Page 58 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

Jake pumps his fists. “Coach Wes, you owe me a slushie!”

When it’s time for the bachelor auction, the crowd whoops and hollers as Wes is introduced. “Former pro hockey star! Youth coach! All-around snack!”

“Starting bid?” the announcer asks.

Someone yells, “Ten dollars!”

“Fifteen!” Megan shouts.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Twenty!”

Everyone turns. My face flames.

Wes looks stunned. Then he grins. “Sold!”

Later, we escape to the quiet of the dock. The moon glitters on the lake as Wes wraps a towel around his still-damp shoulders.

“I can’t believe you bid on me,” he teases.

“I panicked,” I say. “And you looked cold.”

He steps closer. “You saved me. Again.”

I smile. “Always.”

His hand cups my cheek. “Quinn…”

And then he kisses me. Slow and sure and sweet, under a sky full of stars and fireworks long since faded.

It’s not a grand gesture.

It’s better.

Real.

Chapter twenty-two

Wes

Sometimes I forget how loud happiness can be.

Laughter echoes from the beach as kids launch water balloons from behind a hay bale fort. The scent of grilled peaches and smoky barbecue lingers in the breeze. A sparkler crackles somewhere behind me as I stand just beyond the edge of the dock, towel draped around my neck, still damp from the dunk tank ambush.

Quinn’s laugh floats up from where she’s helping Jake carry his prize haul—cotton candy, a rubber frog, and a slightly terrifying clownfish plush. She looks like summer. Hair windblown, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes bright from too much lemonade and too many close calls with her heart.

I lean back against the wooden railing and breathe it all in.

This town. These people. Her.

I left Sunset Cove once thinking I had to. Thinking I needed the rush, the pressure, the roar of a crowd chanting my name.But under all that noise, I always carried the quiet weight of this place.

I was seventeen when the crash happened. One minute, I was packing for a weekend tournament with Beckett and Griff. The next, I was standing in a hospital hallway staring at a social worker mouthing the words “no survivors.”

Liz was ten. At a sleepover. No one had the heart to wake her until morning. I remember sitting on the porch steps, trying to figure out how I’d tell her.

And after that—well, I stopped being just a brother.

I became the adult. The one who packed lunches. Who burned toast. Who practiced fake smiles during school meetings so Liz wouldn’t feel different. I stayed up late helping with science projects I didn’t understand and worked weekends at the marina to cover her braces and soccer uniforms.

---