“We should come back,” he says softly. “Maybe in the summer. When I can actually chop wood with two hands.”
My heart does a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. He’s thinking about a future where we’re still doing this. My heart flutters, and I have to bite my lip not to smile at the thought.
The silence is easy and comfortable for the first part of the drive. Louis hums along to the radio, his head tipped back against the headrest, eyes closed. I keep one hand on the wheel, navigating the slick curves of Highway 101, letting myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I can have both. The career I’ve bled for and this man who has somehow figured out how to make the noise in my head go quiet.
Maybe I don’t have to choose. Maybe Seattle can actually be home.
We hit a stretch of road where the dense forest canopy opens up, reconnecting us with the world. And with the cell towers.
Ping.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
The sound is jarring in the quiet cabin. Both our phones, resting in the center console, light up simultaneously.Notifications cascade down the screens as the world crashes back in.
“Guess we’re really back to reality,” Louis mutters without opening his eyes.
I glance down at my screen. A text message banner sits at the top.
Sender: Carson Wells
My stomach drops. A text from the GM on a break week? That can’t be good.
I tap the screen, grateful Louis isn’t looking.
Sinclair. You need to contact me as soon as possible. Urgent. Come into my office the moment you’re back in town.
The words blur.Urgent. Come to my office.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles ache. My old, familiar friend, anxiety bordering on panic, claws at my throat.
Are they trading me?
It’s the first thought, but that’s irrational. I’m the starter, and Lou won’t be ready to play for several weeks yet. They still need me.
Did someone see us?
Ice floods my veins. If someone saw us at the lodge, if they took photos and put them online. Shit, that wouldn’t be good.
The car’s Bluetooth system interrupts my spiral with a phone call, the car’s screen displaying the caller’s name.
Incoming Call: Nichole Raymond Agent
Louis jerks upright, his eyes snapping open. “Shit.”
He reaches for the console, tapping the screen to answer. “Hey, Nic.”
“Lou! How are you!” I’ve never met the woman, but the excitement in her voice is obvious, even though I can only hearit leaking through his phone’s speaker. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning! Have you heard the trade rumors?”
“Nah, I’ve been off-grid for a couple days,” Louis says. His tone is casual, but his posture stiffens. “What’s up? I know I can’t be on the block. I’ve got the no-trade clause.”
I can’t make out her exact words, but I catch fragments.Minnesota. Hansen injured. Season-ending.
When I glance over at him, he’s staring out the rainy windshield, his expression stony. The soft, relaxed man who woke up in my arms this morning has disappeared.
“Uh-huh,” he says flatly.
She starts talking again, but I can’t make out the words. But whatever she’s telling him doesn’t sound good. His jaw tightens as he listens, and when he responds, he seems like he’s forcing a lightness into his voice.
