Page 72 of Defensive Desire

“I’ve never listened to outside noise,” I say. “Not about to start now.”

Nate gives me a long look, but doesn’t push. He just flips a fish and nods.

Cole, naturally, has to chime in. “Fuck it, bro. You’re the Icehawks’ heart. If you ask me, they trade you in… they’re brain-dead. And blind.”

"Nobody is asking you, Cole," Nate deadpans, throwing a lemon wedge at his head.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to.

The truth is, if theydidtrade me… I don’t know where that leaves me.

I've finally got something worth sticking around for, something that makes getting out of bed each day about more than just hockey.

But what if she doesn’t come with me? If I was traded, I would never ask her to give up her bookshop. Or the café if she wins the contest next week.

Shit.

What if Iamtraded and this mountain weekend turns into a goodbye I didn’t see coming?

The cabin door creaks, and Emma’s back, holding up a plastic bag of marshmallows in triumph. “Found them!”

Cole woops as she drops down beside me, legs tucked under her as she slides me a skewer.

We eat together by the fire, passing foil-wrapped fish and paper plates. Our beer bottles clink as laughter grows louder than the echoes in the distant treeline.

Eventually, the firelight flickers over Emma’s cheeks so brightly I look up at the night sky which has quickly changed to pitch black darkness.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself lean back, and just… stare at it. I let myself feel the warmth of the flames, the peace of chit chat with my brothers.

Maybe… this could be more than just a break from reality.

Maybe thisisreality.

The kind I want.

The kind that includes her.

A few logs collapse into embers, sending a soft crackle through the clearing. The fire’s burned low now, just glowing orange coals and the faint scent of charred pine.

Emma’s tucked against my chest, her legs pulled over mine. The wool blanket draped across us smells like campfire smoke, and her fingers are moving slowly over my chest.

Nate’s still sitting across from us, nursing the last of his beer, while Cole spins another story about the time he supposedly caught a fish “the size of a car bumper” on a piece of string and a stale granola bar.

Emma laughs, soft and easy, and I swear I feel the sound settle somewhere deep in my chest.

Eventually, Nate rises with a quiet grunt, stretching out his back.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m turning in before Cole starts exaggerating the bear story again.”

“Ididsee a bear,” Cole insists, already yawning.

“On a cereal box, maybe,” Nate mutters on his way down the hall, giving me a subtle look as he passes. One I’ve seen before. Soft approval and a quiet warning.

He sees everything, always has.

Cole follows a minute later, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Try not to wake the wildlife,” he whispers with a wink, then disappears into the cabin.

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