Page 8 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)
EIGHT
GRADY
Seattle doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It’s glossy, too bright, too high above the city in a penthouse that looks like it was designed to be photographed, not lived in.
The floor-to-ceiling windows give me a view of the skyline and the Sound, but all I see is her—freckles in firelight, hair tumbling loose, the little notes tattooed under her ribs where I kissed them like a fool who thought he had the right.
It’s been three days since I dropped her at her place and drove away. Three days since I told myself it was the smart move, the responsible move, the only move.
I haven’t texted. Haven’t called. Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to too damn much.
Instead I sit here, knee elevated on a pillow, an ice pack sweating through the towel, the TV on mute with some endless highlights reel.
My face flashes across the screen in clips from better years, better legs.
The crawl at the bottom speculates about my future like it’s a commodity on the stock exchange.
Out indefinitely. Contract in question. Possible retirement.
Who the hell am I without hockey?
I know the answer. Nobody.
The door slams.
I jolt upright as Thatcher storms in, a linebacker in street clothes, eyes blazing. “You son of a bitch.”
I don’t ask how he got past security. He’s Thatcher—he gets past anything when he’s pissed.
“What the hell—” I start, but he’s already in my face, shoving my shoulder.
“You think you can hide out here while my sister cries herself dry?” His voice booms off the glass. “You think you can use her like some—some cabin fling and then ghost her?”
I grit my teeth, guilt flaring hotter than my knee. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then tell me what it was.” He shoves again, harder. “Because from where I’m standing, my best friend broke my baby sister’s heart.”
I shove back—not hard, just enough to put space between us. “I didn’t mean to.” My voice cracks, traitor. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I rake both hands through my hair, pacing toward the window and back. “What do you want me to say, Thatch? That I love her?” The words rip out of me before I can cage them. My chest heaves. “Because I do. God help me, I do. And that’s exactly why I let her go.”
Thatcher blinks. The fury falters, replaced by suspicion. “You love her?”
“Yes.” My throat burns. “But I’m not whole. Not anymore. You’ve seen my knee. You’ve read the stats. I’m hanging on by tape and pride. And Stevie—she deserves more than a broken hockey player who might be done before thirty.”
He studies me, jaw tight. “She doesn’t care about your knee, Grady. She cares about you.”
I laugh, hollow. “You think I don’t know that? That’s the problem. She looks at me like I’m still the guy with wings on his back, flying down the ice. But I’m not. Not anymore.”
For a long beat, neither of us speaks. Rain streaks down the glass like punctuation.
Then Thatcher exhales, slow, like deflating. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re also my best friend. Which is the only reason I’m not dragging you by your inked-up neck to her door right now.
” His voice softens just enough to sting.
“She’s always been the brave one. Singing when nobody listened.
Dreaming when everybody told her it was just a hobby.
And you—big, tough Grady Jones—you’re gonna let fear keep you from her? ”
I flinch.
He steps closer, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “If you love her, treat her like a queen. Make it up to her. Prove it. Or I swear, friend or not, I will kick your ass into next week.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “With this knee? Wouldn’t be hard.”
He smirks, but only for a second. “Then fix it. Rehab it. But don’t think for one second that girl cares about your stats more than she cares about you showing up.”
The silence after is heavier, but it’s different—less storm, more truth settling.
For the first time since Alaska, the weight shifts in my chest. Not gone. Just… rearranged.
I think of Stevie on the couch, straddling me with firelight painting her freckles gold. Of her voice soft at my ear: Let me take care of you. Of her bravery inked under her ribs where no one else sees it.
She didn’t wait for permission to begin. Why should I?
I nod once, jaw tight. “You’re right.”
“Damn straight I am.” He heads for the door, still bristling, but not murderous. “You’ve got one shot, Jones. Don’t blow it.”
When he’s gone, the penthouse is quiet again. The skyline glitters like it’s mocking me.
I limp to the window, palm flat on the cold glass, and catch my reflection: a man with wings inked on his back who forgot he could still fly.
I grab my phone.
Time to remember.