Ring. Ring.

“It’s about time you gave me a call.”

After settling into Mr. Lockwood’s cottage, organizing my clothes, putting away food I picked up from Price Chopper, and popping open a much-needed beer, I decided to finally call my dad.

“Sorry about the wait, Dad. I needed some time to cool down.”

“I can understand that. So what happened, kiddo?”

Kiddo. I’m twenty-three with a year of professional hockey under my belt, and yet my dad still calls me kiddo. Oddly, it soothes me.

“This is going to sound really immature, but . . . he kept slashing me, Dad.”

He chuckles. “Yes, it was quite clear Miller was taking cheap shots, but that doesn’t mean you can lose your temper. I taught you better than that.”

And he did.

React on the ice with skill not fists. It was ingrained in me from the very beginning, when I would spend countless hours in the driveway with my dad bundled up in pillows, acting as a goalie. He was larger than life in that goal, difficult to get anything past him. But he tested me, pushed me, encouraged me. Memories I’ll always hold close to my heart.

“I know, Dad.” I exhale and lean back into Mr. Lockwood’s brown leather couch. “I’m sorry.” It feels weird to apologize, but I know I let him down, not because we lost the game, ending our playoff run, but because I embarrassed him.

“No matter how heated you get, just remember where you came from. We don’t solve problems with our fists. I know some fans go to games to see the fights, to see the brutal battle, but hockey is more than that. It’s about your footwork, your puck handling, the communication with your teammates. It’s about finding the small inches others don’t see. That’s what makes a great player, don’t forget that.”

“I won’t.” No matter how old I get, these lectures will always be a part of my life. “So how’s Mom?”

There is a low chuckle from the other end of the phone. “Over talking about the game?”

“Still a little raw, Dad.”

“Understandable.” There’s a smile in his voice. Everyone knows my dad as someone who’s kept me in line, who’s pushed me to be the best version of myself, but when it comes down to it, he’s never pushed me too hard, and it’s the reason he’s backing off now. He knows I’ve punished myself enough, no need to harp on it. “Your mom is good. A little upset about the fight, but you know how she is, she’ll get over it. I will say this, she was a little shocked from the power you have in that right hook.”

“That’s professional athletic training for you. She didn’t pretend to faint, did she?”

More chuckling. “No, but she did tsk. I caught her looking at replays afterward making a little fist of her own.”

“Yeah? Did she wish she could have a little piece of Marcus Miller herself?”

“I think so. You should have heard her during the game yelling louder than me. At one point she threw one of her throw pillows across the room.”

“I can see where I get my temper. Calm, cool, and collected until we’re pushed a little too far . . .”

“And snap, you two explode.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I definitely get that from Mom.”

“The best is when she’s in the kitchen cooking, and she forgets an ingredient or something doesn’t turn out the way she wants it to. There is always a slam on the pan. It’s my indication to boast about the meal and make it seem like it’s the best thing she’s ever made.”

“Smart man. I remember the pound of the pan on the kitchen counter. I would stay in my room and not make myself known until I was called down for dinner.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” my mom chimes in. I should have known she was on speakerphone.

“Hey Mom.”

“Sweetie, what did we say about fighting?”

Jesus.

With the palm of my hand, I rub my eye.

“Already got the lecture from Dad. Believe me, I get it, you guys aren’t happy.”

“We taught you better, that’s all.” She takes pause. “But that Miller boy deserved a good swat to the eye socket in my opinion.”

“Marion . . .” my dad warns.

She huffs and then asks, “Are you coming home now? What are your plans?”

They aren’t going to be happy I’m in Binghamton instead of visiting with them, but after the long season and brutal loss, I need to be here. I need to step away from reality for a few weeks. I’m hoping they can understand that.

“Uh, not at the moment. I’m actually in Binghamton. I’m staying at Mr. Lockwood’s cottage.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Fuck.

“Nothing against you guys. I’ll be visiting soon. I just wanted some space, you know?”

More silence.

This is what happens when you’re close with your parents. They expect you to come home after a long hockey season or during college break, and when you don’t, man, oh man, do they lay a heavy guilt trip on you, which I know I’m about to get.

“I’m a grown man, you know.” I bite on my bottom lip. Fuck that sounds stupid. “I needed fresh air?” That came out as a question rather than a statement.

“I think he wants to get frisky, and he can’t do that in our house, William.”

Well, that’s true, but not the reason.

“Mom, that’s not the truth. If I wanted to get frisky with someone at your house, I would just pay for you two to go out to dinner.”

