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“You still made me stay through the whole scrimmage,” she says.

“I was trying to teach you perseverance.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmurs. “But you always stayed close, Wes. Even when I fell. Even when I was mad. You were always there.”

Her smile fades. “You gave up a lot for me.”

I shake my head. “You were never a burden. After Mom and Dad’s accident, I didn’t even think. You were my sister. My responsibility. And more than that—you were my reason to keep going. I loved you then, and I love you even more now, Poopsie," I say, tweaking her cheek. She basically ignores me and the old, hated moniker.

She swallows. “I never said thank you. Not really.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Well, I’m saying it now. For raising me. For choosing me. For showing up every single day even when it meant giving up the spotlight.”

I wrap an arm around her, and she leans into my side, just like she used to after games.

“There’s something else,” she says. “Griff and I were going to wait… but I want you to be the first to know.”

Liz reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small sonogram image.

My heart stutters. “You’re—”

“We’re having another boy.”

I blink fast, then look at the image again.

“We’re naming him Weston Griffin,” she adds. “After you. And Griff. But mostly you.”

I sit down hard on the bench.

She laughs through her tears. “Don’t you dare cry before I do.”

Too late.

We sit there, both crying, arms locked around each other like we did the night she had her first breakup, and I promised her she’d always have family.

This town. This rink. This family.

It’s not just where I started.

It’s where I belong.

Chapter twenty-seven

Quinn

By the time I reach the bridal suite at the quaint little bed-and-breakfast downtown, it’s overflowing with tulle, curling ribbons, and half a dozen women trying to out-chatter one another. My cheeks already ache from smiling—and we’re still two days from the wedding.

Savannah is pinning place cards to a massive display board, Megan is organizing the emergency kit like she’s planning a military operation, and Liz is chasing Violet around with a tiny flower crown. Someone hands me a mimosa the minute I walked in, and the playlist is full of nostalgic nineties bops.

"It’s your one and only, Quinn," Abby says, looping an arm around me. "You’d better soak it in."

"I’m soaking," I say, letting myself be dragged to a chair covered in white satin and sparkles. “I’m positively drenched.”

Bridesmaid prep starts with matching robes and a thousand selfies. Then someone brings out the box of custom-printed tanktops—"Team Quinn" on the front, everyone's name on the back—and suddenly I’m misty-eyed over cotton apparel.

Later, we’re escorted out front for a "surprise errand." I’m suspicious until I spot the downtown storefronts all decorated with streamers and signs. The Sweet Bean has a sign that reads: "Love is Brewing – Quinn & Wes," and next door, the bookstore has stacked all the romance novels into a heart-shaped display. Every store has something.