Page 105 of Caught from Behind

“If your grown-up says it’s okay.”

“Dad?” he calls. “Can I get my hair braided?”

The handsome man sporting a Sierra jersey a row back smiles. “If it’s okay with the nice lady.”

“Two or one braid?” I ask.

“Two!”

“Done.” I set to work, corralling the kiddo’s hair into two sleek braids. “I don’t have any bows though.”

“That’s okay,” he says, wiggling with excitement as I finish the second one.

“Glitter?”

An eager nod.

Sparkles placed, we fist-bump and then he’s running off to show his dad.

“Braids? Me?” a girl who’s maybe four and adorable in her tiny Sierra jersey asks.

I find the grown-up who belongs to her and she nods, and then I’m the braid master—pigtails for the little girl in front of me and then shifting course to wrangle tiny ones into a boy’s short hair before I secure his sister’s longer locks into a single plait that hangs down her back.

I’ve just run out of hair ties—oh the humanity—when I hear?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I look up, see that the guys have come out onto the ice. Knox is running through his usual routine near the bench, Lake is stretching while the ladies drool on, and Riggs—my heart flutters, absolutely fucking flutters in my chest—is right in front of me.

He holds up a puck, and the flutters go again.

But I shake my head and point to the kids around me.

His mouth twitches, but he bends and grabs a different puck, tossing it up and over the boards, and then repeating the same until the kids all around us have them.

“You’re going to run out,” I mouth.

He just winks, holds one last puck up, and mouths, “Yours.”

I inhale, look around as though that will calm the nerves, and when it doesn’t, I embrace the inevitable and hold out my hands for the puck.

He tosses it over the glass, and it lands unerringly in my palms with a quiet smack.

I pretend like I’m going to shove it in my pocket?—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Lips twitching, I meet his gaze through the glass, watch as he mimes looking down at an invisible puck in his gloved hand.

Mischief brewing, I glance down at the puck in my hand then back up and shrug.

He rolls his eyes, repeats the movement.

I hold up my hand, show him the puck in my palm.

I’ve positioned it with the Sierra logo facing up, hiding whatever spicy message my man has no doubt written on it.

Another tap, tap, tap.

---