Page 34 of Hockey Nanny

I pictured him scowling across the rink, jaw set, daring the world to come closer while bracing for the hit. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” Dawson’s shoulders slumped. “He’s the first one to arrive. Last one to leave. Works twice as hard, still thinks it’s not enough.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair, then stilled. “He’s always been the underdog because he decided he was.”

The room settled around us again. The low hum of the sleeping hotel.

“You care about him,” I said.

Dawson let out a short laugh. “That obvious?”

“You jump into his fights. You smooth things over. You shield him.” I met his eyes. “You’ve appointed yourself his keeper.”

His expression tightened. “Someone has to.”

“Do they, though? Or does he need space to mess it up himself?”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “If I step back, he spirals.”

“Or,” I said, “he figures out how to catch himself.”

That earned me a look. “Do you moonlight as a therapist?”

A brittle laugh fluttered out of me. “Sometimes help becomes a crutch. Sometimes it keeps people from growing because they never have to sit with the consequences.”

Dawson was quiet. The lamps cast shadows under his eyes, made him look older than he probably felt. “I don’t want to watch him get hurt.”

“I know.” My voice softened. “But protecting him from everything doesn’t protect him from himself.”

He breathed out, long and slow, the tension easing a fraction. “You’re not wrong. Hell of a time to hear it, though.”

A small smile tugged at my mouth. “Timing has never been my strong suit.”

That got a faint huff from him. He straightened, rubbing his palms together once. “I just want him to believe he deserves more than scraps. More than proving himself over and over.”

“So show him that,” I said. “Not by fighting his battles. By trusting him to stand on his own.”

Dawson nodded, the motion slight but real. “I’ll try.”

His nod settled into place, then didn’t quite hold. His attention drifted back to me, eyes narrowing a fraction as they tracked upward. My hair. Still damp, clinging to my neck. I shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of how late it was, how empty the place felt.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, casual enough. Too casual.

“Yeah.” The word came out quickly. I tucked a strand behind my ear and wished I’d done something about it before now. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d grab some water.”

His gaze stayed put. “And… you decided to throw it all over yourself?”

Heat rushed up my throat. “The pool area was open.”

But he wasn’t watching my face. In my awkwardness, my robe had slipped open, revealing what I was wearing. This was where Dawson’s attention now rested.

“Is that—?” He stopped himself mid-thought.

I snapped my robe closed, fingers clumsy, pulse racing too hard for the quiet room.

But it was too late.

Dawson’s expression changed into something like disappointment. His jaw set. His shoulders straightened.

“I can explain,” I blurted, already scrambling for words that didn’t exist.