Page 52 of Wrong Score

Ryker doesn’t answer right away. We’re both silent as we turn down a narrow, winding path through the park, surrounded by tall trees and the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. I wonder if he’s going to press me on what’s waiting for me outside the rink. I’ve been keeping it close to the chest, mulling over what retirement might look like. Hell, I never thought about it seriously before now. Hockey’s been my life, my constant, even when the rest of my world turned upside down. But lately… lately, there’s been more than just hockey waiting for me when I walk out of that stadium.

“I think you could handle it,” I say finally, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. “Juliet’s brother’s well looked after now, yeah? And you’re already splitting your time here and Vancouver. It wouldn't be a stretch to make it permanent.”

Ryker lets out a long breath, considering. “Jerron’s in a great place now. He’s thriving and even has a part time job with Juliet’s new step-dad at the rock climbing gym. But I made a promise to myself that I’d bring the Vikings to the playoffs for my dad,” he says, glancing at me. “Are you really ready to leave it all behind and move back to England?”

I exhale, feeling the weight of the question settle between us. The truth is, I don’t know. But with Rowan there, a glimpse of something more than just hockey, something that feels like home… I can picture it. I’ve tried not to let it settle in, but it’s there, tugging at me more than it should.

Her life and her career is here, and my future is in Liverpool. I’ve had someone move an ocean away for me before. Even if I could get Rowan to not hate me, I can’t ask her to give up everything for me.

“Maybe I am,” I say quietly.

Ryker nods, as if understanding more than I’m saying out loud. We turn back toward the street, picking up the pace as we head back to the apartment building, but there’s a quiet resolve in his expression that tells me he’s considering it.

Chapter Eighteen

Rowan

Shawnie’s girls’ night took an unexpected detour when Ground Zero—the club we’d planned to celebrate at—had a fireplace malfunction earlier in the day.

Luckily, no one was hurt, but some lounge couches and flooring weren’t so lucky. With our original plans literally going up in flames, the unanimous decision was to crash the boys’ unofficial Hawkeyes pool tournament instead.

The energy shifts as soon as we enter Oakley's, a bar filled mostly with Hawkeyes players, friends, and Oakley’s usual patrons. The place pulsates with competition in the air as the large blackboard hung on the left wall of the bar is covered with white chalk outlining the pool tournament bracket currently underway.

When we arrive, Oakley already has a table cleared off and waiting for us to make sure that Shawnie still gets her night. Everyone’s having a good time, ordering drinks and teasing Shawnie for a night that seems destined to be memorable.

Zoey leans in toward me as if about to ask a question until something catches her eye behind me. I turn to see what has her smirking. Across the room, Bex stands by the pool table, his usual self—sharp, composed, holding a cue stick in one hand and a beer in the other, seemingly unaffected by the joy all around him as he carries on a conversation with Seven. Just as Oakley heads to the bar, Bex steps in his path to stop him. Bex asks him a question, I don’t know what it is, but Bex’s eyes shift to Shawnie and then to me as he speaks. Oakley nods and then heads back to the bar.

What did he say?

But Bex returns to his conversation with Seven and doesn’t bother to look this way again.

Soon enough, drinks are passed around, and the guys respectfully leave us to our girls’ night, moving back to their pool tournament. Bex is close by, though, sipping from a glass of water now, his beer long gone. I tell myself I’ve noticed him switch from beer to water because I’m observant—a reporter’s instinct. But if I’m honest, there’s more to it than that. I can’t help but keep track of his every little habit, like how he exhales right before he lines up a shot, or how he crosses his arms with his right hand lifting his thumb to graze over his lower lip when he watches his opponent take theirs. It’s like I’ve memorized all these small details without even meaning to.

Without warning, Shawnie waves him over. “Coach Bex! It’s your birthday too, isn’t it?”

My ears prick up. It’s his birthday? How did I miss that? Some reporter I’ve been lately if I can’t even catch something as basic as the head coach’s birthday.

“Yesterday,” he says simply, shrugging as if it’s no big deal.

Penelope frowns, clearly disappointed. “Why didn’t you tell us? I would’ve gotten you a cake!”

He raises a brow at her. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” he replies, the tiniest trace of amusement slipping through his usual guarded expression.

“Did you make a birthday wish?” Shawnie asks, looking playful but curious, and maybe just starting to feel the birthday drinks.

His gaze shifts to me again, his eyes softening as they settle on my lips before dipping down just slightly, almost like he’s caught up in some thought. His tongue darts out, brushing over his bottom lip, and my heart does a somersault. He breaks his stare and turns back to Shawnie,with a shake of his head. “I’m too old for birthday wishes,” he says with a touch of humor. “But if you want, you can have mine too, Shawnie.”

“Too old, my ass,” I say, unable to resist. This man thinks he’s too old for me, and now too old for birthday wishes.

Bex shifts his eyes back on me and takes steps in my direction. “Did you have something to say about it?” he asks.

“If you’re not going to make a wish, then what’s the harm in sharing it?” I ask, and then hide my grin by taking a drink of my martini.

I should be careful not to drink too much in this situation. I didn’t bring a car to town, I’ll take a rideshare when I’m ready to go home, but I’m already loose with my words when it comes to Bex. Any looser and I might say something I can’t take back.

He lifts a brow, clearly intrigued by my challenge. “What’s in it for me if I share it?”

I smirk, eyeing the pool table behind him. “I’ll tell you what,” I say, stepping closer. “If I make your last shot, you have to spill the wish.”

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