Page 113 of Pucking Daddy

I glance at her.

“It was,” I admit. “Hockey was my whole life. Since I was a kid. Every decision, every move—it all led there.”

“And then it just… ended.”

“Not ended,” I correct. “Changed.”

She nods, like she understands—and I think she does.

We order a second coffee, keep talking as we eat.

When she laughs, she tips her head back, her eyes bright.

Something in my chest shifts again.

Christ.

I clear my throat, reaching for my coffee.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

I hesitate.

Then, because I’m apparently incapable of filtering myself around her, I say, “That you’re easy to be around when you’re not arguing with me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

I hold up a hand. “That came out wrong.”

“It really did.”

“I meant—” I exhale. “This. Right now. It’s… good.”

She studies me for a second longer.

Then she leans back slightly. “It is,” she admits.

Yeah. It is.

We leave the café an hour later.

I don’t tell her where we’re going next.

But when we arrive at the small practice rink, it’s quiet. Tucked away—the kind of place used for private ice time and off-hours training.

She slows when we step inside. “Jaxon…”

“Come on,” I say, already moving.

“I don’t skate,” she calls after me.

“You do today.”

“That sounds like a threat.”