A slow smile curves his mouth. “I’ll message you.”
My stomach flips with anticipation and excitement as he heads for the exit, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder.
When the automatic doors slide shut behind him, I lean against the desk and let out a breath. Dinner. With Rhett Jennings.
What am I doing?
I don’t date. I shelve books. I recommend cozy mysteries. I avoid emotional risks and men who make my heart do stupid things.
I already know this is how stories start—the ones where the sensible heroine makes one impulsive choice and everything changes.
And yet, I’m ready to jump head-first into what I’m hoping is my own happily ever after.
six
. . .
Rhett
“Helmet,”I remind Matty for the third time as he laces up his skates.
“I know.” He rolls his eyes with all the drama a seven-year-old can muster.
He may be Gwen’s kid, but the boy is so much like me at that age that sometimes it’s scary. I secretly love it though. Payback for all the tormenting Gwen has done to me over the years.
I grin and tap the top of his head anyway. “Coach’s rules.”
That earns me a smirk.
Matty’s been doing that a lot lately—smiling easier, standing a little taller. It’s good to see. He’s had to grow up fast in some ways. His dad checked out before Matty could even remember what he looked like, leaving Gwen to do it all on her own. She’s never complained. Just adjusted. Worked harder. Loved louder. And knows when to ask for help.
Now she’s getting married, and the man she’s marrying treats Matty like he’s always been his kid. Shows up. Cheers him on from the stands, even though he doesn’t know the first thing about hockey. And he makes sure Matty knows he belongs.
Still, change is change. And kids feel it, even when everything’s going right.
The rink smells like cold air and sharpened steel—familiar and grounding. I grew up here. Youth hockey through high school, early mornings and frozen fingers, learning discipline the hard way. Coaching now feels like giving something back. Something boys like my nephew can count on.
The kids spill onto the ice in a tangle of sticks and laughter. I blow the whistle, calling them into line.
“All right, team,” I shout. “Let’s warm up. Remember—control before speed.”
The kids push off in a rush of blades and chatter, but Matty skates past me with his head down and his focus locked in. His strides are steady. Intentional. Tongue poking out just a little as he digs in, like he’s silently counting every move.
I recognize it immediately.
That was me at his age—trying so damn hard to get it right. Trying to prove something I didn’t yet have words for.
Pride hits me square in the chest.
Not because he’s the fastest. He isn’t. Not because he’s the loudest or flashiest. He’s not that either.
It’s because he listens. Because he cares. Because he wants to be better—not just for himself, but because he knows someone’s watching.
I catch his eye as he circles back, and give him a quick nod.
He straightens a fraction.
And yeah—maybe that’s what this is really about. Giving him something he can trust.
