“For what it’s worth,” Troy started. “The best things in life are the ones we have to fight for. The things that don’t come easy.” He leaned closer. “You know, the complicated things. Like my sister.”
Noah couldn’t help it. He laughed. Ziggy was a complex woman, and he loved everything about her. It was selfish of him to want her around so that he could be near her. Even more selfish than being grateful every day that she hadn’t found someone who could love her the way she deserved, even though he hoped she would.
He brought his drink to his lips, remembering the short kiss in his dressing room. He’d wanted to desperately slip his tongue between her lips and take the risk.
For the last five years, she’d stood next to him. Stayed through every bimbo he paraded through his dressing room. Through every bad decision. She never walked away.
And she continued to help him navigate the decision that ultimately dictated their future. Burying the story had been the right thing. But letting it decide his fate with Ziggy? He had doubts about that now.
“You know—” Jag started, but his father stepped through the sliders.
“So, this is where most of the men ran off to,” Harold said. “While I don’t ever mind spending time with all my grandchildren, sometimes being around all those women can be a bit much.” He held a small package with a balloon attached.
“I’m going to tell Mom you said that.” Troy laughed, raising his drink. “And then I’m gonna tell my wife, who then won’t cook this Sunday.”
“That’s blackmail, son.” Harold slapped Troy on the back. “But Priela should be taking it easy.”
“She's pregnant, not an invalid.” Troy shook his head.
“Before we get into how their mother had me believing she shouldn’t be lifting a finger while she was carrying our kids.” Harold stretched out his arm. “This came for the birthday boy a few minutes ago.”
“It’s not from one of you?” Noah took the box and stared at it. No one ever bought him presents, except for the Bowies. And he constantly told them to stop, but they never did.
“Nope. Came by special courier. Darcie signed for it.”
"Open it," Troy said.
“Looks like someone’s got an admirer.” Reid raised an eyebrow.
Noah pulled the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.
A hockey puck. A plain, boring, black puck. Nothing notable, but that didn’t stop his heart from racing, or from remembering hearing his father cheer from the corner of the rink whenever Noah had scored a goal.
He picked it up and registered the weight of it—the specific density, the feel of the rubber, the muscle memory of years of playing that apparently still lived in his palms regardless of everything else he'd tried to leave behind.
Tucked inside the box was a folded piece of paper. He didn't open it. Instead, he placed the puck back in the box and did his best to look mildly puzzled and faintly amused.
He lifted his gaze to Harold. “Did you happen to get the name of the delivery person, the courier company? Or did they say who this was from?”
“No. Sorry,” Harold said.
“Is there a problem?” Jag asked.
It was always hard to lie to Jag, the police chief. Noah found it best to stick somewhere in the middle. “It’s a story thing.”
“That’s a little too vague for me,” Jag said. “And I’m not sure I buy it.”
“It’s from a source.” Noah wasn’t about to stand there and debate it, and for now, that explanation would keep Jag off his back. “Excuse me. I need to go find Ziggy.” He snagged his drink and did his best to walk like his blood pressure wasn’t probably through the roof.
He scanned the living room. No, Ziggy, but he could hear her laughing around the corner.
He spotted her in the kitchen with Crystal Morning, who owned a local bakery, laughing at something with her head tilted back and completely unguarded. Ziggy only got like this with people she'd known her whole life. He crossed the room and touched her elbow.
She turned, still smiling. "Hey?—"
“Sorry to interrupt. But I need to talk to you. It’s important." He kept his voice low and even.
“Give me two minutes. I’m just in the middle of?—”