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“Gross,” says her friend. “He’s like thirty.”

“Exactly.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them. They giggle and run off to steal cookies.

One kid leans over. “Miss Q, if you married Coach Wes, would we get a camp dog?”

Before I can respond, Wes calls from the other end, “Only if it’s named Puck.”

The entire table erupts in laughter.

By early afternoon, the sun returns, and the rink smells like melted rubber and leftover PB&Js. I’ve patched three scraped knees, handed out Advil to two teenage goalies who “definitely didn’t fall” but are mysteriously limping, and rescued a hamster-shaped ice pack from a toddler with surprisingly strong grip.

Wes keeps drifting by—checking on kids, cracking dumb jokes, offering me water bottles like it’s a peace offering.

And against my better judgment, I keep accepting them.

While reorganizing the med bag, I hear someone call my name from outside.

“Quinn?”

I peek through the tent flap and spot someone in navy scrubs and aviator sunglasses. My heart sinks.

“Nina?”

She pulls down her glasses and beams. “I thought that was you! You’re working camp again?”

I force a smile. “Yeah. You too?”

“I’m shadowing Liv today. Got roped into helping because she’s short-staffed.” Nina steps closer and lowers her voice. “Didn’t expect to see him here though.”

She doesn’t have to say who she means.

Her eyes drift toward the rink, where Wes is helping a kid tighten his helmet strap.

Nina snorts softly. “Be careful, Q. These pro athlete types? They know how to smile and promise the world, but they’re never built for long-term.”

She should know. Once upon a time maybe four years back, Nina had a thing for Wes herself. She showed up to every local charity game wearing full fan gear and once baked him an entire pan of brownies shaped like hockey pucks. He thanked her and handed them off to Beckett like they were radioactive. And then there was the infamous ‘accidental’ Valentine’s Day text she meant for her best friend that somehow ended up on Wes’s phone. It included a heart emoji, a Taylor Swift lyric, and a highly detailed dream about sharing hot cocoa in Aspen. To his credit, Wes pretended it never happened. Nina did not.

I’d almost feel bad if she weren’t so smug now.

My chest tightens.

“He’s not—” I start, then stop. “It’s not like that.”

She raises a brow. “Just saying. Don’t let history repeat itself.”

She heads off to help Liv, leaving her words to hang like mist in the humid air.

I mutter, “Cupid’s worst intern,” under my breath.

The rest of the day drags. Or maybe it sprints—I can’t tell anymore. Every time Wes walks past, I feel that old tangle of nerves and longing tighten in my chest.

He’s good with the kids. Patient. Kind. Funny without being try-hard. I catch him giving a pep talk to a nervous goalie, showing a group how to improve their slapshots, and—of course—helping Mason fill his water bottle upside-down just to prove he can.

He glances toward the tent more than once but never pushes. Not until the end of the day, when the sun starts to dip and the campers get picked up by parents and siblings and carpool buddies.

I’m finishing up notes in the incident log when his shadow appears again.