“Who? You and Connor? Or you and … this guy?” she asks, eyeing me.
Lou swallows a chuckle. “Connor and I are just friends. I promise I’m not breaking his heart.”
She points between Lou and me with a look of distaste. “Does that mean you and your bodyguard are a thing?”
I press my hand into Lou’s back, knowing the girl can’t see.
“No comment,” Lou says.
The little girl’s mouth drops, and she calls out to her mom. “It worked, Momma!” the girl cries. “She admitted she’s datin’ the bodyguard!”
I can’t see Lou’s face, but judging by the shaking of her shoulders, she’s laughing. “I didn’t say that! And you set me up!”
The girl’s mom laughs and gives Lou a wink. “Your secret is safe with us.”
I drop my head and laugh. But it dies on my lips as the memory of Sean not getting up makes a pit form in my stomach.
Earlier, it felt so easy to imagine that all of the drama and secrets were meaningless, but that was in a place where time itself meant something different. It was easy to feel certain about wanting a future with Lou, about abandoning my goals in favor of something lasting.
But Sean’s knees won’t last forever. Even if he gets drafted, he might only play a single season—a single game—and then we’ll be right back where we are now.
My dad still needs surgery.
I need money for that surgery.
And convincing Nash to listen to my songs on this old flash drive might be my only shot.
I watch Lou talk comfortably with the others in the box, and the steadiness I felt earlier curdles like sour milk in my gut.
I turn back to the game.
And when the Blue Collars beat the Yetis two to zero, the worry in my throat makes it impossible to smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PATTY
Imeet Sean in the middle of the stadium, ten seats up from center ice. It’s a tradition he and Dad had after games for years—one I was too self-absorbed to take part in. The arena is empty now, the crowd’s roar replaced by the steady hum of the Zamboni as it crawls across the ice, smoothing over the scars from the game. The overhead lights flicker softly against the empty seats, and a faint smell of rubber and ice lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of popcorn and beer.
I’m not imagining the way he favors his right knee, but because he’s Sean, he’s smiling through his thick black beard. His long dark hair is slicked back so well you can barely tell he has a mullet.
The whole team does. They start growing them on the first day of training camp. You can’t be a hockey team out of Mullet Ridge, South Carolina, and not have a mullet. You can’t playanysport in our town without having one. Even if you’re notsuperstitious, that’s a rule no one messes with. You don’t cut your hair till the last game of the season is over.
Lou is sitting a dozen rows away, scrolling on her phone, a security guard posted nearby. I don’t know why she thinks Sean and I need to catch up alone, but she insisted we “take some time.”
Sean opens his arms for a hug, and I step in, giving his back a solid pound with my fist. I’m not a small guy, but Sean’s built like a machine—something his female fans never fail to notice. He’s the most eligible bachelor in our corner of South Carolina.
Unfortunately for the ladies, his ex scared him right off the market.
When she left him at the altar.
“Good game,” I tell him, pulling out one of the stadium seats and sitting down.
Sean follows suit. “Thanks, man.”
“How’s the knee?” I ask.
“Fine.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How’s life on tour?”
