Chapter One
SCOTTIE
My phone buzzes in my hand just as I'm juggling a large black coffee, my duffel bag, at the player entrance to the Seattle Hawkeyes facility. I already know who it is before I glance at the screen.
Mom.
I considered letting it go to voicemail. She's probably calling to remind me about my cousin Corey's wedding for the third time this week, but guilt wins out. It always does with her.
"Hey, Ma." I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, nudging the door open with my hip.
"Scottie! Oh good, you answered. I thought maybe you were ignoring me."
"Why would I ignore you?" I'm grinning despite myself as I head down the corridor toward the locker room. The familiar scent of ice and rubber—home in its own weird way.
"Because you're busy being a big-shot hockey player and forgot all about your poor mother back in Montana."
I snort. "Pretty sure you text me approximately seventeen times a day. I couldn't forget you, even if I tried."
She means well. She’s just that kind of mother—always checking in. And I love her for it. With four other siblings at home, all younger than me, ranging from nineteen to twelve, she could easily find something else to do, but she never misses a beat with any of the five of us.
"Seventeen is an exaggeration." There's a smile in her voice. "It's more like twelve. Thirteen, tops."
The sound of her laugh eases something in my chest. It's been two months since I've been home—summer training kept me in Seattle, trying to keep my edge. I know what it’s like to spend most of my professional career on the bench as the third string. Now that I moved up last year, had my first technical rookie year due to lack of hours, and was traded as frequently as old player cards on the ice for the last five years, I have no intention of going back to that life.
I miss them. All of them. The chaos, the noise, the way my youngest sister Macie still insists on FaceTiming me every time she gets an A in advanced calculus as a sophomore in high school. She’s a better student than I ever was. The younger twotwins used to send me pictures whenever they lost a tooth, but now at twelve, those days are behind us.
"So what's up? You need something, or are you just calling to guilt-trip me?"
"I don't need to guilt-trip you, sweetheart. You do that all on your own." She pauses, and I can practically hear her settling into her favorite kitchen chair, the one by the window that overlooks the backyard. "I'm calling because I wanted to remind you about Corey's wedding in two weeks."
Called it.
"Yeah, Ma. I remember. It's on my calendar and everything. I’m coming for two nights, but with the regular season starting up, I can’t be gone longer than that. "
“Two days is not nearly enough, but I know you’re busy.”
I can feel that reminding me about Corey’s wedding isn’t the reason she called. She could have texted.
“Is that all?” I ask, knowing full well it isn’t.
“And I also wanted to tell you that I've invited Anika to the wedding. I asked Corey’s fiancée to put her on the seating chart next to you. She just moved back to town, and I ran into her mother at the grocery store last week. She has her degree in early childhood development and is starting as a kindergarten teacher at the local elementary school. What luck, huh?”
I groan, switching the phone to my other ear as I push through the locker room door. A few of the guys are already here—Luka Popovich, our right winger, is lacing up his skates, and I can hear Hunter, our left defense, singing off-key in the shower.
"Ma, you can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Setting me up with random women at family events. It's weird."
"It's not weird; it's called matchmaking. It's literally my job, Scottie. I am a matchmaker by trade, and my oldest son isn’teven married. He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the NHL, and his own mother hasn’t found him a match. Do you have any idea how that looks to my business?"
She's got me there. My mom's been the unofficial matchmaker of our tiny Montana town for years. She's got a success rate that would make most dating apps weep with envy. But being good at it for other people doesn't mean I want her meddling in my love life.
My cousin Corey is another example of her work. She matched him up with his fiancée, and they seem really well-matched, to be honest.
It’s not that she’s not good at her job—she’s very good at it. But I don’t need that kind of help. Besides, meeting women isn’t exactly a problem for me. Not that I’ll tell her.
