I’m going to kill her. I’m going to walk into that salon and wring her neck with one of her own styling capes. “Who told you that?”
Except I won’t. Because tomorrow morning I’m going to show up early again, probably with coffee, definitely choosing “hug,” and she knows it.
Everyone knows it. And the worst part? I don’t shut it down fast enough.
“Gisele texted the update to your mom, who told Joely, who told Lynsie, who told—well, everyone.” Shep’s grin is unbearable. “Apparently you have a whole system now. Post-it notes. Bingo cards. Greeting choices. It’s like emotional kindergarten, and you picked HUG.”
“It’s not—” I run my hand through my hair—my newly cut, professionally styled hair—and realize that’s only making this worse. “It’s a therapeutic exercise.”
“Therapeutic.” Holden makes air quotes. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It’s not about—”
“I have questions.” Shep holds up a finger. “First: was the hug good? Second: how long did it last? Third: did you smell her hair? Fourth: when’s the bang fest?”
I clench my eyelids closed. Because I did. Not on purpose. She was close and it happened and I’m not admitting that to anyone, ever.
“There’s no bang fest. There’s no anything. It’s professional.”
“But there was hair-smelling?”
“Sawyer, I swear to God—”
“Fifth question: did she teach you how to feel your feelings, or did you just cry into her shoulder while she stroked your beautiful new hair?”
The chirping keeps coming, wave after relentless wave. Every attempt I make to shut it down gets twisted into moreammunition. When I say it’s professional, they howl about professionalism. When I say it’s between friends, they shriek about friendship benefits. When I flat-out tell them to drop it, they chant “hug” like it’s a fight song.
Three years of building authority, and a single greeting choice has reduced me to a joke. No. Not a joke. Something worse.
“Practice.” I raise my voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “Ten minutes. Full gear. Anyone not on the ice gets bag skates until they puke.”
That quiets them—mostly. Shep grins as he reaches for his pads, but he moves at normal speed, which is what matters.
Boone appears at my elbow as I’m lacing up. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look different.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Not bad different. Just... different.”
“It’s a haircut.”
“Mmm.” He’s quiet for a second. “Mom said Gisele’s been working on you. That she has some kind of plan.”
“Mom needs to stop talking to people.”
“She owns a bar. Talking to people is literally her job.” He nudges my shoulder. “I’m just saying—whatever this is, whatever you’re doing with Gisele—you seem less like you’re about to shatter at any moment. That’s good.”
“I wasn’t about to shatter.”
Boone just looks at me. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t need to.
Because we both know I was.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. Just finish lacing up and head for the ice, trying to ignore the way his words settle uncomfortably in my chest. Practice starts messy, which is normal after getting roasted. The guys are still buzzing, and it shows in the first few drills—sloppy passes, lazy skating.
I blow the whistle. “Reset. Again.”
It doesn’t improve. They’re not watching the puck—they’re watching me, waiting for me to snap.
