Page 4 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

Wes

I’ve faced screaming crowds, breakneck slapshots, and the crushing weight of playoff losses. But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the dread curling in my stomach as I pull into Beckett and Abby’s driveway for dinner.

The house is glowing warm in the early dusk, fairy lights twinkling across the porch like it’s Christmas instead of late March. I sit in the truck a few extra seconds, gripping the steering wheel like it can anchor me to anything steady. But it doesn’t.

Because tonight, I’m walking into enemy territory. Not because anyone inside hates me—but because Quinn might.

I run a hand over my jaw, freshly shaved for the occasion, and glance in the mirror. I look decent. Presentable. Like a guy who hasn’t totally screwed up his entire love life. Lie of the year.

I take a breath and open the door. The cold air helps—sort of. It’s a distraction, at least, from the avalanche of memories that hit me as I reach the front steps.

This house used to feel like a second home. It still smells like home-cooked chili and baby lotion and cinnamon candles. But I’m walking in a stranger now.

My best friend since high school, Beck, greets me at the door with a clap on the shoulder. “Glad you came, man.”

“Appreciate the invite,” I say, trying to keep it casual.

He doesn’t call out my stiff tone. Just steps aside so I can enter, then mutters, “Don’t shoot the messenger later.”

“Huh?”

But he’s already moving toward the kitchen.

Abby appears from nowhere, swishing past with Violet in her arms and a teasing smile. "Oh, Wes." She pauses long enough to wink at me over the baby’s head. "Let’s just say I might’ve done a little creative seating. You’re going to figure it out by dessert—right around the time you want to throw pie at me."

Before I can ask what that means, Quinn walks in from the opposite hallway.

Time slows.

She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater, hair twisted up in that effortless way that used to drive me mad. No makeup, no fuss—and still, she takes the air right out of the room.

Her eyes lock on mine. I brace for a glare, a turn away, anything cold.

But she just gives me a curt nod. “Wes.”

“Hey,” I croak out, sounding about as charming as a deflated hockey puck.

“Dinner’s ready,” Abby chimes in, smiling way too brightly. “Let’s all sit down, shall we?”

I follow the group like a guy headed into overtime without a stick. The dining table is set for eight—Beckett, Abby, Violet in a highchair, Jake, me… and Quinn, whose place card is suspiciously right next to mine.

The moment I sit down, I know I’ve been set up.

Abby plops the serving bowl in front of me with a wink. “Wes, would you mind passing this to Quinn?”

I nearly drop the spoon.

“Sure,” I mumble, handing it over.

“Thanks,” Quinn says. Our fingers brush for half a second. It’s enough to spark electricity up my arm and short-circuit my brain.

She doesn’t react. Just spoons out the chili like she didn’t just touch a live wire. Maybe for her, it was nothing.

Conversation swirls around the table. Jake, now a motor-mouthed six-year-old, is in rare form. “Uncle Wes, did you know I scored TWO goals last week?”

“No way,” I say, thankful for the distraction. “Tell me everything.”

He launches into a dramatic retelling of his preschool hockey league triumphs, complete with sound effects. It’s adorable. And it saves me from drowning in Quinn’s silence.

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