Page 21

“Thanks, Miss Q. Thanks, Coach Wes.”

Wes helps me stand. I dust off my knees, and we fall into step toward the med tent.

“Smooth assist,” he says.

“Don’t get used to it.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Noted.”

Inside the tent, I toss my gloves into the bin and grab a fresh pair. Wes stays just inside the flap, hands in his pockets, as if he’s not quite ready to leave.

“This brings back memories,” he says, glancing around.

I arch a brow. “Of emergency sprained wrists?”

“Of that first summer camp. You remember?”

Of course I remember. I was twenty, an advanced nursing student intern. He was twenty-two, already with one minor league season under his belt and a smile that had no business being legal.

“You nearly passed out in the heat during that first scrimmage,” I remind him. “Tried to play through dehydration.”

He winces. “Still can’t believe you made me drink that beet juice smoothie.”

“You were going to faint.”

“You could’ve just let me die with dignity.”

I laugh. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Hey,” he says with a hand over his heart. “I’m reformed.”

It’s so easy, this back-and-forth. Too easy. Like no time passed at all. Like my heart didn’t get left behind.

I busy myself straightening the supply shelves.

“You were always good with the kids,” I say without turning.

He steps closer. “So were you. You still are.”

I shrug. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Coming from you, that feels like a declaration of love.”

I turn, giving him a look. “Don’t push it.”

He chuckles but doesn’t press.

Mid-morning brings more chaos—naturally. One of the little kids, Evan, shows up in rollerblades instead of skates. Another kid accidentally sprays a water bottle straight into Wes’s face and then screams, “Coach Wes is melting!” like it’s the end of the world. I pretend not to laugh. I fail.

While Wes towel-dries his hair, I catch a glimpse of something rare: the grin he used to give me when we shared late-night fries after his away games. It’s the kind of smile that makes your heart lean in before your brain can say stop.

The day stretches on with the rhythm of whistles, skate blades, and kids yelling over snack preferences. A kid named Mason insists he’s allergic to raisins “on an emotional level.” Another tells Wes he should be a model for goalie gear catalogs. Someone else declares Quinn “cooler than Gatorade on a power play.”

By lunchtime, the air is sticky and loud. The kids gather under the big canopy outside, brown bag lunches and juice boxes scattered across the tables. Wes ends up sitting at the far end, boxed in by a group of ten-year-olds demanding to know his favorite cereal. (He says Lucky Charms. A lie. It’s oatmeal. But I respect the hustle.)

I sit with the older kids, mostly listening while two girls argue whether I’d ever date Coach Wes. I nearly choke on my apple.

“He’s kinda old,” one girl says. “But in a hot way?”