Page 62 of Heartfelt Goals

“The game was incredible,” she said after a beat.

“I’m just really glad we won,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “For a minute there, I thought I was going to miss a puck.”

“You did great,” she reassured him.

“I’m feeling it, though,” he confessed, flexing his fingers as if shaking off the lingering strain of the game.

Laurel tilted her head, considering him. “Why don’t we go stretch and…”

The words trailed off, the invitation lingering between them like an unspoken promise, thickening the air with something unnameable yet impossible to ignore. Laurel stood in the kitchen, her heart pounding in her chest, feeling the shift between them like the edge of a storm rolling in—charged, electric, inevitable.

Dustin exhaled, looking away as if he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze, his hands gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “It’s okay, Laurel,” he said quietly, his voicerough with restraint. “I know things are changing between us, but I’m not in a good place right now.”

Her brows drew together.

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his body taut as if bracing for impact. “I’m… I’m still in the post-game rush.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Okaaay,” she drew out, stretching the word like a question. “What does that have to do with anything?”

His jaw flexed. “I need to go burn off some energy—and you should probably just go to bed,” he said tightly, every syllable clipped, controlled. Without another word, he turned and strode off, leaving his untouched tea on the counter.

Laurel stood frozen for a moment, staring after him, her lips parting in shock before curving into something softer, something knowing. So that was it. That explained the heated looks, the restless energy, the way he’d been avoiding certain topics—or maybe just avoiding her. He was all adrenaline and unchecked aggression, his body still buzzing from the game, from the thrill of it. And yet, he was holding back.

Not because he wasn’t feeling it.

Because hewas.

The realization sent a slow, delicious awareness through her.

Her fingers brushed against the ceramic of his abandoned mug as she picked it up, the warmth of it bleeding into her palm. She could still hear him moving down the hallway, could picture the way he would drop to the floor, muscles tightening, pushing himself hard, trying to work off the energy that had nowhere else to go.

But what if she pushed? Just a little.

What if she tipped over the fragile balance he was desperately trying to maintain?

A slow breath escaped her as she followed him, the air shifting as she stepped into the doorway of the small nook he had claimed for himself. It was barely a space at all, just a carved-out corner near the hallway where she had once envisioned a cozy reading spot. Now, it belonged to him—his mat, his weights, his place to wrestle his demons in silence.

He didn’t look at her right away, but he knew she was there.

“Don’t…” Dustin warned, his voice low, strained. “Just go get ready for bed and give me some space.”

Laurel ignored him, leaning casually against the doorframe, watching him with quiet intent.

He was still in the sweatpants he’d worn from the game, the soft fabric clinging to his legs, and a T-shirt that stretched over the strong lines of his chest and shoulders. His hair was still slightly damp, his jaw tight, his hands fisted at his sides as though he were barely holding himself together.

His eyes flicked up to her, sharp, blue, stormy.

“You don’t listen any more than she does,” he bit out, jerking his chin toward the ceiling, his voice laced with frustration.

Laurel crossed her arms over her chest, studying him. “Why are you getting so upset?”

His head dipped for half a second before he looked at her again, something dark flashing across his face. “Why did you write about me?”

Her stomach flipped.

Before she could answer, he sighed heavily and turned away, dropping down to the mat in one fluid motion. His body moved on instinct, pushing into the first set of push-ups, each motion precise, controlled, punishing. She knew his routine by now—this was just the start. Next would be stretches, then crunches, then more stretching.

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