“Obviously,” Genna agrees, though there’s something in her tone I can’t quite read. “Just a ‘please don’t kill my potential boyfriend’ offering.”
When we’re finished, I sneak a small piece of plain cookie—no chocolate—to Jhett, who has been waiting patiently throughout the entire baking process. He takes it delicately from my fingers, then immediately swallows it whole.
“So much for savoring.” I laugh.
Genna wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. “Thank you for helping me make perfect cookies for the perfect rookie.”
I hug her back, realizing how nice it feels to be focused on someone else’s romance instead of my own failed relationship. “Anytime. Though I expect full details if these cookies actually make him fall in love.”
“Deal,” she promises, pulling away to admire our handiwork once more.
Later, after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen and Genna’s gone to call Paul, I find myself sitting on the couch, absently scratching Jhett’s ears while staring at the container of cookies we made for Dylan.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him again at the game.
The thought sends an unexpected flutter through my stomach.
What is that about?
I mean, sure, Dylan’s been incredibly sweet these past two weeks. The ridiculous elf costume, the tree shopping, the dinner after ... He’s gone out of his way to cheer me up, and it’s worked. But this fluttery feeling when I think about seeing him again?
That’s new. And confusing.
Maybe it’s just gratitude. Or maybe it’s the natural response to being treated kindly after a breakup. Rebound feelings, or whatever psychology calls it.
Because developing actual feelings for Dylan Williamston would be completely insane. He’s Genna’s brother. He’s my friend. He’s a professional athlete with a different woman on his arm every weekend, if the tabloids are to be believed.
And yet...
I can’t quite shake the memory of how it felt sitting across from him at that Italian restaurant, when the world seemed to fade away for a moment. Or how he looked in the glow of the Christmas lights, helping decorate our tree.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell Jhett, who looks up at me with complete canine devotion. “I’m not interested in Dylan. That would be complicated and messy and ... ridiculous.”
Jhett tilts his head, unconvinced.
I glance at the cookies again and sigh. “I’m just excited about the hockey game. That’s all.”
But even to my own ears, it doesn’t sound very convincing.
Chapter Eleven
Dylan
Why am I feeling so nervous right now?
I’m never nervous before games. My pre-game jitters vanished somewhere around peewee league. But tonight, I’ve reverted to being a twelve-year-old with sweaty palms, all because I know Cheyenne is going to be in the stands. Which is weird, because it’s not like this is the first time she’s ever been to a Glaciers game ...
I arrange my pads in perfect order, the same way I have before hundreds of games. Left shin guard, right shin guard. Chest protector. Elbow pads.
But somehow, everything feels off.
I grab my stick, the familiar weight feels strange in my hands. The tape job is crucial—not too thick, not too thin. Hockeyplayers are notoriously superstitious, and I’m no exception. Three wraps around the top, then working my way down in a perfect spiral. But my fingers aren’t cooperating. The edge of the tape is uneven where it’s usually precise.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself, unwrapping the messy section to start again.
My phone buzzes on the bench beside me, and I nearly drop my stick reaching for it.
Cheyenne:Good luck tonight! We’re on our way. Genna says not to break your face because she needs you presentable for Christmas photos.
