Page 5 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

For a while.

The kids bring levity. Violet babbles with her mashed peas, her tiny fists smacking her tray like she’s calling for a round of applause. At one point she lets out a victorious shout and flings a spoon. It lands in Beckett’s lap.

“Violet!” Abby gasps.

“Just expressing her artistic side,” Beckett says dryly, lifting the spoon with two fingers. “She’s got a future in performance art. Or rebellion.”

“I’m calling it now—Olympic shot put champion,” I add.

Quinn chuckles under her breath.

Beckett leans back and says, “Okay, ready for tonight’s mandatory dad joke?”

Jake groans. “Not again!”

Abby laughs. “You get one, Beck.”

Beckett grins. “Why don’t eggs tell jokes?”

Jake covers his face. “Dad, no—”

“Because they’d crack each other up.”

The table erupts in groans. Even Quinn lets out a reluctant snort.

“Fine, one more,” Beckett says, clearly in his element. “What did the janitor say when he jumped out of the closet?”

“Supplies!” Jake yells with glee, then laughs like he’s just won the Cup.

I join in, feeling a surprising wave of warmth spread through my chest. It’s weird, how easy it is to laugh here. And how hard it is to look at Quinn and not think about everything we used to be.

At one point, Beckett cracks a joke about Quinn’s high school obsession with penguin socks, and without thinking, I add, “Don’t forget the flamingo ones. She wore those to our senior class trip.”

Quinn’s head whips toward me.

“You remembered that?”

I shrug, suddenly ten years younger and hopelessly in love again. “You made everyone sign your foot in Sharpie. Hard to forget.”

A flush rises in her cheeks. Not anger. Just surprise. Maybe a little something else.

“Jake, eat your vegetables,” she says, turning away, but her voice is gentler now.

Abby clears her throat. “So, Wes, how’s the youth academy going?”

I launch into a short explanation about our upcoming hockey clinics, trying to focus. But I feel Quinn’s eyes on me the whole time. It’s like we’re talking about safe things—kids, sports, food—while an entire universe of unfinished business churns between us.

Eventually, dinner wraps up and Beckett starts clearing plates. I offer to help, and so does Quinn. Abby gives us alook, thenscoops Violet up and says, “Oh no, you two go take a breather. Wes, can you grab that toolbox Beckett left in the hallway closet? The light’s out again.”

Quinn sighs, clearly catching on. “Subtle, Abs.”

But she goes. And so do I.

We end up walking side by side toward the narrow hallway where the closet is. The overhead light flickers.

“This feels like a trap,” I mutter.

“You think?”

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