Campbell’s mouth twitches. “That might actually be good exposure.”
“Don’t encourage me.”
Coach’s whistle shrieks again. “STOCKTON!”
Since we do share the same last name, Campbell and I both snap our heads in the direction of the voice. Coach shakes his head and mutters something about “having two of you on my team, Lord help me…” before he points directly at me. “Talking to you, Plant Daddy.”
The guys who hear him stop what they’re doing long enough to crack up. I’m wondering who on the PR team took the time to let him know about the new nickname, but never mind. I don’t react, cause I don’t want to get on his bad side. Coach points his stick toward the far end like he’s directing traffic. “Line. Now.”
“Yes, Coach,” I call, then push off hard, legs burning in that satisfying way that reminds me I’m still made for this.
Skating doesn’t lie. It doesn’t care if you’re famous or messyor grieving or the kind of guy who can’t keep a plant alive in a press conference. It just cares if you show up and do the work.
We run drills. We run them again. We run them until my thighs are screaming and my lungs feel scraped raw. The rookies get hazed in a way that’s mostly affectionate. Owen chirps everyone like it’s his job. Ty makes everything look annoyingly effortless.
And I should be able to let it all take over.
But my brain keeps flashing back to the shop.
Juliette behind the counter, hands braced like she was holding herself upright. The way she looked at me like she was trying to decide whether I was a threat or an ally.
The worst part is that she wasn’t wrong. Thisismy world. Cameras. Stories. People wanting the version of you they can fit into a headline. I’ve spent a couple years learning how to survive here, in the spotlight, without losing myself.
But Juliette? She’s built something quiet. Something tender. Something that doesn’t want to be consumed. Then I come along, complete with coffee, chaos, and a schedule that says I belong there three times a week.
A puck rockets toward me and I catch it on my stick automatically, sending it back down the line with a sharp snap. My body knows what to do even when my brain doesn’t.
Coach skates closer, eyes locked on me. “You happy we made the playoffs, Stockton?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You want to go to the top?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Then I need your head here,” he says, tapping the side of his helmet with two fingers. “Not wherever it is today. I need you right freaking here.”
My chest tightens. I nod once. “Yes, Coach.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then skates away like he’s satisfied.
At least one of us is.
The grocery storein the midafternoon should be a safe time to shop, but today it’s a three-ring circus in fluorescent lighting.
For some reason, carts are jammed at weird angles and someone argues with a self-checkout machine like it’s personally offended them. A kid cries in aisle seven because his mom probably said no to dinosaur-shaped nuggets.
I grab a basket and immediately regret it. I should’ve gotten a cart. I’m already balancing protein bars, bananas, pasta, and a jar of sauce. I know I’ll add more.
I turn the corner into the cereal aisle and immediately collide with something small and fast.
“Oof!” I look down just in time to catch a kid before he wipes out completely. “Whoa—hey, I’ve got you.”
The kid looks up at me, grinning, with his backpack slipping off one shoulder. I recognize him instantly.
“Oh,” I say, way too dumbly. “Hi. Theo, right?”
His eyes go huge, like giant saucers. The expression on his face is like I just told him Santa works at the grocery store now.