“Hayden Robert!” I laugh. Faintly in the background, I can hear my dad chuckling as well. “Honestly, you men. I’m going to go finish my beef stew. Sweetie, make sure to make time for your parents.”

“Will do, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you, sweetie.”

“I’m going to go too, son. I’m in the middle of carving a chair and my whittling hands are feeling good right now.”

Both my parents are retired and happy as can be. For fun, my mom often makes loads and loads of food and invites the neighbors over for dinner. My dad spends a lot of his time in the garage, making handcrafted rocking chairs. They’re impeccable. He sells them at a local store in Scranton, and they do very well. He loves doing it and it keeps him sharp.

“Sounds good. I’ll let you know when I’m headed your way.”

“Don’t take too long. Your mom will be nagging me every day until you come see us.”

“And we can’t have that, can we?”

“Not unless you want to hear from me every day.”

Looking at the ceiling, I shake my head. “No, I definitely don’t want that. Have a good one, and I’ll talk to you guys later.”

“Love you, Hayden.”

“Love you, Dad.”

I hang up and stare at my phone for a few seconds, letting out a long breath. That was easier than I thought it was going to be. Probably because my dad knew I was already upset, he didn’t need to go over the entire game in detail. And I was grateful for that.

Pulling up my text messages, I open the last one from Racer.

Racer: Seven, my house, bring beer . . . and Little Debbie snacks.

I roll my eyes. Such a fucking sweet tooth. Ever since I’ve known him, Racer has been obsessed with Little Debbie snacks, and it’s only gotten worse since he’s become an adult. Maybe because there is no one to stop him from overdosing. Or maybe because he isn’t really an adult . . .

What time is it now?

Six. Shit, I better get moving, especially if I have to take Racer Little Debbie snacks.

“Everyone quiet down, quiet down.” Racer is standing on a picnic table in his backyard, hushing the little crowd of people surrounding the fire pit. “The prince of the ice is here, the man with the killer right hook, the one and only Hayden Holmes.” He carries out my last name a little longer than necessary while clapping.

“Get the fuck down, you tool,” I say as Racer hops to the ground and pulls me into a bear hug, followed by a giant kiss to my cheek.

“God, I missed you.” He grips my head with his palms, staring intently at me, his eyes glassed over. Someone is already drunk.

Just for the record, Racer is one of those guys who has no problem making an ass of himself, as you can tell.

“Good to see you too, man.” I push at his chest, putting some space between us. Holding up a bag, I hand Racer his “treats.” He practically eye fucks it, and in one giant rip, tears open the bag, the boxes of snacks falling to the ground.

Holding a box above his head as if it’s baby Simba on Pride Rock, he shouts, “Star Crunch!”

Two other guys cheer as a girl I’ve never met rolls her eyes.

“Hey, where is everyone?” I ask, not knowing anyone here.

“What do you mean?” Racer rips open the box and the telltale sign of cellophane being opened slices through the cool night air. “I invited my friends. Did you think I was going to invite anyone else? Pssh, the only person from high school I talk to is you.”

Of course.

Not that I talk to anyone else beside Racer either, but it would have been nice to at least know one more person. I’m a sociable guy, but there are times I’m not in the mood to make get-to-know-you small talk. There are times I just need to be Holmes, the lanky teen who likes hockey.

Gripping my shoulder, stuffing his mouth full, Racer mumbles, “Let me introduce you.” He brings me to the little circle around the fire. “Hayden, this is Tucker and his fiancée, Emma. They like to make out a lot, so look out for that. The big guy over there with the permanent scowl is Aaron, but we all call him Smalls, and there is a pretty brunette floating around here I don’t . . . see . . .”

“She’s in the bathroom,” Emma calls out just as she puts her hand on Tucker’s thigh. They’re snuggled up really close. They’re in love; that’s obvious.

“Thanks. The brunette is in the bathroom,” Racer repeats, taking another bite of his Star Crunch.

Feeling slightly awkward, I hold my hand in a mock wave. “Nice to meet you all.” To Racer I say, “I’m going to put the beer in the fridge. Need anything while I’m there?”

“I’m good to go now that I have these.” He nuzzles his Little Debbie snacks.

Some things never change.

I give him a good pat on the back and head toward his house.

I could make my way around Racer’s house with my eyes shut, I’ve been here so many times. When I was younger, during the off-season, I would spend weekends helping Racer and his dad with little projects around the house. My dad would come along too, loving to get his hands on any kind of construction. The log house looks the same, even after the passing of Racer’s dad. Fuck, what a shitty day that was.

The familiar scent of wood and leather greets me when I walk through the back door. My second home.

