Page 44 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

She leans her shoulder into mine. Not a kiss. Not a confession. But a beginning.

And I’ll take it.

Chapter seventeen

Quinn

I find myself staring at the bouquet of wildflowers in the clinic break room.

It’s not a grand gesture. Nothing store-bought or fancy. Just a messy bundle of daisies, clover, and Queen Anne’s lace—clearly picked by hand. There’s no card, but I know it’s from him.

Wes.

He’s not trying to win me with roses or speeches. He’s just showing up. Quietly. Steadily.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

The flowers stir something deeper than I expected. When I was little, Mom used to take Abby and me out to the edge of the field behind our house to gather wildflowers. We’d each get a tin can full of water, and she’d show us how to pick the stems clean, how to trim at an angle. That same kind of bouquet was always waiting for us on the kitchen windowsill.

For years after she died, I couldn’t look at Queen Anne’s lace without crying.

I carry the bouquet back to the front desk and place it in the jar by the window, my fingers brushing the petals. It’s simple. Thoughtful. Maddening.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Megan teases as she drops a stack of files beside me.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling. “It’s not a secret.”

She pauses. “Is that… a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

***

That night, I head to the youth rink with Jake in tow. He’s got a hockey stick in one hand and a bag of pucks in the other, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Aunt Quinn, you sure he said I could skate?” he asks for the third time.

“Yes,” I say, laughing. “Coach Wes said it’s fine.”

Wes meets us at the side entrance. He’s dressed in a Sunset Cove Youth Hockey hoodie and joggers, a whistle slung around his neck, and for a second, I forget to breathe.

“Hey,” he says, and his smile is different now. Not performative. Not forced. Just… soft.

“Hey,” I reply.

He kneels beside Jake. “Think you can teach me some of those slap shot tricks I’ve been hearing about?”

Jake beams. “Only if you teach me how to check people into the boards.”

Wes chuckles. “Deal.”

The rink smells like cold air, old sweat, and fresh possibilities. I take a seat in the stands and watch as Wes skates lazy laps around Jake, correcting his footwork with gentle taps and exaggerated gestures. Jake’s laughing. Wes is too.

I watch them and think about all the things Wes used to be afraid of. Staying in one place. Growing roots. Becomingsomeone a kid could look up to. And yet here he is, gliding across the ice like he belongs to it again.

It hits me how easily he fits into this world.

I close my eyes and imagine more nights like this. More Tuesdays and Thursdays at the rink. More laughter echoing off the walls. It’s a dangerous kind of hope, but it’s still hope.

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