Page 36 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

Wes reads it aloud: “Thank you for teaching me how to fall and get back up.”

My voice wavers. “That’s… actually kind of perfect.”

He looks at me. “Maybe we both need to learn that too.”

I stare at the card long after the kid runs off. My fingers trace the jagged lettering. There's something innocent about the message, something disarming in its simplicity. It sneaks past the defenses I’ve built and lodges right under my ribs.

After the event ends, I help stack the folding chairs. Wes lingers nearby, not quite ready to leave. Neither am I.

We drift into small talk—about the kids, the weather, a funny moment with Griff slipping on a rogue puck—and somehow, it’s not awkward. It’s easy. Comfortable. Familiar, like slipping on a favorite old hoodie you forgot you loved.

Then he glances toward the doorway. “Hey, want to see something?”

Curiosity nudges me forward. He leads me through the side door to the outdoor rink that hardly anyone uses this time of year. The snow’s been cleared, but it’s quiet, almost untouched.

“My first skating memory happened here,” he says, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “I must’ve been five. My uncle brought me out. I fell so many times I had bruises for days. But I didn’t stop. I wanted to impress him.”

He laughs softly, and the sound lingers in the air. “That was the day I knew hockey wasn’t just a game to me. It was… everything.”

“You were fearless then,” I say.

“Not fearless,” he corrects gently. “Just stubborn. I’ve been scared plenty. Especially when it comes to you.”

His words hang between us. I hug my arms across my chest, not to block him out—but to hold myself together.

We walk a lap in silence around the rink. I ask him about his work at the academy, and his eyes light up like they used to when he talked about playoff games.

“The kids are amazing,” he says. “They remind me what it’s like to love the sport without pressure. Just joy.”

“You’re good with them,” I say. “Better than you think.”

He smiles at that. Quiet, genuine. Like it matters what I think.

As the building empties out, he surprises me again. “Can I walk you to your car?”

I hesitate. Then nod.

The parking lot is quiet. Cold. A few cars remain under the dim glow of the overhead lights. Our footsteps crunch lightly across the pavement.

When we reach my car, I pause. “Thanks for helping today. The kids loved it.”

“I loved it too,” he says. “It felt like…”

“Like home?” I offer.

He looks at me, eyes full of something I can’t name. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

We stand there for a beat too long. The air between us is brimming with all the things we’re not saying. Then he clears his throat.

“I meant what I said inside. About regretting it every day. I was scared. I made the wrong choice. But I’m trying to do better now.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I see it.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. And the truth is—I do.

Then, before I go, I do something unexpected. I reach out and tug his glove off, just enough to press my bare hand into his.

“Goodnight, Wes.”

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