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“Oh,” she breathes, brown eyes wide and locked on me. “As friends? Or as a date?”

My stomach plummets, the question unexpected and terrifying. Cheeks burning hot, I open and close my mouth twice before looking for the best way to exit the entire conversation.

But then, Paloma smiles at me. Soft and warm.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was a date,” she offers, eyes dancing.

The sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t disappear, but somehow only grows. It’s warmer, like a buzzing sensation across my body. My skin is littered with goosebumps that I blame on the cool October breeze.

“A date then.” I nod. “Tomorrow—seven a.m.”

It’s ridiculously too soon and too early in the morning. I didn’t even pose it as a question. And yet—

“It’s a date.”

• • •

“Is that—both of your parents?”

Freddy is the one who asks, but only because I know the answer to that question. Anna and Max Koteskiy are in the stands of our practice—usually forbidden, but I’m not surprised the couple is making an appearance.

Rhys nods and laughs at Freddy’s very hungover and very confused face.

Max is tall and domineering even from a distance, but as soft as they come for his wife and son. Right now, however, he keeps his face stony and intense, one hand resting gently on the back of his wife’s neck. A pillar of strength at her back.

“That’s Maximillian Koteskiy,” one of the upperclassmen says. He elbows Freddy, who nearly collapses in a way that makes me question if he’s showed up to practice not just hungover, but drunk. “He still holds the record for most Stanley Cup wins—the last great enforcer.”

Rhys smiles, the proud son to match his equally proud father. “Yeah, that’s my dad. He swore he wouldn’t pop in for hockey, so it must be for my mom.”

Anna looks soft, and she is, but she’s also fiercely protective. Her hair is in a slicked ponytail and she’s wearing a long turtleneck dress. As always, she looks much younger than she is. Which means I’m used to the comments that I know are coming.

“Holy shiiit, Koteskiy,” one of them chuckles. “That’s your mom? Goddamn—”

I’m grabbing for the guy before I can even figure out who it is.

“Watch it,” I snap, eyes darting to everyone around us. “That’s off fucking limits.”

Rhys grabs my jersey and jostles me slightly, so I let go of the upperclassman in my grasp.

Coach Harris blows his whistle then and directs us all to stand or kneel near the benches as Rhys’s parents step forward.

“Hello, boys,” Anna begins, smiling gently and waving to her son, who waves back just as happily—never embarrassed. “I won’t take up your time, but I want to talk to you about the charity I run. It’s for affordable and free housing. And I’d love to have your help.”

She speaks softly, as she always does, and looks so small standing next to the bench, surrounded by sweaty asshole hockey players, it makes something in my chest ache.

If I close my eyes, just the tone of her voice echoes memories of me—at six, seven, ten years old—even at fourteen and sixteen, making biscuits and chocolate gravy with me, or trying anything I cooked, even if it was terrible.

Another memory stirs, of a boy with tears in his eyes and trembling limbs.

A quiet request: “Do you think I could practice? Will you help me?”

“Of course, Ben.” Then, arms surrounding me—in a way that, for the first time in my life, didn’t make me panic.

I shake my head, almost too harshly, jostling Rhys. He steadies me without looking away from where his father is now speaking, hand on his mother’s shoulder as she gazes up at him and kisses his knuckles.

The Koteskiys have always been overly affectionate—something I never saw growing up, even if it’s too painful to admit.

My parents loved each other. They did—