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Somewhere in the middle of it all, my dad is working the whole room like it’s an extension of himself.
I find him near the concession stand, talking to one of the assistant coaches, “Dutch” Miller, who looks like he’s being held up purely by caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Dutch is wearing the same suspicious scowl he’s worn ever since he took a slapshot to the face during the ’98 playoffs, which gave him a deep-seated distrust of anyone currently under the age of eighteen.
My dad catches my eye and gives me a small nod, the kind that says I see you, I’m busy, I’ll find you later. I nod back.
I grab a water bottle from the cooler and take up my usual position near the glass, watching the ice.
There’s a scrimmage starting on the far end, some of the younger guys are running drills while the veterans stand around and pretend to be interested.
Easton is in the middle of it, moving with the efficient economy of someone who has been doing this long enough that it looks effortless. It isn’t.
Riley is standing with a group of other wives and girlfriends near the boards, Molly balanced on her hip. She catches my eye over the top of Molly’s head, raising her eyebrows in a question I can’t quite read from here.
I shrug. She smiles.
I’m refilling water bottles behind one of the tables when I feel it before I see it. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck.
“Volunteer services,” Wyatt says, appearing at my side like he was summoned by all of my bad decisions. “I’m here to make sure you don’t die unkissed again.”
I don’t even look at him. “I’m busy.”
“You look busy.” He leans over the table, all easy confidence and messy hair still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends in a way that has absolutely no business being that distracting. “Very important water bottle duty. Tragic that no one’s properly appreciated you for it.”
I finally glance over. He’s wearing his team-issued polo, the charcoal jersey pressed so sharply it looks like it could cut skin. He’s ditched the usual sweat-wicking gear for something for an outfit worn to make a statement, right down to the gold watch winking in the arena lights.
“I’m not signing up for whatever this is,” I say, capping another bottle with more force than necessary.
“What, my volunteer services?” He puts a hand over his heart. “I’m very highly rated, I promise. Five stars. Excellent references.” “From who? All the puck bunnies you’ve ploughed through?”
“From satisfied customers,” he corrects, eyes sparkling. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t want to die unkissed. I solve problems, Brennan. I’m basically a hero.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “You’re something, alright.”
He laughs, low and warm and way too pleased with himself. “Come on. You kissed me back. Pretty enthusiastically too, if memory serves.”
“That was temporary insanity caused by imminent death. I’ve since recovered, trust me.”
“Shame.” He steps a little closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I was gonna offer to move you to the front of the list. VIP access.”
“How generous.” I turn to face him fully, arms crossed. “But I’m not interested in being another name on your ‘very exclusive’ list”.
Wyatt’s grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens. “Good thing you’re the only name on it right now.”
“Still not joining.”
He tilts his head, studying me with an expression I can’t put a finger on. “You’re funnier than I expected.”
“And you’re exactly as predictable as I expected.”
For a second, his grin drops and something flickers across his face—not quite surprise, but close. But then, the old Wyatt is back, the grin returning but slower this time.
“You keep talking like that and I might have to volunteer my services full time.”
I pick up another bottle and shove it into the cooler. “Keep talking like that and I might have to volunteer you to the penalty box.”
He laughs again, and damn it, I almost smile back but I catch myself just in time.
So I turn away and focus on the table like it’s the most important post on the West Coast that I’ve been personally assigned to defend.
