My dad cocks a brow. “He seems smitten with you.”

I snort laugh; it’s a horrible sound. “He’s like a poster boy for the Boy Scouts of America. I think a Girl Scout leader would be more his type.”

“Opposites attract.” He shrugs, maybe trying to come across as nonchalant, but I know my dad, and I can tell he’s fishing.

“Are you saying I couldn’t be a Girl Scout leader?”

“You’re more suited to the rebel faction, I think.” He grins and I laugh.

He’s not wrong. “Well, he seems like a rule follower, and you made it pretty clear that I’m off limits, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Kingston.” It’s me he should be concerned about, because as much as we might be mutually off limits, there’s clearly an attraction we’re both fighting. Kingston seems a lot more capable of keeping himself in check than I am.

CHAPTER 7

DODGE AND WEAVE

Queenie

Over the next couple of weeks I settle into a routine. In the morning I make eggs and avocado toast for me and my dad, which we eat while we review the schedule for the day.

I write a lot of memos, arrange meetings, answer emails, and study team statistics whenever I have a little downtime. Having completed almost all the required courses for a psych degree, I’ve taken stats, and it’s something I actually enjoy and excel at, so analyzing numbers is fun for me.

And it’s so much easier now that I’ve moved everything over to digital. I still make my dad paper copies, but at least we’re only killing a few trees and not an entire forest. He was reluctant at first, but when he realized how much more streamlined everything became, he finally relented. It’s made my job so much easier, and it means I can focus on something other than endless paperwork.

Since I’m fully immersed in the world of hockey and everything that entails, I’ve also observed preseason training camp several times. Watching those guys in action gives me a renewed respect for how hard they push themselves physically. It explains Kingston’s exceptional stamina and flexibility.

And so far we’ve got the awkward platonic thing down. He’s always polite, always appropriate, and always red faced when I run into him.

I’d like to say I give him a wide berth as a result, but that would be untrue. In fact, I derive perverse enjoyment from watching him flounder and splutter every time we cross paths, because it’s so very different from how he was that night we spent together. I can’t figure out which version is authentic, or if it’s both.

Today the team has on-ice practice, so I pack up my laptop and the notes for a memo I’m drafting, as well as the schedule of events for the next month. We’ll be heading into exhibition games soon. I also get to watch Kingston tend goal without being obvious about it. It’s a win all the way around.

The patter of little feet and the high-pitched excited voice of my favorite toddler grabs my attention. I glance over at the bench and smile as Rook smothers his son’s face in sweaty kisses. Bowman’s sister, Stevie, has stopped by a bunch of times over the past two weeks. She’s hard to miss with her pale-blue hair. She’s always been friendly and chatty with me, and she’s easy to talk to.

“Daddy! No!” Kody pushes on his father’s cheeks, but he’s giggling.

Stevie, who also happens to be Bishop Winslow’s wife—there are some interesting dynamics with these players—gives her attention to Bishop. He pulls her in for a kiss that isn’t quite PG. She does the same thing Kody did to Bowman, pushing away while laughing.

“Stop mauling my sister, Winslow!” Bowman gripes.

“I’m not mauling her. I’m saying hi to my wife.” Bishop smirks and winks at Stevie.

Bowman sets Kody down, and the moment the kid sees me, his eyes light up. Kody bounces up the stairs and clomp-run-hops excitedly over to me.

Kingston, who’s been a silent observer thus far, glances over his shoulder, watching Kody bumble toward me. Our gazes meet briefly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up before he turns away. And like every other time we make eye contact, a flush creeps up the back of his neck and travels to the tip of his ears.

“Keenie!” Kody climbs into the chair beside mine and stands on the seat so he can hug me. He really is the cutest kid. He has his mother’s dark hair but his father’s eyes and the signature Bowman dimple. It’s impossible not to fall completely in love with his adorableness.

“Hey, Kody, I’m so glad you’re here today!”

“Aunt Evie bring me to watch Daddy practice ’cause Mommy is napping. She’s tired ’cause my baby brudder is dancing all night in her tummy!” He pats his belly. “I’m a big boy now, so I don’t need naps.”

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “Mommy says my brudder is gonna be an acto-bat. Imma play hockey like my daddy.” He puffs out his little chest. “Daddy says if I want to be a hockey player I has to eat all my vege-ables, but I only like corn.”

I tap my lip. “Hmm, that’s tough, but your dad is right: you do need to eat vegetables if you want to grow up and be a big, strong hockey player like him.” I give his biceps a squeeze.

He makes a face. “I don’t like broccoli.” He lowers his voice. “When no one’s looking I feed it to Brutus.”

“Brutus is your dog, right?”

He grins again and nods, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It makes his toots smell like rotten eggs.” He giggles.

“What’s going on over here?” Stevie tickles him under the arms, and he squeals. “Hey, Queenie, how’re you?”

“I’m good. Looks like you’re on aunt duty today.”

“Sure am.” She grins as Kody scales the seats so he can be closer to the ice, and then she takes the one beside mine. “He couldn’t stop talking about you on the way over here. I think he believes you’re actual royalty.”

I snort a laugh and tuck my bag under the seat. “Maybe I’ll wear a crown the next time you bring him by the arena to visit.”

“Oh my God, that would be priceless.”

“Lainey feeling okay?” I’ve also met Rook’s wife a few times. She’s quieter than Stevie; actually, they’re basically opposites in most regards. Where Stevie is outspoken and outgoing, Lainey’s more introverted and introspective. But I like them both equally.

“She’s doing pretty good, but the baby’s been kicking up a storm at night, so Lainey hasn’t been getting the best sleep. Plus this one”—she points to Kody—“has decided that playing hockey in his bedroom at five in the morning is a good idea. Needless to say, she’s tired. I don’t have clients at the clinic until later this afternoon, so I figured I could bring Kody here for a couple hours, and Lainey could catch a nap.”

“That was sweet of you.”

Stevie shrugs. “It means I get time with my nephew, I get to heckle my brother, and I get to watch my man in his element. So pretty much all my favorite things in one place.” She winks and motions to the ice, where the guys are doing drills. “So, what kind of research are you doing this morning?”

“Mostly I’m watching the players interact: seeing who relies on who, which players read their teammates best, who’s fastest, who scores the most, and how it lines up with their stats. The usual.”

“No wonder your dad hired you as his assistant. You know the game, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I spent a lot of time in arenas when I was little, not so much as I got older.” Since there were a number of years when I couldn’t stand to watch the game, I avoided it. It’s only now that I’m working here that I realize how much I’ve missed it. “But I get what makes a good player, and how sometimes switching out one player can strengthen or weaken a line.”

“That definitely makes sense. When Bishop came to Seattle, they moved him from forward to defense.”

“Really? Why would they do that? He and Rook are the top scorers on the team.”

“He’s a big guy, so they thought it would be a better fit.”

“I guess I can see that.” I scroll through the lineup of players. “Do they ever play Rook and Bishop on the same line?”

“Uh no, not that I’ve ever seen. Why do you ask?” Stevie pulls a pack of mints out of her purse and pops one in her mouth before offering them to me.

“Just curious. I get wanting to keep them separate so both lines are strong, but it would be interesting to see what putting them together would do for the team.”

“I guess if they don’t beat each other to death with their sticks it would be an interesting experiment.”

“Is that likely to happen?” I’ve seen those two bickering before. They’re worse than toddlers fighting over toys.

Stevie shrugs. “I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance.”