Page 85 of The Rebound Plan

I could. I probably should.

But I can only peel off so many layers of my skin in one day, and there’s something else I need to talk to her about, too.

And when Harper gets a phone call from her mom and excuses herself to go up to the mezzanine, I realize there’s no time like the present.

“Listen, I need to hit pause on the podcast idea.”

Kiley’s face falls. “Oh no. Can I ask why? Is there anything I can do to lighten the workload?”

I shake my head. I practiced this. But my voice still catches. “I think there’s a reason I spent so long developing the idea. I don’t think I’m the right person to host it.”

“I think you’re perfect.”

I laugh weakly. “Definitely not. But I love your vote of confidence, thank you.”

“Let me know if you ever change your mind. I remain excited about producing a show for you.”

“Thank you. You’re the best.”

She glances at her watch, where a text message has just shown up. And she smiles with a secret pleasure that makes my chest hurt, it’s so beautiful.

“Is Ty finished now?”

“It’s fine, I can keep talking about this,” she says hastily.

I shake my head. “Go. Find your man. Make him buy you lunch.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night? Did you see that Jenson booked a suite for us?”

I noticed the group texts about the WAGs sitting in a suite instead of family seats closer to the ice. I hadn’t replied yet because… Well, I hadn’t replied for silly reasons. I’m going to cling to this girl group as long as I can. “Yep. I’ll see you back here for the game.”

When she leaves, I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, and I watch Russ skate circles around the less skilled players. He steals their pucks and gets in their way. He fucks up their shit in every possible way, until he’s called over by the coach, presumably to give the rest of them a chance to do anything without a mountain ruining it for them.

He spends the rest of practice chatting with the coach, looking as casual as can be. I walk down to the edge of the upper bowl and sit there, as if being fifteen feet closer will make a difference.

Or maybe I want him to see me, because when he looks up, I wave.

Even from this distance, I can see the surprise on his face. He waves back.

I pull out my phone, knowing he won’t see the message until he’s changing back into his street clothes.

Shannon: Good practice today. What’s up with the AHL group assignment, though?

I’m about to go into a Pilates class when his response finally arrives.

Russ: Who knows. Just gotta roll with the punches. It was nice to see you in the stands.

Shannon: I’ll be watching tomorrow night, too.

Russ: I better make the starting line up, then.

I have to put my phone away after that, but when I finish the class and check again, there’s another message.

Russ: I wasn’t sure if I could text you.

Wild, electric heat rolls through me. He shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t encourage him. But my phone has a password on it that Max doesn’t know. It’s one of the first questions the divorce attorney asked me, and thankfully, despite all the other ways our lives are entangled, our phones have always been ours alone.

Except for my location tracking, which I’ve now turned off—probably one of the reasons Max stopped speaking to me again.

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