And I know it’s because she’s feeling the same thing I am—mourning he lost that, mourning the cost to both her and Damon.
“He told me, you know,” she whispers.
My lungs inflate on a rush of air. I hold that inhale for a moment then push it out. “I know,” I say softly.
“And he promised me he would make it better for you.”
My head jerks toward her. “Kylie?—”
“I don’t say that to take away anything he’s doing for you,” she murmurs, fingers squeezing mine again. “But because I noticed how you looked at him and I liked—like—you. You’re nice and funny and smart and I knew, even with that wicked combination of temptation, he’d continue to keep his distance unless…”
“Unless?”
Her eyes gentle. “Unless I gave him a push.” She leans close, bumps her shoulder against mine. “Same as I know that Beth had to make the hard sell to you.”
I snort. “Beth doesn’t know anythingasidefrom the hard sell.” I smile at her. “But she’s been surprisingly chill about me and Damon. Probably because”—I grin at her—“your brother has enough stubbornness for all of us combined.”
“True.” She grins back. “Though, I suppose she’s saving the hard sell for me, considering the twice weekly phone calls I’ve been getting since her visit.”
I groan. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” she says. “I’ve heard all about how I need to get back out there and live my life—something that pains me to admit she’s right about because it’s far beyond time I stop hiding.” A huffed-out breath. “All I’m saying is that I know your pain.”
My heart twinges. “Do you need me to tell her to back off?”
Kylie smiles. “No,” she says. “I miss that—having someone in my business…”
“Driving you crazy?” I supply when her eyes grow sad, knowing it’s probably because she misses her mom.
A giggle, light sliding back into her face. “Yes.That.” She leans against the glass. “I’m glad you have her.”
“You know that you have her too now?”
Her teeth press into her bottom lip. “Yeah?”
“Yup. If Beth and John have nothing else, it’s sticking power.”
“Like a fungus?”
“More like funk to a hockey glove,” I say solemnly.
She giggles again then nods out onto the ice. “You ever miss it?”
“Sometimes,” I say. “There’s nothing better than the slight sting in your palms when a puck lands on your blade or the high you get connecting a great pass. Scoring is great,” I say. “But I swear, there was nothing better than setting someone else up and seeing their face light up when they buried it in the back of the net.” I shake my head and laugh. “Which is probably why I ended up coaching when my knee couldn’t hack it—I got to make the plays and be in control and still get the high of a great play, a great goal, a great pass, a great game.”
Her mouth quirks. “I feel that same high when I manage to binge a trash reality show while crocheting a perfect line of stitches.”
Blinking, not expecting that in the least, I turn to her. “Explain.”
Her cheeks go a little pink. “And the Head Coach Voice comes out.” But before I can apologize for what she’s correct about—my demanding tone—she laughs and says, “There’s nothing to talk about. In that vein of trying to live my life, I’m learning something new.”
“Crocheting?”
She nods. “And because I’m terrible at it, I’m pairing it with something I like.”
“Trashy reality shows?”
Another nod. “And wine.”
