“Tate.”
His eyebrows go up. “I had something else in mind.”
“Admit it,” Tate tells me as we float in our kayaks up the inlet.
The water is like glass, so calm and steady, our paddles sending ripples along the surface. In the trees along the coast, birds chirp. We pass homes, and someone sitting on their patio, enjoying their morning coffee, waves to us. We wave back. A seal pops its head out of the water every few minutes to watch us.
“Fine. It’s nice.”
It’s more than nice. It’s serene and quiet and it feels like we’re the only two people on the planet. Under my life jacket, I’m wearing Tate’s sweatshirt.
All of this feels right. It feels like I should be here. Like the universe is telling me to stay.
Bea’s at her friend’s place for the morning, the one she met at guitar lessons. I bet she’d like to come with us, next time.
My mind wanders to my mother’s summer house. I bet Tate and Bea would love it there. I wonder if my dad still owns it. Maybe he sold it after my mom passed.
Or maybe not.
“How are you feeling about tonight?” I ask him.
He blows out a long breath. “Good. We’re as prepared as we can be, and now we just need to hope.”
I make a thoughtful noise, sinking my paddle into the water to propel myself forward before I drag my fingers along the surface. That lingering feeling that something is missing still gnaws at me.
“We need an enforcer,” I tell him. “Someone who can watch Walker’s back.”
Even when we mixed the teams up, we couldn’t find the perfect combination.
“What if we need someone to protect the guys during playoffs?” Playoffs are a different beast. Everyone wants it so badly. “We might play Fraser’s team again.”
Tate makes a low noise of acknowledgment, the handsome lines of his face etched with concentration as he considers this. “We’re past the trade deadline. We need to do the best with what we have.”
“I know.” I stare out at the water. “But that doesn’t feel good enough.”
I’m getting ready to leave for the arena late that afternoon when there’s a knock at the guesthouse door.
“Hi,” I say when I open it to Bea standing there.
“Hi. You look pretty.” She smiles at me and hands me a paper. “I drew this for you.”
It’s a drawing of two adults and a kid. One adult has short, dark brown hair. The other has a ponytail and bangs. They’re holding hands. At Bea’s feet in the drawing is the cat.
Happy Mother’s Dayis written across the top.
“What’s this?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the paper, my heart in my throat.
“We did drawings at school,” Bea says, playing with the hem of her shirt. “I know you’re not my mom but you called Asher a rat-faced fuck?—”
Oh god.
“—and you stuck up for me. And you showed me music and told me I could play guitar if I wanted to,” she’s speaking quickly, giving me short, tentative glances, “and I like you a lot, so I was thinking that I would make you something, too.”
“Okay.” A burning sting grows behind my eyes and I blink hard. “Thank you very much, Bee.”
“You’re welcome.”
I sink down to a kneel and pull her against me, squeezing her little body against my chest so fucking hard. “See you at the game tonight?” I ask as my voice cracks.
