Page 63 of Second Chance Faceoff

Colton let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing the spot where I’d nudged him.

“Do I have a choice?” He was smiling.

“No, you don’t,” I shot back, but my voice was softer now.

“I just—” I exhaled, shaking my head. “I can’t believe how little you fight for yourself. You could leave at the end of the year if you want, but if you leave… who wins?”

“Vanessa. Vanessa wins.” I answered for him.

He was staring at me now.

“My advice?” I continued, quieter this time. “Stand up for yourself, Colton.”

The shift happened fast. The fight drained out of his stance. Before I could register it, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me in.

A hug. Strong, warm—decisive.

Well, that wasn't the reaction I expected. But hey, Colton's arms around me. I'll take it.

“You’re really bossy, you know that?” he murmured into my ear.

A surprised laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

And then, he pulled me in tighter. “Thanks.”

I leaned my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat.

I let out a slow breath, then pulled back just a little—just enough to slip my hand from the nape of his neck and rest it against his cheek instead. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, a little rough from the day.

“Focus on yourself first,” I said, quieter now. My thumb brushed over his cheekbone, and I swallowed, ignoring how my heart was suddenly too aware of itself. “Then we can figure out how to work together on us.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

I pushed up onto my toes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips. Barely more than a breath.

Then I eased back down, stepping away before I could start apologizing or rambling or messing up whatever this was.

Chapter eighteen

Colton: Skates and Scars

The sun hadn’t cleared the rooftops yet, but I was already wide awake, sitting at the counter in joggers and a T-shirt, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee I wasn’t drinking. No music. No TV. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling.

Riley’s words kept circling my head. Now I need to figure out my next move.

Focus on yourself first.

I stood up, stretching my back until something cracked. The kitchen looked the same way I felt—functional, but not exactly alive. I opened the dishwasher, loaded last night’s plate, a couple of forks, a glass, and hit start. It wasn’t much, but it beat staring at the mug.

I'd been ignoring a stack of boxes in the corner since the day I moved in. I walked over and pulled one open—random stuff from my last place. Wires, gloves, and some old team gear. At the bottom, under a tangle of lanyards and receipts, I found a photo in a beat-up black frame.

My dad and I, right after my first NHL goal. I had the puck in one hand, helmet still on. He had his arm around my shoulder, looking proud and about ten years younger.

I turned it over in my hands, thumb brushing over the corner. Then I set it on the counter.

Didn’t mean I had answers yet.

But at least I knew what the goal was.

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