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That smile, those sparkling blue eyes, the memory of her soft, warm skin when I kissed her forehead in the hotel room—they all flood back in an instant.

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to date my daughter’s skating coach. With the way she looks at me, it feels like a damn good idea. I don’t want to move on. I want to take her up on her offer—and take her out.

“Yeah,” I manage to say, my voice low and gravelly, my skin hot.

Screw the timing. I’m not looking for love, but I can damn well handle dating, parenting, and playing hockey. I’m a grown-ass adult. I’ll hunt for an opening as we talk, just like I hunt for opportunities on the ice in every damn game.

Sabrina swings open the gate and steps off the ice, grabbing a canvas bag with an illustration of a fox twirling in skates on it, and the caption: Skate Like No One’s Watching, For Fox Sake.

She reaches into it and pulls out her pink skate guards.

Of course, they’re pink. This detail delights me more than it should.

With practiced ease, she slips them on and then motions toward the metal bleachers at the far side of the rink.

This is going to be good. My pulse kicks up. If she wants to sit down, that’s a sign, right? As I gesture for her to go first, I quickly cycle through the best ways to ask her out. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Too long.

Since Elle, I’ve barely dated. My few attempts were app-assisted and didn’t go anywhere. This in-person stuff? I’m at least a decade out of practice. But winging it has always been my style. I’ll make it work.

There is the tried-and-true direct approach: Sabrina, I’d love to take you out this weekend.

I could go with something more specifically tailored to her energy: How would you feel about mini golf and the best cheese fries in the city tomorrow night?

Then there’s always the option of just leaning into her wishes and wants: Want to see a baseball game and debate the umpires, then I can take you home and we can start working through your fantasies one by one? Because I’d really like to show you precisely how I’d like to devour you all night long.

Yeah, all those sound good, and I’m going to have to roll the dice in the moment. I’ve got this.

We reach the end of the metal bleacher, and she sits first, setting the bag down on her lap.

The soft buzz of the rink’s air-conditioning hums around us, mixing with the occasional scrape of skates on the ice below.

I lean back against the cold metal railing, trying to act casual, though my chest is tight with anticipation.

“First of all, I truly appreciate everything you did last week,” she says, her tone earnest, her hands twisted around the strap of the bag. “I wasn’t really in a good place, obviously, and…you were kind of amazing.”

That’s a damn good start. “I’m glad we ran into each other,” I say simply, though inside, every nerve in my body is taut.

She gives me a small, grateful smile. “Me too. Really glad it was you.”

Hell yes. My brain starts playing her words from that night on a loop, like a greatest-hits album of everything I’ve ever wanted to hear.

I have this whole fantasy that starts with your beard. I keep thinking about how it’d feel. I keep wondering, too, about those arms. How you could pin me down. I wonder about your mouth. I can’t stop thinking about how you might kiss me. Everywhere.

It was tequila-fueled honesty, but the memory of her voice, bold and fearless, is seared into my mind.

“Same here,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My pulse quickens as we lean slightly closer, and this is it. This is the moment. But just as I open my mouth to ask her out, she speaks again, her voice softer now.

“And I want to say thank you,” she says.

I pause, letting her finish. My mom would hand me my ass if I didn’t listen to a woman. My grandmother too.

“You don’t have to,” I reply, shaking my head. “Truly, you don’t.”

“But I do.” She’s almost pleading now, her voice raw.

“You were there for me when I was incredibly vulnerable. And, honestly, drunk,” she adds, her cheeks flushing pinker.

“I don’t know if I would’ve gotten through that night without you to talk to, to…

share things with.” Her gaze flickers away to the ice, and to a woman setting up for another lesson, before coming back to mine.

“I just feel really fortunate. So I wanted to get you something.”

Like a real chance with you?

She reaches into her bag, her fingers brushing the edge of something inside. For one stupid second, I imagine it’s something meaningful—an invitation, a gesture, a sign she’s about to give me the green light.

Then she pulls out…a mug. She thrusts it at me with a little shrug, her smile both shy and teasing. “It’s not much, but I was trying to make light of the situation.”

I take it, turning the ceramic in my hands. There’s an illustration of a St. Bernard on one side and the words: “Sorry About Your St. Bernard Ex, But Here’s to Better Dogs Ahead. ”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “This is…” Perfect. Funny. Completely Sabrina.

And maybe, a little promising? Hell, it feels like a good sign if she can make a joke about her sex confessions in the light of day.

She grins, her face lighting up like it did the first time I saw her smile at Luna.

“You said it was a shame there wasn’t a card for that, so I figured—why not a mug?

Oh, and—” She reaches into her bag again and pulls out the Sea Dogs hoodie I left behind.

“I washed it, air-dried it. Thought you might want this back too.”

The second she hands it over, I know. This isn’t the beginning of something—it’s the end of the best fantasy I’ve ever had.

And just like that, my stomach sinks. She’s not here to talk about taking me up on her offer. She’s here to apologize and return my shit.

With reluctance, I take the hoodie, briefly toying with saying something like, “You can keep it.”

But what’d be the point? I’d just be some parent of one of her students pushing my team’s merchandise on her. Not cool.

“This is really thoughtful of you,” I say, keeping my tone friendly. “Honestly, I love the mug. But I swear, you didn’t have to do this.”

She winces, frowning. “But I did,” she insists. “You were a total gentleman, and I threw myself at you. You’re the father of one of my students, and…I’m so embarrassed, Tyler,” she says, her lip quivering briefly before she steels herself with a deep breath.

A fueling one, it seems, because she continues on, her voice stronger now. “I just want you to know it was the margaritas talking. The tequila, and…and all the emotional tr auma of that day. I just…I feel awful, and I wanted to reassure you that I’d love to keep teaching Luna.”

Her words hit like a slap shot to the chest. Any hope I had of a date?

So far gone they’re sailing out into the ocean.

My shoulders sink, but I force a small, tight smile.

“Sabrina, you’re a fantastic teacher. My daughter adores you.

You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all.

” Then, I pause, girding myself to say the harder thing, but the damn necessary thing.

“If we can just pretend that night never happened, everything will be fine.”

Relief washes over her face, and she presses a hand to her chest. “Thank you,” she breathes, her pink workout jacket hugging her frame in a way I shouldn’t notice. Shouldn’t like. Shouldn’t fucking think about.

But my mind is whirling through what might have been. What I wanted to say.

I want to cross that line with you right now. I want to take you out, and take you home, and take your real virginity like you offered, and then do it the next night and the next, screw the consequences.

But clearly, it was all the tequila talking that evening, nothing more. She has no idea she handed me my greatest fantasy.

No idea.

That repeats in my head.

And really, isn’t it best if she keeps having no idea? I glance toward the arcade in the rink where Luna’s playing Ms. Pac-Man. Yep. No idea is my new mantra.

“We’re all good,” I say, my voice even and reassuring since that’s what Sabrina needs right now. “You don’t need to worry.”

Her smile turns playful, her mischievous sparkle returning. “What happened?” she asks innocently, tilting her head .

I force a chuckle, scratching my jaw. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

She laughs softly, her relief palpable. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I say, lying—bald-faced lying—but this is the way things have to be. Especially as Luna runs up to us, announcing she’s nailed a high score.

I focus on Luna, on what matters. My kids. My career. That’s it.

But dating? No thanks. Not anymore.