Page 92 of Defensive Desire

My mother places her half-finished coffee on the counter and turns to leave. "I'll speak with your father. Perhaps we'll both attend."

The bell tinkles as she departs, leaving me staring after her, mouth slightly open. I'm still standing there when my phone buzzes with a text from Logan.

Morning, gorgeous. Sleep okay without me?

I shake myself out of my daze and type quickly:

OMG. You'll never believe who just stopped by. My mother actually tried my coffee. And LIKED it. She's talking about coming to Arena Experience Day.

His response comes immediately:

Did you check her for a fever?!

I laugh, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders release.

I know, right? Maybe all those years of polite smiles finally broke something in her brain.

As I tuck my phone away, the bell chimes again. It's Mrs. Henderson, right on schedule, followed by the usual stream of morning regulars.

I fall into the familiar rhythm of grinding, brewing, and serving, but my mind keeps circling back to my mother's visit.

For most of my life, I've defined myself in opposition to her expectations.

When she wanted me to be practical, I chased dreams. When she pushed for stability, I embraced risk.

And somehow, in fighting so hard not to become her, I never really saw her.

But today, for just a moment, I glimpsed something different.

A woman who once had dreams of her own. Who made choices—hard ones—and has spent decades wondering "what if."

As I steam milk for Mr. Harrow's cappuccino, I realize Logan isn't the only one facing a crossroads. My mother, in her own way, is trying to bridge a gap too. Making an effort, however awkward and insufficient it might seem.

And isn't that what family really is? Not perfect understanding, but the willingness to try?

Chapter Twenty-One

Logan

The puck slams into the boards where my head would have been if I hadn't ducked. Connor skates by, stick raised in mock apology.

"Wake up, Kane! Your girlfriend's not here to save you!"

I glare, but fuck… He's right. My head's not in practice today.

Coach blows his whistle, signaling a line change. I glide to the bench, legs burning from the quick shifts we've been running all morning. The arena is empty except for the team, the sounds of blades cutting ice and pucks slapping against sticks echoing in the vast space.

"You good?" Blake asks quietly as I take a seat beside him.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The trade rumors have been swirling all week. Seattle. Boston. Tampa. Every hockey insider with a Twitter account seems to have a source saying the Icehawks are looking to move an aging defenseman.

And at thirty-two, with my contract up after this season, I'm the obvious candidate.

"Bullshit," Blake says, reading my mind the way only a captain who's played alongside you for years can. "Listen, bro. Mike's not that stupid."

I take a swig from my water bottle. "Maybe. Maybe not."