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“Alright, lovebird,” Bennett says, smacking me on the back. “Morning skate waits for no man. Or sign. Or mid-life identity crisis.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Exactly.”

Whoa. Harsh.

We head inside, the doors groaning open with a burst of warm air and the scent of rubber and sweat. But I glance back one more time before going in, watching Virgil kick snow at the sign.

There’s no denying it anymore.

Someone believes in me.

And I’m finally starting to believe in myself, too.

The cold clings to my skin as we strip down in the locker room. Everyone’s chirping like it’s game day, probably because Shep brought a Bluetooth speaker and is blasting something that sounds like EDM and farm animal noises had a baby.

“Is this music?” Gage shouts, lacing up his skates.

Shep throws him finger guns. “It’s ambiance.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

I tug on my jersey, trying not to grin. I should be focused. We’re halfway through the season, and every practice counts if I want to get out of this damn scoring slump. But instead, my brain’s hung up on coasters and Sharpie hearts and cling wrap declarations.

The rink is cold, the way I like it. Ice sharp and fresh. I jump the boards with the rest of the team, my skates slicing into the sheet. Coach Duff’s barking drills from the blue line, clipboard in hand and whistle already halfway to his mouth.

“Line rushes!” he calls.

We fall into formation. Bennett’s got his usual scowl on, more focused than he looks. Boone’s flying down the wing, and Shep’s chirping every poor soul within earshot, including himself.

“I feel fast today,” he says.

“You feel delusional,” Bennett mutters.

I dig deep on a breakout pass, and for a split second, I feel good. Better than I have in weeks. Like I might actually remember how to play this game.

And then we rotate off the ice and pile onto the bench, sweaty and breathless, only to see Virgil standing on top of the maintenance truck holding a ball of Saran Wrap in one hand and what might be a garden rake in the other.

Bennett’s phone rings.

He puts it on speaker.

“Bennett,” Virgil growls. “Bring the cherry picker.”

“Not happening,” Bennett says, not even blinking.

“Why not? I’ve seen you stop at Mrs. Gibson’s house more times than I can count to get a cat out of a tree. You don’t even like cats!”

“Correct. But I like chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven.”

There’s a pause.

“And my brother,” Bennett adds, so flat it takes a beat to realize it’s sarcasm.

“Flask of peppermint schnapps,” Virgil offers.

Bennett snorts. “My mom owns a bar. Try harder.”