“Yes—and Justin.” Gina tipped her head back against the couch and gave Nettie a sidelong glance. Her dramatic sigh was worthy of an actress. “That last shot looked as bad as what I’m thinking—didn’t it? I mean, right between the blades on his skates. That other guy sunk that puck, and I know Justin’s got to be feeling awful right now.” She dropped her face into her hands for a beat before peeking back up at Nettie, her expression shadowed with worry.
Nettie’s heart pinched for her friend. Gina wasn’t even on the ice, but she carried the loss as if she’d been the one blocked by the goalie. Nettie eased herself down beside her, smoothing her palms on her jeans as if that might help her settle in.
“It’s okay,” Nettie murmured, careful and soft, the way she always was when she knew Gina’s emotions were running hot. “You can’t win every single game. Someone has to win and unfortunately, someone has to lose too.”
The flat look Gina shot her could have curdled milk.
“Donotsay that to Tate. He hates it when people make sense or act reasonably.”
Nettie couldn’t help it—she laughed. A quick, startled little sound that bubbled up despite herself. How true that was.
“You know what,” Gina said suddenly, springing to her feet with a burst of energy, then tugging Nettie up after her. “I’m gonna feed my funk, and the Coyotes have pretty good food evenif their couches aren’t the greatest. I mean, it’s okay—if you like green leather. Not my bag, baby…”
Still chuckling, Nettie let herself be hauled toward the food table. Steam rose from the silver chafing trays lined up neatly, carrying the scent of grilled meat, fried appetizers, and something garlicky that made her stomach clench with hunger. The sight of sliders piled high, little paper baskets of chips, and neatly stacked plates was oddly comforting—like neutral territory in a room where she still wasn’t sure of her footing.
Gina pressed a plate into her hands before Nettie could refuse. Her friend was already tossing comments like confetti to anyone within earshot.
“Becca, can you say something to your hubby to pass along to the coach—sliders are good, but chicken wings are where it’s at. Either that, or can we have those weird french fries that Aimee’s husband is always fawning over? Sheesh—anything fried in fat and smothered in cheese must qualify as comfort food, am I right?”
Laughter rippled through the group. Plates began filling, chatter circling faster, until Nettie found herself at a table alongside Gina, Becca—her brother and his wife—and Batiste’s wife, Aimee. Nettie perched on the edge of her chair, plate untouched, listening, trying to sink into the rhythm of their easy banter.
“Maaaan,” Gina groaned suddenly, letting her shoulders sag dramatically as she closed her eyes. Her tone was pure wistful fantasy. “I should have been a physical therapist or a masseuse because I can’t help but envy Thierry’s wife right now. All those muscles and sweaty bodies…”
“Um, reality check,” Becca shot back with a chuckle. “Those sweaty bodies stink.”
“Try me—please, please just try me,” Gina said emphatically, snatching up a slider and taking a massive bite. She pointed thehalf-eaten thing at Becca, words muffled around her mouthful. “Seriously—I volunteer as tribute… pass the oil, shove one of those handsome men my way, and I will fumble my way through a massage.”
Nettie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too widely. Sometimes, Gina’s filter simply did not exist.
“Your brother is one of those men,” Nettie teased lightly, letting her voice lilt, knowing exactly what kind of reaction she’d get.
“Hush your mouth,” Gina scoffed, shaking her head furiously. “Ugh, no.”
“So not any ‘body,’” Aimee said slyly, nibbling on a chip, her grin mischievous.
“Any male body belonging to a hot blond goalie whose name begins with ‘J’ and rhymes with ‘Ustin’…”
“She’s driven,” Nettie volunteered.
“The girl has got goals,” Becca agreed, grinning.
“He’s my Everest—I’d climb him like a sherpa on crack,” Gina tossed, shoving the rest of the slider into her mouth and chewing happily.
“Oh my gosh…”
“Okay—that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day,” Aimee cackled, tossing her head back with laughter.
The sound spilled around the table, drawing more chuckles from nearby, but Nettie only smiled faintly, shaking her head in that way she always did when Gina got carried away. The warmth in the room was real—so easy, so open, so unafraid. And sometimes, Nettie wished she could be like that, too. To speak without weighing every word. To laugh as loudly, to dream as recklessly.
But walls were safer.
She sat back, sliding the edge of her slider through ketchup and watching the others’ joy like someone watching a firethrough glass—close enough to feel its heat, but still on the outside looking in and simply listened as the conversation flowed around her.
Nettie leaned back into the couch cushions, her stomach pleasantly full but her nerves buzzing. Thirty minutes had passed since they’d finished eating, and she was ready to call it a night. Her eyes flicked to Gina, though, and it was obvious her friend wasn’t going anywhere. Gina was perched like a cat, patient and sly, lingering for her brother. Nettie had the sinking suspicion she was the true reason they hadn’t left yet.
Around them, the room began to shift. The low hum of chatter thinned as players started filtering in from the locker rooms, their damp hair evidence of rushed showers, their clothes traded out for hoodies and jeans. The air still carried faint traces of soap and clean sweat, mingling with the burnt aroma of the concession stand. Laughter bubbled up here and there, families greeting their players, friends saying goodbyes. Nettie felt like an observer, tucked into the couch while the room emptied by degrees.
And then Tate appeared.
