Page 20 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

“I don’t want to fight,” I say.

“Then stop acting like this is easy.”

“I know it’s not.”

Her voice drops, quiet and sharp. “You don’t get to walk away, disappear, then come back and expect to pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect that.” I hesitate. “But I do want a chance to do something right. Even if it’s just being here.”

She lets out a soft, tired huff. “If this were a rom-com, this is where you’d say something dramatic in the rain, then kiss me like you mean it.”

I give her a sideways look. “I mean… should I be writing this down?”

She snorts. “Try surviving the next shift without sarcasm.”

The rain falls harder. A kid inside shouts about checkers. Someone else sings the wrong lyrics to Taylor Swift.

Quinn exhales. Not quite a sigh. Not quite forgiveness either.

If I were smarter, I’d stay quiet. If I were braver, I’d tell her I still remember every tiny thing about her—how she hums when she’s focused, how she always triple-checks the medical bag, how she used to fall asleep on my chest mid-hockey documentary and claim she remembered all the stats. I’d tell her I never wanted to leave. That I hated myself the minute I did.

But I’m not that brave.

So I just stand there.

And when she leans just slightly into the wall beside me, not pulling away—

I call that progress.

Chapter seven

Quinn

It’s too early for drama, and yet here we are.

The day starts off calm enough. Light drizzle. Hot coffee. A perfectly average protein bar. But then ten minutes into the morning skate drills, a kid named Tyler manages to fall backward while trying to wave at a girl across the rink. He collides with another kid and bangs his wrist on the boards.

Cue the whistle, a lot of yelling, and me sprinting from the med tent like it’s an Olympic event.

Tyler’s sitting on the bench, cradling his arm and trying very hard not to cry in front of his friends.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I tell him gently, kneeling beside the bench. “Let’s take a look.”

Wes appears a second later, crouching next to me with a cold pack already in hand. “Need backup?”

“I’ve got it,” I say automatically.

He doesn’t move. Just stays beside me, quiet and steady while I palpate Tyler’s wrist and rotate it slowly. The kid winces, but no swelling yet. Probably just a bad sprain.

“You’re lucky,” I say to Tyler. “Nothing’s broken. But you’ll be icing it for the rest of the day, capisce?”

He nods. “Can I still do puck handling drills?”

Wes leans in with a smirk. “Only with your good hand.”

Tyler laughs, which makes me laugh, which makes Wes smile—and now it’s too much.

“Here,” I say, pushing the cold pack gently into Tyler’s hand. “Ten minutes on, ten off. And stay where I can see you.”

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