Page 22 of Pucked Mountain Man
“Then tell me what it was.” He shoves again, harder. “Because from where I’m standing, my best friend broke my baby sister’s heart.”
I shove back—not hard, just enough to put space between us. “I didn’t mean to.” My voice cracks, traitor. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I rake both hands through my hair, pacing toward the window and back. “What do you want me to say, Thatch? That I love her?” The words rip out of me before I can cage them. My chest heaves. “Because I do. God help me, I do. And that’s exactly why I let her go.”
Thatcher blinks. The fury falters, replaced by suspicion. “You love her?”
“Yes.” My throat burns. “But I’m not whole. Not anymore. You’ve seen my knee. You’ve read the stats. I’m hanging on by tape and pride. And Stevie—she deserves more than a broken hockey player who might be done before thirty.”
He studies me, jaw tight. “She doesn’t care about your knee, Grady. She cares about you.”
I laugh, hollow. “You think I don’t know that? That’s the problem. She looks at me like I’m still the guy with wings on his back, flying down the ice. But I’m not. Not anymore.”
For a long beat, neither of us speaks. Rain streaks down the glass like punctuation.
Then Thatcher exhales, slow, like deflating. “You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re also my best friend. Which is the only reason I’m not dragging you by your inked-up neck to her door right now.” His voice softens just enough to sting. “She’s always been the brave one. Singing when nobody listened. Dreaming when everybody told her it was just a hobby. And you—big, tough Grady Jones—you’re gonna let fear keep you from her?”
I flinch.
He steps closer, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “If you love her, treat her like a queen. Make it up to her. Prove it. Or I swear, friend or not, I will kick your ass into next week.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “With this knee? Wouldn’t be hard.”
He smirks, but only for a second. “Then fix it. Rehab it. But don’t think for one second that girl cares about your stats more than she cares about you showing up.”
The silence after is heavier, but it’s different—less storm, more truth settling.
For the first time since Alaska, the weight shifts in my chest. Not gone. Just… rearranged.
I think of Stevie on the couch, straddling me with firelight painting her freckles gold. Of her voice soft at my ear:Let me take care of you.Of her bravery inked under her ribs where no one else sees it.
She didn’t wait for permission to begin. Why should I?
I nod once, jaw tight. “You’re right.”
“Damn straight I am.” He heads for the door, still bristling, but not murderous. “You’ve got one shot, Jones. Don’t blow it.”
When he’s gone, the penthouse is quiet again. The skyline glitters like it’s mocking me.
I limp to the window, palm flat on the cold glass, and catch my reflection: a man with wings inked on his back who forgot he could still fly.
I grab my phone.
Time to remember.
NINE
STEVIE
My gut twists as I step into the honey arena.
The familiar scents of popcorn and adrenaline tickle my nose along with the cold. Normally, I’d find that comforting. It’s usually a reminder of growing up in the bleachers. Waving homemade signs for Thatcher. Pretending being known exclusively as “the little sister” didn’t bother me.
