Page 39 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” I say. “No timeline. No expectations. Just… two people trying again.”

She studies me for a long beat. Then, finally, she nods.

“Okay.”

It’s just one word. But it feels like everything.

Before she gets in the car, I reach out and brush a curl behind her ear. Her breath hitches. Mine does too.

“Goodnight, Quinn.”

“Night, Wes.”

She gets in, drives off, and I stand there watching her taillights fade into the distance, heart hammering, hope blooming like spring after a long, frozen winter.

Yeah.

This is real.

And I’m not letting go.

Chapter fifteen

Quinn

It’s been a long day, and I’m already running late when I swing by the community center for the youth gear drive.

I’ve just finished a twelve-hour shift in the ER, my scrubs are wrinkled, and there’s probably half a granola bar stuck in my ponytail. But none of that matters when I walk in and see Wes laughing with two boys who are trying to wear hockey pads backward.

“Shoulder pads go on your shoulders, genius,” the taller one says.

Wes chuckles. “To be fair, he’s got them on his shoulders—just facing the wrong way.”

I can’t help but laugh, which earns me a grin from Wes that shoots straight to my knees.

“Hey, Nurse Q,” he says, nudging the kid’s helmet into place. “Looking heroic as ever.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re just lucky I’m too tired to respond properly.”

He straightens and walks over, casually brushing his hand along my lower back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It lingers. So do my goosebumps.

“You made it.”

“Barely.”

We work side by side for the next hour, sorting gear donations, handing out pizza, and giving encouragement to a parade of rowdy preteens who somehow have the energy of caffeinated squirrels. I’m exhausted, but something about being here with Wes—the way we click in moments like this—pulls me in deeper.

I can feel myself relaxing in his presence, which both comforts and unnerves me. There's something dangerous about letting down my guard around Wes again, like standing too close to the edge of a frozen lake and testing the ice.

At some point, I reach into a donation bag and pull out what can only be described as a vintage hockey jockstrap.

“Dear God,” I mutter, holding it out at arm’s length.

Wes peers over my shoulder, horrified and amused. “Is that… from the 1950s?”

“Maybe the Civil War,” I say. “Who donates this?”

He snatches it from my hands like it’s radioactive. “No kid needs that kind of trauma.”

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