Page 5

“Your mother absolutely disagrees,” Mom chimes in, shaking her head as she returns to the closet.

I smile up at the man who raised me to know the difference between a good man and a great one. “Mom was just about to get all sentimental.”

“Was not.” She tilts her head toward the ceiling, pretending to study a spot above us as she blinks back tears, doing that thing she’s been doing all week–trying to act brave instead of heartbroken.

“We’re just so damn proud of you, Laney Bug.” Dad’s expression softens. “I hope you know that.”

I nod, and now I’m the one blinking too much.

I do know.

But it’s still nice to hear.

Especially as the daughter of a hockey coach, in a house that lived and breathed the sport. Dad coached Declan and Bishop for years before they went on to North Pines University together, and after three seasons there, the pros came calling.

Declan left, signed his contract, and never looked back.

Nobody questioned it. Nobody expected him to have a future mapped out beyond the rink because his future had always been obvious.

Hockey.

Declan could leave college early because he had somewhere extraordinary to go. I finished my bachelor’s, and then my master’s, because I was still trying to figure out what my extraordinary looked like. Apparently, right now, it looks like an editorial fellowship in Chicago. And maybe someday it’ll look like finally publishing one of my own stories.

“You worked really hard for this.” Mom interrupts my spiral and pulls me into a hug. “And even though I’m going to miss you…” Her voice catches. “I’m so happy for you.”

“We both are.” Dad folds his tall frame around us, his arms squeezing tight. His spicy aftershave mixes with Mom’s familiar vanilla perfume, and for one ridiculous second, I wish I could bottle the smell and take it with me.

Mom releases me and swipes beneath one eye. “So is Declan.”

I snort. “Declan thinks I’m going to get mugged within forty-eight hours.”

“He does not.”

“He sent me pepper spray.”

Her lips twitch. “That was your father.”

“I got her the whistle.” Dad looks entirely too proud of himself.

“Of course you did.”

“Well, make sure you pack both.” Mom kisses my temple.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dad’s gaze moves around my room before landing on the small TV mounted across from my bed. “Speaking of things you’re packing, does this apartment of yours have a TV?”

“I assume so. Why?”

“You’ll need somewhere to watch the game tomorrow night.”

I stare at him. “What game?”

His eyebrows climb. “Your brother's.”

“Oh.”

“St. Louis plays Chicago tomorrow.”