Of course he did.
I glance across the rink, where Dane is laughing at something one of the other parents says. It’s an easy sound. A real one. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that.
“We’ll see,” I say carefully. “I’ll talk to him.”
Scottie nods, already distracted as her teammates call her back onto the ice.
I should shut this down. Set boundaries. Protect the life I’ve built and the fragile balance I’ve fought so hard to maintain.
Instead, when practice ends and parents begin gathering their kids and equipment, I find myself walking toward him.
Up close, he smells like high-end body wash and something else. Something muskier and masculine.
“Hey,” he says. “She’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “She loves the game.”
“I can tell.” He hesitates. “About tomorrow—if it’s too much, I get it. I don’t want to step on any toes.”
I study his face, looking for arrogance. Expectation. Anything that tells me he assumes he still belongs in my world.
I don’t find it.
“Early is fine,” I say finally. “We’ll come by before school.”
His smile is quick but sincere. “Great.”
We stand there awkwardly for a beat too long, both of us aware of everything we’re not saying.
“I should get her home,” I say. “And I have some work to do.”
“Right.” He nods. And I wonder if he’s been keeping tabs on me to know that I’ve taken over my family’s lodge on the other side of town. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
I turn away before I can second-guess myself. Before I can remember how easy it used to be to fall back into him.
Because one thing is already clear.
Letting Dane back into my world—even temporarily—is going to test every wall I’ve built.
THREE
DANE
I get to the rink earlier than necessary.
It’s an old habit. Drilled into me by my dad.
You show up before anyone else. Walk the ice. Take stock of the place before the other players arrive.
It’s the same instinct that carried me through years of early mornings and late nights, long before anyone started questioning whether I still had what it takes.
A few kids from a younger age group are already skating warm-up laps while their parents settle into the bleachers. I watch automatically, cataloging movement and posture. Who skates stiff. Who’s overthinking it. Who’s fearless enough to try something stupid and get better because of it.
Then I spot Scottie.
She cuts across the ice with her head up, stick loose, feet confident. She doesn’t skate like she’s waiting for permission. She skates like she expects to belong.
“She’s good,” I mutter.
