Page 64 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

“I think I’m ready to try,” I whisper.

He doesn’t kiss me.

He just laces our fingers together and gives my hand a small, grounding squeeze.

Last night, I helped bring a man back from the edge. Chest compressions, sweat in my eyes, a woman sobbing just outside the curtain—I was the calm in a room filled with panic. I didn’t have time to be afraid. I just acted. I did what needed to be done.

Tonight, someone’s holding my hand like I’m the one worth saving. No alarms. No adrenaline. Just steady warmth and the kind of silence that feels like peace.

And maybe—for the first time in longer than I’ll admit—I believe that’s allowed. That I can be more than the girl who shows up for everyone else.

Maybe I get to be the one someone shows up for.

Chapter twenty-four

Wes

I’ve never cared much about throw pillows. Or rugs. Or plants that don’t scream for help.

But now I’m standing in the middle of my beachside living room—twenty-foot windows, driftwood floors, and exactly one leather couch that looks like it was purchased during a man cave fire sale. And I can’t stop thinking about what this place says about me.

Not much. Not anything I want it to say, anyway.

The truth is, I bought this house two years ago. Quietly. During the off-season. It was supposed to be a retreat—somewhere to escape the cameras, the contract talk, the nonstop noise of being ‘Wes Archer’ instead of just Wes. I came here a handful of times, slept on the couch, used the gym in the garage, and left. It never felt like home.

Until now.

Now I want it to.

I text Quinn.

Wes:Can I kidnap you for the afternoon?

Quinn:Only if snacks are involved.

Wes:Done. Bring opinions. And maybe throw pillows.

Ten minutes later, I’m pacing the kitchen like a guy waiting for a job interview. I’ve cleaned—sort of. Dishes are put away, the fridge isn’t embarrassing, and I lit a candle Abby left here months ago labeled “Coastal Rain,” whatever that means.

The doorbell rings. I beat it there.

She steps in wearing jeans and a sleeveless top, hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on her head.

“Okay, this is already suspicious,” she says, scanning the entryway. “There are no shoes in the hallway and I don’t smell gym socks.”

“I’ve matured,” I tell her.

She arches a brow. “Is this a hostage situation or a makeover?”

“A little of both.”

I give her the grand tour—which takes about five minutes, because while the house is large, the furniture is not. There’s one couch, a coffee table that might be a repurposed shipping crate, and a kitchen with stainless steel everything and zero warmth.

“You live here?” she asks.

“Technically.”

She runs a hand along the back of the couch. “This place is gorgeous. And completely soulless.”

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