He laughs, delighted with himself. Nicklas has a reputation. Puck bunny hound. Media darling. The guy who leans into the role they’ve carved out for him. But I don’t take anything he says to me seriously. I’ve seen him when no one else is watching.
When the café is empty and the lights are dim.
When he lingers, quiet, thoughtful, staring into his mug like it might hold answers to…something he’s seeking, but might be afraid of actually finding. He’s offered to help stack chairs, wipe counters, take the trash out. No cameras. No fans. No teammates. There’s something softer under all that shine. I think about his family, where he comes from, why he feels safe to shut down around me, and me only. I don’t ask. It’s not my business. But I’m here if he ever wants to talk.
“Shut the fuck up, Rookie,” Tuck mutters, kicking him under the table. “God, I don’t want you anywhere near Kate.”
Kate.
The name lands like a pebble dropped into still water.
Who the hell is Kate?
If there even is a Kate. Maybe I misheard him. Maybe he said something else. And even if he didn’t—if Kate exists—it’s none of my business.
Absolutely none.
So why does my stomach tighten like someone just pulled a drawstring?
Nicklas winces. “What was that for, dude?”
“Maria is not one of your puck bunnies,” Tuck says, voice low but sharp. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it.
Nicklas’s grin softens, the cocky edge fading. He tips his head toward me, that dimple flashing. “Sorry, Maria.”
“It’s okay,” I say lightly, leaning toward Tuck. “I always save the cinnamon rolls that fall on the floor for Nicklas.”
“Hey!” Nicklas protests, scandalized.
I laugh, the sound bubbling up and lighting the mood around me. Nicklas smiles at me then—real, unguarded—and for a second he doesn’t look like a professional athlete with endorsement deals and a tabloid trail. He looks young. Almost boyish.
Older than my sons, sure. But not by much.
And maybe that’s why I see it.
That flicker of vulnerability he tries so hard to bury. The loneliness that peeks through when he thinks no one’s paying attention. I know that look. I’ve raised boys. I’ve watched them try to be bigger than their feelings.
Nicklas and I have this unspoken understanding. His teasing is harmless. Easy. Safe. I think, if I’m honest, he looks at me like I’m something steady. Something solid. Maybe even something maternal. Which makes the way Tuck is looking at me now feel anything but safe.
Because there’s nothing maternal in his gaze.
It’s warm. Intent. A little territorial.
And entirely too aware.
My pulse stumbles again.
I focus on the coffee pot in my hands, on the dishwasher running in the kitchen, anything but the memory of how close his mouth was to mine yesterday.
Too close.
Close enough that I can still feel it.
“What can I get you to eat?” I ask, tucking the order pad under my arm even though I already know what they’re going to say. Hockey players are creatures of habit.
“I’ll have the seafood chowder,” Tuck says without hesitation.
