Page 18 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

That’s when we both realize we’re still crouched way too close.

And I’m looking straight into the eyes of the woman I let go.

We both stand at the same time. Her shoulder brushes mine. Electricity. Actual, scientific, undeniable electricity.

“Nice assist,” I murmur.

“Don’t push your luck,” she replies, but there’s no venom in it.

Later, Liv pulls me aside. “You two handled that like a dream team. Want to sign up for the couples’ three-legged race on field day?”

I groan. “Absolutely not.”

“You’d win,” she sings, disappearing with her clipboard.

After lunch, the skies start to darken.

Lunch itself was a comedy of errors. Half the kids couldn’t remember where they left their sandwiches, two insisted that the vending machine granola bars were part of their meal plan, andone poor goalie in oversized pads knocked over the water cooler trying to open a juice box.

Quinn and I both ended up sitting with our respective crews at opposite ends of the picnic tables under the covered pavilion. She was flanked by a circle of kids who clearly already adored her—one girl braided Quinn’s hair while chattering nonstop about her cat’s Instagram account. Another boy kept asking her if his bruise qualified as an "epic hockey scar."

One tiny skater piped up mid-bite, “Coach Wes, are you and Miss Quinn married?”

I choked on my sandwich. “Nope. Definitely not.”

The kid shrugged. “You should be. She’s way cooler than you.”

I sat with the junior high boys, who mostly just compared mouthguard colors and debated whether I could still pull off a spin move at my age. (Rude. Also, yes, I can.) One of them offered me a half-eaten PB&J if I could name five TikTok hockey influencers. I failed miserably. Another kid leaned in and whispered, “If Coach Quinn gives relationship advice, will she tell me how to get Amanda to notice me in math class?”

I blinked. “Maybe ask her about skate injuries first.”

“Smart,” he said seriously.

A few tables away, I noticed one of the older kids sitting by himself, poking at his lunch. I made my way over, slid into the bench.

“You good?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not fast like the other guys.”

“You don’t have to be fast to be smart on the ice,” I said. “The best defensemen see the game three moves ahead.”

He looked up, interested. I nodded toward the whiteboard propped near the benches. “Want me to show you a few tricks after lunch?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Thanks, Coach Waffles.”

I sighed. “It’s never going away, is it?”

“Nope.”

Every so often, I caught Quinn glancing over.

Now the wind picks up, blowing hard enough to send empty chip bags skittering across the gravel. Liv rounds up the campers with military precision, ushering them inside to the dry-side locker rooms with promises of popsicles and board games.

I find Quinn under the canvas canopy where the med gear is half-packed.

“You might want to move that inside,” I say.

She glances up at the clouds. “Is it weird I like storms?”

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