Page 16 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

His smile is easy. Disarming. He scratches the back of his neck, that familiar nervous tell. “Hey, Quinn.”

I cross my arms. “Don’t you have a drill to run?”

A flicker of surprise, maybe even amusement, crosses his face. “Missed that sharp tongue.”

I arch a brow. “Didn’t miss the ego.”

For a second, his smile falters. But he recovers. “Well, you’re here. That’s something.”

“Don’t read into it,” I say, turning back to my clipboard. “I’m here for the kids. Not you.”

His voice softens. “Still... thanks for being here.”

I expect him to turn and go, but he lingers. The silence stretches until it’s awkward. Or maybe it’s just me who feels like I’m vibrating under my skin.

“I meant it,” he says quietly. “It’s good to see you again. Even if you’re looking at me like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“You’re not wrong,” I mutter, flipping a page on my clipboard that doesn’t need flipping.

Wes lets out a low chuckle, then takes a slow step closer, toeing the line of the taped-off med station. “Remember the camp scrimmage we worked together a few summers ago?”

I blink at him. “When Jimmy Cassidy tripped over the penalty box gate and knocked out his front tooth?”

He grins. “Exactly. You kept your cool while his mom fainted into my arms. Literally into my arms.”

I roll my eyes. “She didn’t faint. She swooned. Big difference.”

Wes laughs, and for a second it sounds so familiar, sous, it makes something tighten in my chest.

I hate that my body remembers him even when my brain’s screamingdon’t you dare soften.

One of the kids skates over, tugging on his sleeve. “Coach Wes, can we do penalty shots today?”

Wes looks down and smiles at the kid. “We’ll see how drills go. If you hustle, maybe.”

The kid nods and skates off, shouting to his teammates like he just got a golden ticket.

Wes glances back at me. “They’re good kids. This group... they remind me why I fell in love with the game in the first place.”

I cross my arms tighter. “Just the game?”

He pauses, eyes on mine. “Not just.”

I look away, jaw tight. That’s not the conversation I’m ready to have. Not here. Not now.

“I should check the inventory,” I say, walking back to the cabinet.

Wes doesn’t stop me this time.

He walks away, quiet and unreadable.

Which is probably for the best.

Because suddenly, it’s harder to breathe. And a tiny, traitorous part of me remembers how much I used to love the way he said my name.

Chapter six

Wes

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