Her big, hazel eyes are fixed on me, waiting.
And she’s not joking around.
"I'm not going anywhere, Morgs," I say, and for now, in this moment, it's the truest thing I know.
Zoey calls from the bedroom that they need to leave in five minutes. Morgan stays silent, watching me for another second, processing what I just said before she scrambles off to find her shoes without another word.
Fuck.
I finish drying the last plate, my mind racing. The question echoes in the quiet kitchen, mixing with the scent of maple syrup and the memory of Zoey's body warm against mine this morning.
My gaze lands on the kitchen counter.
There, half-hidden under a syrup-smeared plate, is a piece of paper. I lift the plate and see it's a drawing of three stick figures, lopsided and crooked, drawn in bright crayon.
There's a tall figure with yellow hair and a purple shirt—me. A medium figure with brown hair and a green apron—Zoey. And a small figure with wild hair and a unicorn horn on her head—Morgan.
The three of us are holding hands. And in the top right corner, a wonky love heart is colored in with so much red crayon it's nearly torn through the paper.
My heart almost explodes inside my damn chest.
I look around and find a Butter Batch Bakery magnet on the fridge. I lift the drawing and press the magnet over it, securing it front and center on the stainless steel door.
It looks like it belongs there.
Likewebelong here.
Zoey appears in the hallway, pulling on a jacket. Morgan is hopping on one foot still trying to get her shoe on.
"Ready?" Zoey asks, her eyes finding the drawing on the fridge. She pauses, her expression softening for a split second. "We're running late. Declan will lecture me about punctuality for an hour."
"I'll try swing by after the recovery session at The Den," I say, wiping my hands on the dish towel.
"Oh. It's okay." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "My brothers can be… a lot. Especially all together. If you don't make it, don't stress. You've done enough just getting them here."
She ushers Morgan toward the door, and I follow them out, locking up behind me as Zoey’s words hang in the cold morning air long after they disappear down Main Street.
My SUV door clicks shut, sealing me in sudden, deafening quiet.
You’ve done enough.
A month ago, I would’ve taken that as a polite dismissal. The golden hockey boy being told to go home by a satisfied puck bunny.
But not now. Not after I fought through concussion fog just to be cleared. Not after I memorized every damn dream in her notebook, just to prove I could be more than a PR stunt.
I start the engine, but for the first time, the thought of The Den’s icy arena doesn’t spark that desperate hunger that got me here.
Because my dream isn’t on the ice anymore.
It’s walking down Main Street, holding the hand of a kid who draws stick-figure me into her family.
I’m not giving up.
Chapter 16
Colt
Icoast to a stop at the boards, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples. My lungs burn, but it’s the good kind of burn.