It’s not polished. It’s not a moment for the camera. It’s aquick, bashful grin that makes my chest tighten for no good reason at all.
I stare at the screen, my tea cooling in my hands. Inside my head? There’s screaming. Why does it feel like he’s looking right atme?
I shake my head, exhaling softly before I can stop myself. “Okay. No. Absolutely not.”
I drag my gaze away from the television. “I am not getting hypnotized through a screen by Sawyer flippin’ Stockton.”
Plants, I tell myself firmly. Plants, plants, plants. I love plants and I love paper.
If there’s one thing I can do, it’s focus. I don’t know if it’s as intense as the focus a hockey player needs. But it’s single-mom focus, which, well, is everything.
I grab the remote and turn the television off as I reach for my laptop and flip it open. Sawyer’s great for the camera, and judging by what I just witnessed for myself, he could probably talk an Eskimo into buying ice in Alaska.
Take advantage while the opportunity is here. Yes, Mother, I will.
I pull up Carol’s email, catching my reflection briefly flashing back at me in the darkened screen before the inbox loads. I really need to brush my hair before it’s afternoon, but I’ve got no time, at least not right now.
For once, there isn’t fear humming in my chest. There’s warmth and something softer. Possibility, maybe? I don’t know, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything close to hope, but that’s what this has to be. There’s a quiet certainty threading through it—a sense that if I don’t take this step now, I’ll regret it later.
I rest my fingers on the keys and smile to myself, small and private, as I begin to type.
Outside, this gorgeous city keeps moving. Somewhere across town, a hockey player is probably laughing with his teammates,unaware that his appearance in my life is about to set a few things in motion.
And for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t make me anxious.
But I am intrigued.
CHAPTER 7
SAWYER
The locker room is intense, boiling to the literal brim with post-practice energy. Sticks clatter into racks while skates thud onto rubber mats, and everyone in here is talking over one another as they peel off their gear. Steam curls up from the showers at the far end, fogging the mirrors and softening the harsh fluorescent lights. The Birdcage never really quiets; even here, even now, it feels like it’s waiting for something.
I drop onto the bench and loosen my skates first, flexing my feet until the pressure fades. Then I stretch out my calves, slow and deliberate, before rolling my shoulders and working out the ache in that good, bone-deep exhausted way.
Owen drops down beside me, tugging his towel over his head. “Grab some dinner?”
“Nope,” I say without looking up.
Ty swivels from his locker, half-dressed, hair still plastered to his forehead. “Wow. Didn’t even pretend to think about it.”
“I’m getting up early,” I say, yanking one skate free. “Extra ice.”
Owen nods. “Playoff brain.”
“That, plus,” I add, “I’ve got the plant store tomorrow afternoon.”
Ty scowls my way. It’s one thing he can do really well. I mean, he’s good at a lot of things, but scowling? He should get a gold medal for it.
“I know we were all jokey and ‘ha ha’ about it the other night, but…” He shakes his head. “But this timing, you having to do extra things while we’re focused on getting to the playoffs, feels irresponsible to me.”
“If anyone can handle juggling a full schedule, it’s this guy.” Owen stands, tossing his towel into the team hamper, and shuts his locker door before he thumps me on my back. I nod a silent thanks his way as he continues. “Sawyer Stockton might be our defenseman by night, but for a few weeks, he is also a fern enthusiast by day.”
“I am not an enthusiast,” I say flatly. “I am fulfilling a promise. But, I should be a lesson to all of you to not do what I do.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. You are.” Owen chuckles.
“Look, I’m not giving you grief, I just want to make sure you’re good with it.” Ty’s tone is thoughtful, but then it shifts. “And, actually, my placecoulduse some plants.”
