I turn to find Prudence Thistle cutting across the rink floor in a tailored gray suit that somehow still reads practical on her, like she could balance the team’s books, break up a fight, and re-tape a stick without wrinkling it.
Of course it’s Pru.
I drop the customer service smile automatically. “What did I do?”
Her mouth twitches. “Nothing yet.” She stops in front of me, already halfway to her next task. “Franklin wants a word.”
My stomach drops. Franklin Baker. The Slammers’ owner. The man who apparently told Bennett he was turning into his father and set off this entire spiral.
“Right now?”
“Immediately.” She gives me a look that’s more apologetic than authoritative. “Before he changes his mind about how he wants to handle… whatever this is.”
That does not make me feel better.
“Bennie’s already upstairs,” she adds, softer. “Figured you’d rather hear that from me than walk in blind.”
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Lead the way, Pru.”
She turns toward the rink, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “If it helps, I’ve seen worse. Not many, but worse.”
I fall into step beside her.
“You’re not in trouble,” she adds under her breath as we walk. “Franklin just wants to be in control of the narrative. Give him five minutes and a coffee, he’ll settle down.”
The rink’s administrative offices are on the second floor, accessible through a door I’ve walked past a hundred times without ever going through. Pru badges us in, leads me up the narrow staircase that smells like old carpet and industrial cleaner, moving like she’s made this trip a thousand times.
At the top, she pauses just long enough to meet my eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she says, and there’s no bullshit in it. Just quiet certainty. “He already knows who you are.”
She opens the door and gestures me inside. Bennett’s already there.
He’s changed out of his practice gear into jeans and a Slammers hoodie, hair still damp from what I’m guessing was the fastest shower of his life. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack molars, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets in a way that says he doesn’t trust them not to do something inadvisable. And I still notice it. That’s the problem.
He doesn’t look at me when I sit down.
“This is on you.”
“Probably.” I cross my legs, smooth my hands over my jeans. “Though I’d argue the part where you sat in the middle of Main Street came first.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “I had it under control.”
“You had nothing under control, Bennett. That’s literally the whole point.”
He turns to look at me then, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Not anger—or not only anger. It’s more complicated than that. I’ve seen flashes of for years without ever letting myself name it.
“Why are you here?”
“Pru summoned me. Same as you.”
“Not the office. My practice. My team. Why are you inserting yourself into—”
“Bennett. Gisele.” Pru’s voice cuts through. “Mr. Baker will see you now.”
We stand in unison, which is probably the only thing we’ve agreed on in the past twenty-four hours. The walk to Franklin’s office takes maybe fifteen seconds, but it feels like miles—the narrow hallway forcing us close enough that his shoulder brushes mine twice and I feel the contact in my teeth.
I’m hyper-aware of everything. The way his hand keeps twitching toward the scar above his eyebrow before he catches himself. The rigid line of his shoulders. The careful control he’s exerting over every single muscle in his body.
This is what Franklin doesn’t understand. What probably nobody understands except me and maybe Beth.
