Scottie slides to a stop in front of her, pulls off his helmet, and calls out, “Mom.”
I’m not sure which reveal leaves me most stunned.
That the only woman I’ve ever truly loved is here and has a kid.
Or that her kid, the little hotshot who has been dominating the ice, is a girl.
TWO
GINA
It had to be him.
Out of all the men coming in and out of this town, it had to be him. Okay, I’m willing to admit there aren’t that many. This is small-town Alaska, after all. But still, like most places, the men outnumber the women. Surely one of those guys must have nothing better to do than coming in to serve as the Mustangs’ coach for the next three weeks.
Why did it have to be him? Dane.
“Un-freaking-believable,” I mutter.
“I know, right?” Scottie says, taking the water bottle I brought her and spraying a stream of water into her mouth. “Can you believe they got us the Coach Dane to finish the season?”
“No,” I say, doing my best not to stare at him—though he’s the only place my eyes seem to want to go. “I really can’t believe it.”
I’ve always known there was a chance he’d come back here. He did build that damn mansion of his on the outskirts of town.
But as it spent more and more time empty, with the occasional renter, I kind of stopped expecting him to ever come around. I stopped looking over my shoulder to see if he’d made a surprise visit.
I finally let myself breathe.
Except now he’s here. Not just in that mansion, but in my town.
At my kid’s hockey practice.
Standing at the edge of the rink in a knit jacket that clings to his shoulders, hands shoved into his pockets. Silently watching the kids practice like this place still belongs to him.
Like he never left.
I need to look away. I should look away. I don’t. It’s as if I can’t.
He’s broader than he used to be. Everywhere. Broader shoulders. Wider stance. More muscular in the chest and arms.
That’s no surprise. Until a few years ago, he was the king of the ice as a professional hockey player.
Now, he’s their coach.
He must still work out. I wonder what his workout includes. I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of throwing cabers or doing that thing with the ropes that I’ve never quite figured out what it does besides make a person look absolutely ripped.
He’s also older. The boyish softness is gone in his face. It’s been replaced with harder lines that are both more solid and assured.
He’s clearly the kind of man people listen to when he speaks. Which makes sense, since that’s his job.
He looks strong. Confident. Powerful.
He looks exactly like the kind of man who doesn’t belong in my carefully rebuilt life.
As if sensing my stare, his gaze lifts. Our eyes lock.
The recognition hits instantly in his hazel eyes. I can see it even from this distance.
