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Then he grins, turns toward the door, and says, “See you tomorrow, Sutton.”

The door shuts behind him, and I’m left with a much bigger crush than I had an hour or so ago.

And a quandary.

Do I go into the kitchen and leave the casserole and cookies, basically confirming that I am who he thinks I am, or do I take them home and leave him and Brewser without dinner today?

Of course, I go into the kitchen and unpack my tote bag.

CHAPTER 9

LAWSON

We call it bonkers hockey. For good reason. Breaking into song and dance periodically, letting the fans change the rules as the game goes, and sometimes wearing costumes while we play is all a little bonkers.

So is making goals each worth two points in the second period and each worth three points in the third. So is having dance-offs as tiebreakers. So is making one team play with miniature hockey sticks if they pull ahead by four points or more.

But when I steal the puck from Zeke, and he cusses colorfully, and I see Beckett down the ice and know exactly where to place it for him to take it to the net, and he slides the puck smoothly past Hudson, and our team throws their hands in the air while the little kids sitting right along the ice cheer—well, hockey doesn’t get more real than that.

I skate over and fist bump Beckett.

“Nice shot,” I tell him.

“Nice pass,” he returns with a grin.

“Damn, the two of you make a good team,” Teddy tells us, skating up to slap us each on the back.

I glance over at the five eight- or nine-year-old boys whooping it up and high-fiving one another. I grin. They would be doing that even if the other team had scored.

This is only practice, but our practices are open and invite fan involvement, just like every single other thing to do with hockey in Rebel.

“Fan club is impressed,” Alex comments to Beckett, nudging him and nodding with his chin.

It’s not the little boys he’s focused on, though.

“Do you think one of them is your stalker?”

“I hope so,” Beckett says with a grin.

Three women in their mid-twenties are sitting near the top of the first tier of seats. They’ve been watching practice raptly, even as they have chatted and laughed throughout. They look vaguely familiar, and I’m sure they’ve been to games, and maybe even practice, before.

They’re all very attractive, and the thought that one of them could be the woman turning up on Beckett’s front porch on a regular basis occurred to me as well.

Followed shortly by the idea that one of them could also be whoever has been sneaking into my kitchen.

Though a huge part of my brain is preoccupied with the idea that it’s Sutton, I don’t know that for sure and seeing these three women here today does make me wonder. The two-friends-who-are-hockey-fans-and-came-up-with-this-crazy-flirty-stalking-plot-together makes a lot of sense, actually.

“Just better hope it’s not them,” I say, surreptitiously motioning toward the other fans watching practice today.

A pair of women are sitting about ten rows up behind the boys. Those women are easily in their seventies, if not eighties. I assume they are the boys’ grandmothers but…

He grins. “Noted. I’ll be careful if they come down for an autograph.”

A short, shrill whistle blasts across the ice, and my heartbeat immediately starts galloping, as if I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs.

The hockey portion of practice is over, which means it’s time for singing and dancing. Which means it’s time for Sutton to join us.

I turn quickly and watch her skate over to the rest of the team near the benches.