Page 17

I wake up before my alarm, not that I slept much anyway. My mind spent the entire night stuck on Quinn. Her expression yesterday was like a door slammed shut—and yet, she still showed up.

That counts for something. Right?

I get dressed in the youth academy hoodie Beckett left on my car hood like a silent challenge, throw a ball for the neighbor’s very judgmental golden retriever, and head out.

The rink is buzzing by the time I arrive. Kids skidding around on and off the ice, Liv barking orders with a clipboard like she’s running a Navy SEAL training camp, and someone trying to tape a shin guard with what looks like duct tape. Classic.

One kid shows up in rollerblades. Another’s wearing two left skates. A third has decided—very confidently—that his stick works better upside down. I don’t even ask.

“Coach Waffles!” a little voice shouts.

I turn. “What?”

“You brought waffles that one time. You’re Waffles now.”

Great. A legacy is born.

I try to squash the nickname. “It was one time. One broken toaster and a minor fire alarm incident—”

“Coach Waffles!” three more kids shout from across the ice.

I groan. Apparently, my hockey legacy is destined to be syrup flavored. I make a mental note to get Beckett back for assigning me kitchen duty that day. Still, there’s something about this kind of chaos—loud, messy, unscripted—that feels good. Familiar. Like I’m finally back in a world that makes sense. Even if it smells like sweat, tape, and whatever’s growing in the lost-and-found bin.

I check in, grab my whistle, and jog onto the ice to start warm-ups. The instant cold hits my cheeks, my brain clicks into focus. This—I know how to do.

“Skates on the line!” I call out. The kids scurry to their spots, sticks tapping impatiently.

Then I see her.

Quinn. In joggers and her Sunset Cove Medical jacket, eyes scanning the bench area like she’s regretting every decision that led her here. Her hair’s pulled back into a braid that looks like it was done in the car mirror. I grin. That used to be my job. Terrible, crooked braids and all.

She catches me looking and narrows her eyes.

I give a small nod. Nothing flashy. Just acknowledgment. Maybe she’ll accept that today.

By mid-morning, camp is in full swing. We rotate through stick-handling, defense drills, and a ridiculous team cheer Liv insists on ending every session with. (It involves jazz hands. The kids love it. I die inside every time.)

Quinn works quietly at the edge of the rink, checking bruises, handing out Band-Aids, and patiently listening to one girl insist she has a “cracked kneecap” when it’s clearly a mild scrape.

I sneak a glance as she reassures the kid with that same calm tone she used on me once when I blew out my shoulder and tried to pretend I was fine. She’d seen right through me then, too.

“Scrimmage in ten!” I shout, corralling chaos as best I can.

The whistle blows and the first puck drops. It’s going well—until it isn’t.

Two kids get tangled in a corner. One goes flying. Another one spins like a hockey pinwheel and crashes into the goal. Then the goalie—never one to miss a spotlight—throws himself backward like he’s been struck by lightning and yells, “I see the light!”

Quinn’s already up and running.

“I’ve got it!” she calls.

I’m there a split second later. We both kneel beside the real injury—the kid who took the brunt of the crash.

“I’m okay,” he says, blinking. “I think.”

Quinn checks his pupils and gives me a sharp nod. “Concussion’s unlikely. You okay to sit for a bit?”

The kid nods. She hands him a cold pack and stands up.