But something is missing . . .

“Where’s all the furniture?” I whisper, scanning the area. There is nothing homey about the space. Not that Racer’s dad was a big decorator, but there was more in the house than a recliner and dining room table.

The kitchen isn’t far from the back door. I make my way to the fridge, pop the beers inside after grabbing one for myself, and turn back around to observe the space. Why has everything gone?

Casually, I make my way around the kitchen to a little built-in shelf near the hallway. There are unopened envelopes stacked high. I give the back door one more glance and pick one up.

Overdue.

In bright red, a giant stamp across the envelope.

I pick up another, and another.

All overdue.

What the fuck?

“Who the hell are you?”

Startled, I drop the envelopes to the ground and splash a little of my beer on the hardwood floors.

“Shit.” I pick up the bills, re-stack them, and squat to wipe up the little droplets of beer with my hand.

“Unless your hand is a Downey towel, that is not going to work.” The smooth sound of a women’s voice echoes through the empty space.

I glance over to find pink painted toenails laced through white flip-flops, and a set of long and lean toned legs in short denim shorts. Moving my eyes up, I take in her tight red shirt, showing off an inch of midriff. Farther up. Full breasts, V-neck shirt with an ample amount of cleavage popping past the low-cut collar. Smooth olive skin, long brown hair curled at the tips. Slender neck, heart-shaped jawline . . .

My eyes scan the last few inches. Full lips, painted in red, high cheekbones . . . and those eyes.

Deep.

A heavenly chocolate.

Sultry with a hint of . . .

Anger?

“Are you done checking me out?”

Clearing my throat, I stand and wipe my hand on my pants. “Sorry, you . . . uh . . . startled me.”

She walks to the kitchen and grabs the sponge from the sink. “Maybe because you’re snooping where you shouldn’t be.” Bending in front of me, her head mere inches from my crotch, she wipes up the beer. “Who are you anyway? Does Racer know you’re in here? He’s a private guy and doesn’t really like people in his house.”

When she stands, I tilt my head to the side, studying her. “You must be the brunette Racer was talking about.”

Tossing the sponge from her position, she lands it directly in the sink. Damn. “Avoiding my question, I see.”

“Not avoiding.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Hayden, known Racer since we were kids.” I nod at the cabinets in the kitchen as she slips her slight hand in mine. “I helped install those on one of the hottest fucking summers of my life.”

She quirks her head, a welcoming smile tugging at her lips. “Hayden Holmes? As in the man with the right hook?”

I roll my eyes and pull on the back of my neck. “How much was he talking about the fight?”

“Ever since we got here. He keeps trying to reenact it with everyone. When it was my turn, he told me to flop my tongue out of my mouth when he made fake contact.”

“Jesus Christ . . . did you do it?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I had no reason not to.”

I chuckle, loving her sense of humor. “So do you have a name, or are you just referred to as the brunette in the bathroom?”

“God, they have no class.” Shakes her head. “Brunette in the bathroom is unfortunately my nickname, but I go by Adalyn.”

Adalyn. Such a pretty name.

“Nice to meet you, Adalyn.”

We smile at each other for a few moments before Racer busts through the back door, chocolate on his face, beer in hand.

“There you are. We thought your ass got stuck in the toilet.” Racer comes up behind Adalyn and wraps his arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss against her temple. “Did you meet my boy, Hayden?”

“I did.” She scans me up and down, her little pink tongue barely wetting her lips.

“He didn’t give you any problems, did he?”

Still eyeing me, I grow a little nervous wondering if she’s going to call me out for snooping in front of Racer. I don’t want to embarrass him, so I pray she keeps our little interaction to just us.

“Nah, he did spill some beer on your floor, but I took care of it.”

“That’s my girl.” Racer presses another kiss against her cheek, and I wonder if they’re romantically involved. From the stiff set of Adalyn’s shoulders I’m going to assume no. Directing his attention to me, Racer says, “Addie Girl is one of my best friends and is untouchable, so don’t even think about making a move on her.”

“Untouchable, huh?” Adalyn asks, patting Racer on the stomach and pulling away, headed toward the backyard. “When did that happen?”

“When a professional hockey player, who just so happens to be one of my best friends, decided to grace us with his presence, that’s when.”

“Afraid I’ll get caught up in all his muscles?” She’s at the threshold of the door, waiting for his answer.

“Terrified.”

Laughing, she steps out into the cool night air, heading straight for the fire pit.

When I make eye contact with Racer again, he shakes his head at me. “Off limits, man.”

I hold up my hands. “Sure, man, off limits.”