My phone pings with a notification, breaking into my thoughts. It’s Instagram—Vanessa has already posted a selfie she must’ve snapped with me in the background, tagging mewith the caption: “Great meeting @DylanWilliamston tonight! #HockeyHottie.”
Normally, I’d like it immediately. It’s free publicity, good for my brand, all that. But tonight, I swipe the notification away without even opening the app.
Instead, I pull up my text thread with Genna.
Me:What are you and Chey up to Saturday afternoon? Got tickets to the game if you two want them. Good seats.
Before I can overthink it further, I hit send.
The three dots appear almost immediately, Genna typing a response. My heart rate picks up in a way it definitely shouldn’t for a simple text from my sister.
I’m being ridiculous.
Genna:OMG yes!!! Chey was just saying she misses going to the games! We’d love to!
A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips. I tap out a quick reply, promising to leave the tickets at will call, then toss my phone onto the passenger seat.
As I finally put the car in drive and pull out of the parking lot, I try to analyze my reaction.
Why am I more excited about Cheyenne coming to watch me play than I was about a literal swimsuit model hitting on me?
And what the heck am I supposed to do about it?
Chapter Ten
Cheyenne
Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Garrett walked out on Thanksgiving, and I’m finally starting to feel like a human being again instead of a walking tear factory. I hang my coat by the door, the scent of vanilla and brown sugar hitting me as soon as I step inside the apartment. Someone’s baking. Jhett scrambles over, his paws sliding on the hardwood as he nearly crashes into my legs.
“Hey, buddy,” I coo, dropping to my knees to give him a proper greeting. He’s been extra attentive since the breakup, like he knows I needed the emotional support of a furry therapist who works for treats and belly rubs.
“Genna?” I call out, straightening up and following both the delicious smell and the sound of clinking bowls.
“In here!” Her voice carries from the kitchen, slightly higher-pitched than normal. That’s her nervous voice.
I round the corner to find what looks like a baking bomb has exploded in our kitchen. Flour dusts every surface, there are at least three mixing bowls out, and Genna stands in the center of it all, hair piled messily on top of her head, frantically scrolling through her phone with one hand while measuring vanilla extract with the other.
“Whoa.” I laugh, taking in the scene. “What’s the special occasion?”
Genna’s head snaps up, her eyes wide like I’ve caught her committing a crime. “The game tomorrow. We’re going to the game tomorrow afternoon, right? The tickets Dylan sent us?”
I nod, feeling a little flutter at the mention of his name. Which is ... new. And slightly concerning.
“Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t realize hockey spectating required homemade baked goods.”
“They don’t,” she mumbles, returning to her phone. “These are for Paul.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Paul? As in, the rookie Paul? Dylan’s teammate Paul?”
“Do we know another Paul?” She now measures sugar with shaking hands, spilling some on the counter. “Shoot!”
I cross over to her, gently taking the measuring cup. “Here, let me help before you burn the place down. Since when are you baking for Paul?”
Genna’s cheeks flush, making her look more like her teenage self than the confident woman I know. “Since he texted me after Dylan’s party. We’ve been talking since Thanksgiving.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I’m genuinely surprised. Genna tells me everything, especially dating stuff.
She shrugs, looking slightly guilty. “You were still in mourning mode. I didn’t want to seem insensitive, talking about a new guy when you were still crying over Garrett.”
