Page 6 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)

FIVE

TOBIAS

Now

I f Ridley Masters' penthouse is any indication, the Vipers don't do subtle.

Floor-to-ceiling windows glow syrup-gold from the fancy studio lighting running throughout the living room, city lights scattered below like someone dropped Seattle's jewelry box, each pinprick of light a tiny diamond against the velvet night.

Inside, it's a crush of laughing giants, glinting trophies, and the thick, glorious smell of something spicy-cheesy that could double as industrial sealant or weapons-grade adhesive.

The bass, from what Jamie says is Brea's latest album, thrums through the polished hardwood floors, vibrating up through my shoes.

Jamie Maxwell nudges my ribs with his elbow, as he takes a noticeable deep breath, followed by an exaggerated cough.

"Told you Devan's dip could clear sinuses," he whispers, eyes watering in happy terror as he fans his mouth.

"Man doesn't skimp on the hot sauce. I swear he puts ghost peppers in there like they're bell peppers. "

I try to laugh, but my throat forgets how the second I spot him across the crowded room, and everything else fades to background noise.

Devan Scott stands dead-center, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark locs knotted high in a bun that shouldn't look so effortlessly perfect. Jeans clinging in ways that should be illegal in at least twelve states. Cradled against that broad chest?—

Chloe.

Her tiny fist curled in his Henley, cheek pressed to his heart like it's the only drum she needs to hear. Her little legs dangling, one sockless foot occasionally kicking in contentment. The absolute trust in her posture makes something twist painfully in my chest.

The world slows, muffled by the rush of blood in my ears.

Eight years vanish like smoke; the entire room blurs until it's just those two: a man I used to know like breath itself, and the baby that makes his smile look reverent, almost holy.

The way he gazes down at her, his thumb gently stroking her tiny back, it's a side of Devan I never got to see, but somehow always knew existed beneath the jokes and hype.

Jamie's hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me back to reality. "Earth to Groves. You still with us, man?"

"Yeah. Sorry." I pull in a breath that tastes like hot sauce and heartbreak with notes of regret. "Lead the way."

We weave through teammates I barely recognize out of gear, faces I've only seen beneath visors and helmets now animated in conversation.

Coach Lennox clasps my hand, his grip steel-firm and paternal, eyes assessing me like he's already planning line combinations.

Conditioning coach, Charlie Fox, insists I try a veggie smoothie the color of pond scum that he swears pairs perfectly with the buffalo dip.

He's catastrophically wrong but I smile anyway and choke it down.

The physio staff tag-teams introductions, names immediately lost to the pounding in my head and the chaos of trying to place faces with positions and injuries.

Ridley, protective big brother and uncle extraordinaire, materializes beside Devan like a man on a mission.

He plucks the baby from Devan's arms with practiced ease and vanishes toward Brea with a grin, cooing something about ‘Auntie time’.

Devan laughs, those devastating dimples flashing, but the sound stalls when his gaze collides with mine across the sea of bodies.

It's one beat, maybe two of pure, unfiltered recognition. All I see and remember is us. Everything we were and could have been. Late nights in the dorm, whispered promises, bodies tangled beneath sheets, dreams shared in the dark when we thought we had forever mapped out.

Then he looks away, plastering on that hype-man grin for whichever teammate approaches him next, the moment shattered like ice under a skate blade.

Jamie whispers something about sliders appearing in the kitchen.

I nod mechanically, but my feet drift toward the balcony where Sebastian Bergeron and Derrick Shaw stand shoulder to shoulder, heads bent in quiet conversation.

Shaw's cheeks are pink as he smiles shyly at whatever Bast is murmuring, the goalie's protective hover practically a blanket around the younger man.

The tenderness between them feels too intimate to interrupt.

I decide not to intrude, some things are sacred.

Instead, I move around the living room like a satellite without a proper trajectory, collecting snippets of conversation.

Tor Bailey rocking his son Kodah with surprising grace while Alexis–or is she in Jaz Starr mode?

–captivates the entire room as she demonstrates a sword-swinging form with a glow-stick to an enraptured Coach Lennox who's taking mental notes.

Brea is laughing with Lia, their hips swaying in perfect sync to her own acoustic track playing overhead, sisterhood evident in their mirrored movements.

Lia's hands carve shapes in the air, describing, I think, a wedding-dress silhouette with passion lighting up her face.

Every flash of her smile punches me square in the ribs, a sensation I'm becoming alarmingly familiar with.

I'm the new planet in their solar system, running complex math on escape velocity and wondering if I'll ever earn a stable orbit or if I'm destined to be the comet that passes through briefly before disappearing back into the dark.

When I finally muster courage to cross to the food table, Devan appears beside me like destiny, or a very large shadow, his cologne hitting me with the force of memory.

"Dip?" he offers, voice gentle, eyes careful, holding out a tortilla chip loaded with the infamous concoction.

I manage a shrug that I hope looks casual. "Jamie says it's lethal. I've been warned it might actually be classified as a chemical weapon."

He huffs a laugh, soft as old memories. "Only if you're weak. Some things haven't changed, you always did shy away from the spicy stuff."

Silence stretches between us, taut and fragile as spider silk.

"You look good, Toby. . .fuck, sorry. Tobias." His tongue stumbles on the name the way it did this morning at practice, like muscle memory betraying intent. Eight years, and my nickname still lives in his mouth.

