Page 33 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

I thought I was ready to face Wes. To start again.

But maybe… I was already too late.

***

I don’t sleep.

I don’t even try.

Instead, I spend half the night rearranging the med bag I already packed for camp. I organize the gauze by width. Count the instant ice packs. Alphabetize the over-the-counter meds. Anything to keep from thinking about Wes’s face.

Or hers.

The woman from the bonfire—whoever she was—shouldn’t matter. But she does. Because seeing her laugh with him was a reminder that time passed without me. That he might’ve hurt me, but he didn’t freeze in place.

And maybe I did.

I kept living, sure. Kept working. Smiling. Saving lives. But it was all surface. I haven’t felt anything real for months—not until Wes walked back into town and stirred everything back to life with a single look.

And now I hate that he still has that power.

By morning, I’m running on adrenaline and too much coffee. The camp is already buzzing. Kids shriek as they chase each other across the ice. Liv’s barking instructions like a drill sergeant. Griff’s running a puck-handling relay drill with so much enthusiasm he might burst a blood vessel.

I’m holding it together. On the outside.

Inside? I’m one badly aimed water bottle away from falling apart.

Wes is out on the ice, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, a whistle dangling from one hand. He looks good. Calm. Like someone who didn’t spend the night pacing his kitchen and second-guessing everything.

Like someone who’s moved on.

He glances my way once, early in the morning. I don’t return it.

I’m angry.

Not about the mystery blonde. Not entirely.

I’m angry because he still doesn’t understand what he did to me.

He thinks regret is enough. That showing up, smiling at Jake, and coaching these kids will somehow undo the fact that hewatched me breakand still chose to disappear.

He doesn’t get to rewrite that history.

Not unless I let him.

***

It happens after lunch.

The kids are inside for a movie break. Liv is off dealing with a broken vending machine. I’m restocking the med kit in the empty supply room, the air is thick with Lysol and old hockey tape when Wes walks in, arms full of gear.

We lock eyes. Neither of us speaks.

He sets the gear down gently. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply flatly.

He hesitates. “Can we talk?”

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