Page 73 of Huge Pucking Play

The realization doesn't come with fireworks or dramatic music. It's quiet, certain, like recognizing something I've known all along. Watching him lick ice cream from his fingers, joking with a shopkeeper who passes by our bench, gently wiping a drop from the corner of my mouth—I love all of it. I love him.

The knowledge sits warm in my chest, new but somehow familiar. I'm not ready to say it out loud—not yet—but I hold it close, this precious certainty.

As afternoon stretches toward evening, we reluctantly decide it's time to head back to the city. Garrett carries our small collection of purchases to the car, his free hand never leaving mine for long.

"Thank you for today," I say as he opens my car door. "It was perfect."

"Even better than a 'Fast and Furious' marathon?" he teases.

"Much better. Though there's always this weekend for that."

His smile at the casual mention of the weekend—the assumption that we'll spend it together too—makes my heart skip.

"I'd like that," he says simply.

As we drive back toward Chicago, the setting sun painting the sky in pinks and golds, I rest my hand on his thigh, a mirror ofhis earlier position. The words "I love you" hover on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. Not yet. But maybe soon.

Chapter 21

Cyn

Ipush through the glass doors of the Blades facility with a smile I can't seem to shake. My body aches in the most delicious ways, tiny reminders of last night with Garrett scattered across my skin like invisible tattoos. I check my reflection in the window of an office – professional ponytail, crisp white polo, no visible evidence of the fact I fell asleep wrapped in the arms of the team's assistant coach.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Garrett: Morning, beautiful. Missing you already.

I bite my lip, fighting back a ridiculous grin. Yesterday was perfect. Long Grove with its little shops and romantic covered bridge. Garrett in a plaid shirt, looking nothing like a former NHL star as he carried bags containing treasures we found. His shoulder pressed against mine while we sat on the bench eating ice cream and watching the leaves fall around us.

Before I can reply, he texts again.

Garrett: You sure your neighbors didn't hear us last night?"

Heat crawls up my neck. Last night. God. The way he'd pressed me against my apartment door the minute it closed. The way he'd carried me to bed. The way he'd...

"Cyn? Earth to Cynthia!"

I nearly drop my phone, fumbling it back into my pocket while spinning around.

"Down here," says the voice again. Adam stands at the junction of two corridors, waving impatiently. "Come drink coffee with me before we start sessions.”

"Yes! Five minutes."

He nods and disappears. It’s been too long since we’ve properly caught up.

I exhale slowly, check my surroundings, and pull my phone back out.

Me: Neighbors definitely heard. Don't care. See you later?

I press send and continue down the hall, nodding at a few staff members I pass. This building has become a second home over the last few months. My first real job after certification – physical therapist for an NHL team. Some days I still can't believe they hired me.

I round the corner toward the PT offices, my mind still half-tangled in bedsheets with Garrett, when I spot him. He's coming from the coaches' suite, tablet in hand, talking with Coach Martinez. Professional. Distant. Nothing in his posture suggests he was whispering filthy things in my ear twelve hours ago.

Our eyes meet. His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those deep brown eyes. Something just for me.

Martinez claps him on the shoulder and veers off toward the executive offices. Garrett glances around, then takes a few casual steps in my direction.

"Morning, Ms. Lockhart," he says in his very professional voice.

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