Chapter 11 #2
He releases me, leaning against the counter. He looks at me like he’s checking whether the ground is still stable. It makes me feel reckless in a way that isn’t about speed or danger; it’s about admitting, with my mouth, that I like this. The kitchen. The nonsense. Him.
“You have plans today?” he asks, feigning nonchalance and failing adorably.
I make us both Americanos, slide one his way. “No.” I take a cautious sip. “Headed for the rink later if the team wants optional stick-handling. Otherwise free.”
He smiles into his coffee, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like a heathen and looks at me. Really looks. His confidence lives in his shoulders, his showmanship in his hands, but the truth is always in his eyes. They’re a little shy now. A little bright.
“Do you—uh.” He pauses. “Do you want to go on a date?”
The word drops between us like the puck at center ice: irrevocable and simple.
I raise my eyebrows because it buys me half a second to gather my voice. “A date?”
He nods without blinking, bravery constructed on the spot.
“I know that sounds backward,” he rushes on, “given what we did first.” His ears go pink in a way that makes me want to kiss the heat away.
“And I don’t mean, like, a capital-D date where we accidentally wander into paparazzi traps and accidentally trip into an interview where I accidentally confess my undying devotion.
More like… two idiots who like each other go outside and buy overpriced street food. ”
I let him dangle a second longer than necessary. He squirms, then composes his face into I don’t care either way and grips his cup to hide his hands.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
Relief cracks his grin in half. “There’s a street fair down by the warehouses. Food trucks, live music, some guy who makes leather bracelets and keeps trying to charge me extra for ‘fireman wrists.’”
“Do you have fireman wrists?”
“I have wrists,” he says, spreading his hands like a debater who knows he’s lost on a technicality. “Also a vintage arcade in the next block. I will dominate you at skee-ball.”
“You do realize I’m a professional athlete with terrifying hand-eye coordination.”
“You do realize I grew up hustling middle-aged dads at Chuck E. Cheese.”
I hide a smile behind my cup. “So you want to crush me at skee-ball and feed me questionable street meat.”
“That’s… the dream, yes.” His voice softens. “And to walk next to you while being completely normal humans. No drama. No arenas. Just us and a funnel cake that will live in our arteries forever.”
The softness gets me. It gets me stupid. “Okay,” I say.
He blinks, like he had several alternate plans for rejection and none for success. “Okay?”
“Yes, Magnus.”
He tips his head back and groans like he just scored in overtime. Then he stops, worry tilting his mouth. “We can keep it low-key. We wear caps. No holding hands if that makes you want to break into hives.”
I meet his eyes. “It doesn’t.”
His breath hitches the tiniest bit. “Right.”
We stand there trying not to grin like teenagers who just got away with something; it lasts about four seconds before he caves first. “You’re really saying yes.”
“I’m really saying yes,” I echo. “Try to survive the thrill.”
He steps closer until his hip meets mine again and leans in like he can’t help it. The kiss is careful, morning-slow, coffee-sweet. He’s smiling into it. So am I, traitor that I am.
? ? ?
It’s ridiculous how normal it feels walking next to him.
We’re both in sunglasses, Magnus hiding under a faded band hoodie with the drawstring cinched so tight he looks like a toddler bundled for snow.
I’ve got a baseball cap pulled low. The disguise might work on civilians, but any hockey fan with eyes would spot us in ten seconds flat—two six-foot players built like sin, trying to pretend we’re tourists.
The street fair stretches down three blocks: booths, the smell of kettle corn, and a band covering 80s songs badly enough to be charming. We walk close, shoulders brushing. Every few steps our hands bump—by accident at first, then less so. Neither of us says anything about it. We don’t need to.
He’s different like this. Still loud, still Magnus, but softer around the edges. He buys us lemonade from a stand, pretends to make a toast.
“To anonymity,” he says, lifting his cup.
“To terrible disguises,” I counter.
We wander through booths selling leather bracelets, glass candles, ridiculous vintage tees. Magnus keeps up a running commentary, half jokes, half flirtation.
“Think this shirt says I’m subtle?” he asks, holding up one that reads Wolves Bite Harder.
“You wear that, you’re asking for trouble.”
“I like trouble.”
“I noticed.”
We play a few arcade-style games set up along the sidewalk.