"Different teams, different strength programs," I answer, because I don't trust anything honest to make it past the knot in my throat. Not here, not now, not with so many eyes around us.

He nods, gaze dipping to the dip, tortilla chip still in hand like he's forgotten its purpose. "Listen, we should ta?—"

"Hey, Groves!" Ridley booms from the sofa, voice cutting through conversation like a foghorn. "You meet Brea yet? Get your ass over here!"

Merciful or malicious, I can't tell. Either way, Devan's words scatter like pucks at the end of practice. I follow Ridley's summons, pulse thundering in my temples, leaving Devan with a chip poised in mid-air and unsaid words hanging between us.

Brea Brookes is impossible not to know; chart-topping voice, musical powerhouse, and warm brown eyes that see too much too quickly.

She shakes my hand with genuine warmth, then leans in conspiratorially, her perfume subtle and expensive.

"Dip's worth the hype, I promise. But the spice kicks on the back end like a mule, though.

Be careful or you'll end up like Ridley last Christmas, crying and hiccupping simultaneously. "

Lia snorts into her soda, the sound unexpectedly adorable.

She's rocking on red heels that add precious inches to her height, high waisted jeans with gingham shirt tied at her waist, black-rimmed glasses glinting under pendant light.

The baby wrap that was around her earlier is now empty, Ridley's across the room making elaborate choo-choo noises at Chloe, who's giggling in delight.

Lia's hands are free, but she keeps rubbing her fingers together like she misses the anchor of her daughter's weight.

"Nice to see you again, neighbor," she says, smile polite but eyes assessing, nothing more.

Does she even know I've memorized the squeak of her front door, the cadence of her late-night pacing on the front porch, the lullabies she hums slightly off-key when Chloe won't settle at 2 AM?

Has she noticed me watching from my kitchen window, pretending I'm not counting the stars reflected in her glasses?

"Likewise." I shove my hands deep in my pockets so I don't fidget them raw or reach for something I have no right to touch.

Conversation flows around me like water around a stone: dress fabrics for Brea's tour wardrobe, book tour dates for Alexis's next Jaz Starr release, baby teething hacks involving frozen washcloths and silicone toys.

I nod at the right beats, contribute a word or two when directly addressed, but my focus drags repeatedly to Devan across the room.

He's mock-arguing with Tor about playoff statistics, gesturing wildly with animated enthusiasm, yet every few seconds his eyes flick this way, like compass needles possessed, always finding north.

Two bodies, two histories, one gravitational pull. I'm the interloper and the missing piece all at once, caught in the undertow of what was and what could be.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, Jamie checking on me from the kitchen where he's apparently discovered a tray of cupcakes.

I can't help but appreciate his thoughtfulness.

I told him I was nervous about coming here on the way up, a rare moment of vulnerability with a teammate who's quickly becoming a friend.

I text back a thumbs-up and a beer emoji, stashing my phone in my back pocket.

Be brave, Groves. You didn't come to Seattle to hide in corners.

I excuse myself from the women's conversation, cross toward the big windows where the view of the city is breathtaking, and find Devan already approaching from the opposite direction, like fate plotted a collision course when we weren't looking.

We stop a foot apart, city lights glittering behind him like a backdrop designed for dramatic confessions.

"Can we talk?" he tries again, voice rougher now, less polished than his public persona. "For real this time."

I swallow hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Yeah. We probably should."

His smile wobbles, hope and nerves in equal measure. "Not here. But soon. Tomorrow, maybe?"

I nod, pulse a jackhammer against my ribs. "Okay."

Across the party, Lia looks up just then, blue eyes tracking us like she felt the shift in gravity, her gaze moving between us with an expression I can't quite decipher, curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper.

Something that makes me wonder if she already knows more than she's letting on about our shared history.

We're three points of a triangle, finally visible in the same plane. None of us knows the next line to skate, the next play to make. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

For the first time in eight years, the silence between Devan and me feels negotiable, like maybe there are words that could bridge what was broken.

For the first time in months, the distance between Lia and me feels. . .less insurmountable, less like a wall and more like a doorway.

Maybe Ridley's right, Seattle could be the place things finally stick. The place where wandering souls find home.

Or maybe tonight's the spark that lights the fuse on something none of us are prepared for.

Either way, I'm done orbiting the edges. Done pretending proximity isn't exactly what I crave, what I've always craved. Done pretending I don't want to belong.

I lift my glass, nod once, decision made. "After practice tomorrow?"

Devan's grin ignites, slow and blinding, a sunrise after the longest night. "After practice. My place. I can make you that terrible protein coffee you used to drink."

I’m surprised he remembers. Of course he does.

He heads back toward the dip, shoulders lighter. I drift to the sofa where Ridley is now trying to convince Chloe that a squeaky puck toy is an essential part of rookie training. The baby's giggle is infectious, her tiny hands reaching for the toy with complete focus.

Lia watches Devan disappear into the kitchen, then glances at me, just the briefest flicker before returning to her daughter. In that moment, I see something, recognition, does she see me? Does she want to?

I raise my drink in silent salute. Her lips part in surprise, but she inclines her head back.

This party is no longer a room full of strangers. It's a map of possibility, a crossroads of paths that might have seemed separate but are converging in ways I never imagined.

For the first time in a long time, I'm ready to chart a course straight through the heart of it, no matter how dangerous the waters might be.