Page 9

***

A few days later, Beck suggests we meet at Jake’s practice for a casual chat. Nothing formal, nothing intimidating—just two people talking about hockey.

At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.

But as I watch him approach from across Jake’s rink, his easy smile making my heart race, I know there’s nothingcasualabout the way my pulse reacts to him.

“Hey,” Beck greets me, his gaze lingering just a beat too long. “How’s Jake doing?”

“Better every day.” I smile, but my nerves tangle with anticipation.

Beck’s eyes warm. “Kid’s got potential. You should be proud.”

“I am,” I murmur, but my throat feels dry.

We walk along the edge of the rink, talking easily about Jake, his practice, and the article. Beck answers my questions with thoughtfulness and humor, making it impossible not to be drawn in.

But then… he says something that stops me cold.

“People think I’ve got it all,” Beck says softly, his gaze fixed on the ice where Jake skates with pure joy. “But… sometimes it feels like I’m still searching for what really matters.”

My breath catches.

What does that mean? Is he hinting of a secret or what?

I open my mouth to ask, but Beck’s expression shifts—guarded, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enough about me. What else do you want to know about the Ice Hawks?”

But I don’t want to ask about hockey stats or career highlights.

I want to know what he’s hiding.

And worse?I want to know why I care so much.

Chapter four

Beck

“Jake’sgotasolidwrist shot for his age.”

Wes’s comment pulls me back to the present, and I glance across the booth at him. We’re atThe Hawks’ Nest, a trendy bar just a few blocks from the arena where the guys like to unwind after home games. The place is buzzing tonight—fans still riding the high from our last win, music pulsing through the speakers, and laughter echoing off the walls.

“Yeah, he’s got good instincts,” I say, taking a sip of my water. “Kid’s hungry to learn.”

“And totally starstruck by you,” Griffin adds with a grin, leaning back in the booth. “Pretty sure that kid’s ready to nominate you for sainthood.”

I chuckle, but the sound feels hollow. “Nah. I’m just a guy who caught a puck before it hit him.”

“Right,” Griffin drawls, shooting me a knowing look. “And I’m just a guy who breaks hearts everywhere he goes.”

Wes snorts, almost choking on his drink. “You’re not wrong about that, Griff.”

“Hey, what can I say?” Griffin smirks, flashing his signature charming grin. “I’m a giver.”

“More like a tornado,” I mutter, but I can’t help smiling.

Griffin might be a pain sometimes, but he’s loyal. Both of them are. We’ve been through a lot together—on and off the ice. They’re the only ones who know how much I’m wrestling with what’s happening in my head right now.