He’s obnoxiously competitive, and when I beat him at the ring toss, he accuses me of witchcraft.
I buy us funnel cake, and he immediately gets powdered sugar on his hoodie.
Watching Magnus Flint—self-proclaimed bad boy of the Wolves—lick sugar off his fingers while glaring at me for laughing might be the highlight of my week.
We drift toward the exit, the afternoon settling into gold light. I’m thinking about how nice it is not to be “Hale” or “Flint,” just… us.
Then I hear a familiar voice.
“Alaric?”
I freeze.
Molly.
My sister stands across the sidewalk, dressed in running clothes, leash in hand, her golden retriever Butter trotting happily at her side. Her husband, Mark, trails behind carrying iced coffees.
Of course. Because the universe enjoys tormenting me.
“Mols!” I manage, forcing a smile. “Hey.”
Magnus looks from her to the dog and back again, eyes going wide. “Oh my God,” he breathes. “That’s Butter.”
Molly blinks. “You… know my dog?”
Magnus crouches instantly, holding out his hand like he’s meeting royalty. “Butter Hale. The legend. The goodest boy in Silver City.”
Butter wags his tail so hard his entire body wiggles.
Magnus grins like a fool. “He’s even more handsome in person.”
Molly stares at him, clearly recalibrating. “Uh… thanks?”
Magnus looks up at me with mock solemnity. “You didn’t tell me you were related to the Butter Hale. I would’ve brought something for him to autograph.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to laugh. “He’s not famous.”
“He probably has more followers than I do.”
“That’s because he’s less trouble than you.”
Molly’s gaze bounces between us, suspicion blooming. “Wait.” She tilts her head. “Is this… Kyle?”
My entire body locks up. “What? No, I—uh—this is—”
“Magnus,” he says smoothly, rising to his full, intimidating height and extending a hand. “Magnus Flint. Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Hale.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re Magnus Flint. As in, the guy my brother body-checks for a living?”
“The very one,” he says easily, shaking her hand. “But don’t worry. That’s mostly for show. Rivalry sells tickets.”
Molly arches a brow. “You’re telling me the Wolves–Titans feud is an act?”
Magnus smiles, wolfish and charming. “Not entirely. He hits hard.”
I glare at him. “You deserved it.”
“I usually do,” he says, eyes glinting.
Molly looks between us again, something sharp and amused in her expression. “So… you two just happened to bump into each other? At a street fair?”
Magnus doesn’t miss a beat. “Fate,” he says solemnly. “I was lured by the smell of funnel cake.”
“Funnel cake,” she repeats, deadpan. “Right.”
Butter decides Magnus is his new favorite person and presses against his leg. Magnus crouches to scratch behind his ears, voice low and affectionate. “You get it, don’t you, buddy? No judgment. Just vibes.”
Molly’s husband looks politely confused. “So, uh, are you guys filming something? Promo thing?”
“No cameras today,” Magnus says smoothly. “Just two colleagues who are catching up.”
My sister crosses her arms.
I can feel my face burning. “Molly—”
She waves a hand. “Relax, I’m not calling Dad. Yet.”
Magnus straightens, brushing a bit of dog hair off his hoodie. “It was great meeting you both. And Butter, obviously.”
Butter barks like he’s agreeing. Magnus grins. “He’s got impeccable taste.”
Molly gives me that we’ll talk later look only big sisters can master. “Nice to meet you, Magnus.”
“Likewise.” He turns to me, slipping his sunglasses back on. “Ready, Ice Prince?”
I groan under my breath. “Don’t call me that.”
He smirks. “You love it.”
“Well, have fun, you two. Don’t let Butter’s fame go to your heads.” Molly smiles, knowingly.
Magnus bows slightly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We walk off before she can ask anything else. I can feel her eyes on us the whole way down the block. Magnus slips his hand into mine for half a second before letting go.
When we’re finally clear, I exhale hard. “You just lied to my sister.”
“She seemed nice,” he says innocently. “Sharp. Not easily fooled.”
“She saw right through you.”
“Probably. But she didn’t say anything.”
“She will.”
He grins sideways. “Then I’ll charm her again.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You are insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, bumping my shoulder with his. “But you’re smiling.”
He’s right. I am.