "You don't have to stay. Really, I'm fine."

Ciaran didn't hand Lily back until the nurse had me settled cleanly against the pillows. When he laid my daughter in my arms, his gray eyes locked onto mine-steady, observant, and fiercely protective.

"Give me your phone," Ciaran said quietly.

"He won't answer my number," I admitted before I could stop myself.

A muscle feathered in Ciaran's jaw. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his own phone, tapped a contact, and put it on speaker. He didn't have to ask for the number; the two captains sat on the same players' association committee.

It rang twice before Landon's smooth, irritated voice filled the hospital room, loud music and laughter bleeding through the background. "Whitlock? You've got thirty seconds before I hang up. What the hell do you want?"