“Hey! You’re hockey players!”
His little brother comes barreling right after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“Hey, bud,” Hawthorne says with a grin, crouching to his level. “What’s your name?”
The boy glances at his parents, as if suddenly wondering if it’s okay to talk to strangers. His dad smiles encouragingly.
“My name’s Jordan,” he says proudly. “And this is my brother, Carl.”
“Hey, guys,” we all say, waving at them.
“Do you play hockey?” I ask the pint-sized kiddos, smiling despitemyself.
“Uh-huh.” Jordan nods eagerly. “Started this year. I’ll be in the NHL too, one day.”
“I’m sure you will,” Adler says. “Make sure you train hard, okay? But only if you love it.”
“Iwant to play hockey too,” little Carl declares, the determined scowl on his tiny face making all of us laugh.
“You wanted to play baseball, honey,” his mom says, kissing his forehead.
“Now I want to play hockey,” he insists, crossing his arms.
“Okay,” Miles says, nodding. “But baseball is cool too. If that’s what you like, go for it.”
“Yeah,” Beaumont adds. “All sports are fun. We chose hockey because that’s what we loved.”
“And because it’s the only thingyoucan remotely do,” Adler jabs.
Beaumont opens his mouth, clearly ready to fire back, then stops himself and smiles at the kids instead.
“Can we take a picture?” Jordan asks, his eyes fixed on me.
“Of course, bud,” I say. Before I even get the words out, he rushes toward me, throwing his arms around my waist in a quick, fierce hug.
I take him into my arms and he whispers, “You’re my favorite.”
My heart squeezes so hard it might burst. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “That means a lot to me.”
He steps back, eyes shining with tears of joy, and we pose while his parents take a picture. Then he moves down the line, getting photos with everyone else.
I feel Harper’s gaze on me, warm and curious.
I turn to her. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says, smiling in a way that feels dangerously soft. “I just didn’t know you were so good with kids.”
Something twists low in my chest. I wish I could show her all of me. Strip away the assumptions, the labels, the pre-formed idea she has of who I am.
“Yeah,” I say, waving goodbye as Jordan, Carl, and their parents walk off. “They’re our cutest fans. The most honest ones too.”
Beaumont snorts. “You’re just saying that because he said you were his favorite.”
I roll my eyes, and of course, we immediately start bickering again about who has the most fans, and it ends with the girls settling the debate by adding up our followers on our social media platforms.
Finally, the chatter around us fades as the lights dim along the river. The fireworks should be starting any minute. Couples start leaning into each other without thinking—Miles with Marissa tucked against his side, Beaumont’s arm draped around Hayley, Aria and Caleb sharing a quiet kiss.
I sit there, hands planted on my thighs, fighting every instinct. Because if I move even an inch, I might do something stupid. Like lean toward Harper. Or kiss her.
