Page 73 of Slap Shot Daddies

The house is enveloped in a serene quiet when I return.

Braden’s skateboard is propped up by the door, its wheels still dusty from his afternoon ride. Ambrose’s boots sit by the steps, damp traces of mud clinging to their soles.

I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter with a clatter, then sink heavily onto the couch, phone clutched in my hand.

The screen remains blank. Nothing.

I text the guys again, even though we just spoke.

>> No word yet.

Braden>> She’ll get back to us, man. She always does.

Ambrose>> Yeah. She’s probably just sleeping.

I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to dispel this gnawing restlessness. Maybe they’re right. Maybe she’s just resting.

But the thought nags at me, maybe she’s not.

I cast a glance around the room. The expansive sectional where we’ve all crammed together with her, watching late-night movies. The kitchen, still harboring the memory of Ambrose cooking that homemade Alfredo, the dish that made her eyes sparkle with delight. The corner where Braden once pinned her against the wall, thinking none of us noticed. She’s everywhere, woven seamlessly into the fabric of our lives now.

I want her to understand that.

I send one more text.

>> We’re here, Kenz. Whatever you need.

I toss the phone onto the couch, but my eyes keep darting back to it, hoping for a sign. I don’t know what we are, or where this is going.

But I know one thing for sure. I don’t want to lose her.

My phone buzzes again. The sound is jarring, a sudden intrusion in the stillness of the room.

I reach for it, suddenly noticing Coach’s name flickering on the screen with an urgency that tightens my stomach.

Coach doesn’t usually reach out beyond team business hours unless there’s something significant on the horizon.

I swipe the screen open to read the brief message.

>> Call me when you get a minute.

“Aye, right then,” I murmur under my breath, my fingers tapping the call button with a mix of anticipation and curiosity.

The line rings twice, a short wait before his gruff voice comes through, resonating with authority.

“MacDonald. Got a minute?”

“Aye, Coach. What’s up?” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

He clears his throat, his tone clipped yet not unkind. “Look, I want to work a few new drills into our routine. I need a leader on the ice helping me push the pace, and I know you can get the guys moving. Can you come in early tomorrow, run some of it with me before everyone else shows up?”

Pride swells within me, an immediate, warm surge that fills my chest. “Of course, Coach. Whatever ye need. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Six-thirty sharp. Appreciate it.” His words are succinct, and he hangs up without further ado, but I’m left smiling as I toss the phone back onto the table with a sense of accomplishment.

Recognition like that…it’s why I push myself so damn hard.

But my grin fades as I catch sight of the unopened chat with Kenzie, a silent reminder resting on the screen.

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