“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other. She’s changed since the rink—sweatpants, an oversized sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. No armor. No performance.
It hits me harder than it should.
“Scottie’s asleep,” she says, stepping aside. “Finally.”
I smile. “Long day.”
“You have no idea.”
I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. The house smells faintly like pizza and something floral. Not artificial. Clean. Intentional.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” she says, eyeing the bottle.
“I wanted to.”
She hesitates, then takes it from me. “Thank you.”
We move into the living room, the space small but thoughtfully arranged. There are hockey photos on the wall—Scottie in mismatched gear, grinning like she’s already won something important. There are framed flyers for lodge events. A bulletin board full of lists and schedules and handwritten notes.
She’s built a life.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says.
I sit on the couch, watching as she moves through the room, setting the wine aside, turning down a lamp. She’s efficient without being rigid. Capable. The kind of woman who handles things because no one else is going to do it for her.
It’s attractive as hell.
“So,” she says finally, leaning against the counter. “You want to talk, or do you want to pretend this is just casual?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You always did hate pretending.”
“And you always avoided the hard stuff.”
Fair.
“I’m trying not to,” I say. “Avoid it, I mean.”
She studies me, arms folded loosely, not defensive. Thoughtful.
“You stood up for Scottie today,” she says. “Without hesitation.”
“Of course I did.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s what scared me.”
I nod slowly. “Because it mattered.”
“Because it mattered,” she agrees.
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I saw the way you looked at her,” I say. “On the ice. You’re proud of her.”
“I am,” she says softly. “She’s everything.”
