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I follow him out into the cold, boots crunching alongside his. The neon sign for the Power Play looms above us in the dim light, bold red letters crooked but defiant on the white marquee below it:

“My other sons play hockey too!”

He laughs under his breath. “Mom’s passive-aggressive masterpieces never miss.”

“She made me do it before my shift. I wouldn’t want her mad at me.”

He turns to me, eyes locking on mine. “She’s not. She loves you. Probably more than she loves her own sons.”

His truck is warm and smells like leather, pine air freshener, and Brogan. That last one’s always the kicker. Masculine, clean, and just a little sinful. He cranks the heat and fumbles with the radio until I swat his hand away and plug in my phone.

We drive in comfortable silence until we reach Miner’s Arena, the snow falling in lazy flurries outside the windshield. The town glows with twinkle lights, and the roads are quiet—just us and the snow. Like we’re suspended in time.

We pull into the empty lot, the arena sign shining through the snow like a dare. Brogan doesn’t kill the engine, just parks facing it, headlights off so the glow from the red heart and my awkward letters spill right into the cab.

He leans forward, elbows on the wheel, staring up at the words—BROGAN #29 = ?? MOOD—like he’s afraid they’ll vanish if he blinks.

A nervous heat creeps up my neck, and suddenly, all I can think about is how much of a nightmare that sign actually was. The wind was cutting through my jacket, my fingers went numb trying to wrangle those busted plastic letters, and I nearly fell off the rickety ladder twice. At one point, I swear I heard Virgil stomping around the arena with a flashlight. I pressed myself flat behind sign, barely daring to breathe, praying to every small-town deity that he wouldn’t spot me—or worse, recognize me. My cheeks flame at the memory. But now, knowing that Virg fixed it for me fills me with a special kind of gratitude. God, if Brogan ever found out how hard I worked for that lopsided heart, I’d never live it down.

“You want to get out?” I ask, fingers nervous on my thigh.

He shakes his head, eyes never leaving the message. “Nope. I just… want to sit here. With you. And look at it.” Then he fiddles with the sound system. “I promised you music.”

I shove my hands into my pockets. “Please tell me it won’t be all Garth Brooks and Nickelback again?”

He glances over, faux wounded. “Okay, that’s a low blow.”

“Then stop making it so easy.”

“Can I tell you something?” he says, finally.

“You’ve never needed permission before.”

He grins, but it’s softer this time. “That sign... it lit me up.”

I shift in my seat, fiddling with the hem of my coat. “It’s just a sign.”

“No. It’s not.” He glances over. “You have no idea what it felt like, pulling up and seeing that. Knowing someone put it there for me. Believes in me.”

I press my lips together. My throat goes tight. “Someone does.”

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “And I think I know who.”

My heart stutters, skipping like a rock across ice. He pulls into the parking space beside the sign, tires crunching on snow, and kills the engine. It’s quiet. Still.

We sit there a beat too long, the silence thick with everything unspoken.

“You hungry?” he finally asks, voice gruff.

“I could eat.”

“I’ve got snacks. And something else I want to show you.”

I raise a brow. “If it’s your squirrel circus again—”

“No tree rats.” He laughs, opening the truck door for me like a damn gentleman. “Just trust me.”

And for better or worse, I do.