My pulse stutters.
“Mom?” Scottie says, following my line of sight. “Do you know him?”
“I used to.”
“What does that mean?”
Before I can answer, or even come up with one, he’s already moving toward us. His skates crunch on the ice as he moves closer to the boards.
“Gina,” he says, his voice so deep, hit sends a caress down my spine.
I force a smile. “Dane.”
For a beat, neither of us moves. The noise of the rink fades into the background—sticks tapping, skates scraping, kids shouting—until it’s just the two of us and all the years in between.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe this is all the conversation we’ll need to have before we can both go on our merry little ways.
“Your daughter…” he says slowly.
Maybe not.
He turns his gaze toward her, surprise clearly written on his face. “So you’re the infamous Scottie.”
“I am,” she says proudly, taking another swig of water. “And you’re Coach Dane.”
“You aren’t exactly what I was expecting,” he says, clearly carefully choosing his words.
And it’s a sentiment we’ve heardmanytimes before.
“I know, it’s confusing. And I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason no one asked questions when she signed up for the team.”
I fold my arms more tightly across my chest to keep the flicker of irritation—and the conflicting butterflies in my stomach—in check. “If you’re going to say she shouldn’t beplaying with boys, you can save your breath. Because we’ve heard it before. Besides, this is the only team in town, and my daughter deserves to play.”
His dark brows knit together. “Why would I say she shouldn’t play with boys?”
The genuine confusion on his face extinguishes most of the heat from my fury.
“It’s usually the first thing most people say when they realize Scottie is a girl.”
“It sounds like most of the people you’re talking to are backward-thinking idiots.” He lifts a shoulder. “So what if she’s a girl?”
“That’s… a refreshing response.” I release a breath and let my arms fall back to my sides.
Dane’s mouth curves slightly, like he knows he’s just passed some invisible test.
“She’s a hel—heck of a good skater,” he says. “And she has great puck control. I noticed right away.”
My chest tightens at that. Pride wars with something more complicated—something close to gratitude.
“She’s worked really hard to develop her skills,” I say. “The only time she isn’t practicing or studying is when she’s in school or in bed.”
Though, I suspect she sneaks it in at both.
Scottie straightens, practically glowing. “I play center.”
“Do you now?” Dane says. “That takes guts.”
“And speed,” she adds quickly. “And a good shot.”
