Page 25 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

The air smells like woodsmoke and melted sugar and, for a second, it feels like home.

But I can’t relax. Not really. Not when my thoughts are still so tanged up in Quinn’s shrug and her maybe-I-will-maybe-I-won’texpression. I scan the crowd every few minutes, pretending I’m just taking it all in. I’m not. I’m looking for her.

“Stop pacing with your eyes,” Beckett mutters beside me, passing me a beer. “You’ll burn a hole in the atmosphere.”

“I’m not pacing.”

“Your eyebrows are.” I crack a smile. Sort of. “She said she’d think about coming.”

“So let her. Don’t crowd the storyline. Let the girl have a plot twist.”

He walks away before I can respond, and I hate that he’s right.

I settle on a log and lean forward, elbows on knees, watching the fire dance. The heat pricks at my skin, but I don’t move back. I need to feel something, something that proves I’m not numb anymore.

Because the truth is, I spent a long time being numb, telling myself that chasing the next win was enough. That I didn’t miss Quinn, didn’t need her laugh or her sharp comebacks or the way she used to say my name like it meant something.

But I did. I do.

I hear the crunch of gravel behind me, and my heart kicks. I don’t turn around. Not yet.

Because maybe it’s not her. Maybe it is. Either way, I need to be the guy who shows up. Not the one who walks away.

I don’t know what she’ll decide. But for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to stay still. To stay hopeful. To stay open.

I’m ready to show up – marshmallows, baggage and all.

Chapter nine

Quinn

There’s something about the smell of woodsmoke and cheap beer that makes it feel like everyone’s letting their guard down. Everyone but me.

Beckett and Abby’s backyard is full—neighbors, camp staff, parents with toddlers chasing fireflies. It’s warm, the fire crackles, and someone’s passing around a tray of s’mores that are half-melted and fully chaotic. And yet, I can’t stop scanning the edges of the circle.

Wes is here. Of course he’s here.

He’s talking to Jake near the cooler, nodding along to some dramatic kid’s tale about a goalie mask that flew off mid-game. Every once in a while, he glances toward me. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to remind me he sees me.

I told myself I came for the community. For Abby, who texted me twice and then guilt-tripped me with a baby photo of Violet holding a marshmallow. But the truth? I think I wanted to see him.

I sit on a picnic blanket beside Abby and Beck, knees hugged to my chest. "They’re all watching us," I whisper.

Abby doesn’t even look up from her marshmallow. “Who?”

“Everyone. Half the town. They’re whispering. You know they are.”

She shrugs. “Let them whisper. You’re not a scandal. You’re a comeback story waiting to happen.”

I snort. “That sounds like something you’d put on a mug.”

“Already did. Etsy bestseller.”

Jake runs past us with two marshmallows stuck in his hair, shrieking with joy. Abby groans and gets up to chase him, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts, the smell of singed sugar, and sweet Violet thrust onto Beck’s lap. Abs turns to give us the best grin I’ve gotten yet today. Makes me wonder why. It’s then that I know exactly why. Her sweet Violet is not so sweet after all.

Their parent rule, so they’ve told me, is “First find, first do.” So off to the house Beck trots holding his lovely babe a few inches away, shooting darts toward his wife who mysteriously is taking lots longer than usual to corner Jake with “mom’s washcloth.” I’m pretty torn up and taking notes on just how to do that for future reference.

“Hey,” comes a voice beside me. I turn, and there he is.

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