Impact

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

KATE

The meet and greet dissolves slowly.

Children drift away, clutching signed programmes like treasure. Some of the parents hover for one last photo before the players are ushered towards the back corridor in a loose cluster of hoodies and laughter.

Hudson stands beside me, flipping through his programme again even though he’s already looked at it twice. “Happy?” I ask.

He shrugs, but there’s colour in his cheeks. “It was decent.”

“Decent,” I repeat, amused. Ever the chatty teenager he’s become these days.

Emma is glowing as if she’s personally orchestrated the win. “I told you! So much better live, isn’t it?”

“It’s loud,” I say as I rub my ears in mock pain.

“That’s the point.” Emma shoulder bumps me as she chuckles.

Hudson shifts his weight. “Callum’s goal was better than the first one.”

I glance at him. “You noticed the difference?”

“Yeah.” He says it like it’s obvious. “First was good, but his second was cleaner. Not that I’m into hockey, but you know,” he tails off when he realises he’s admitted he had fun.

It doesn’t fit the persona he tries to sell these days.

I study him for a second. There’s something thoughtful, almost analytical, about him.

He’s watching patterns as though he’s assessing everyone’s movements.

“Expert already,” Emma teases, but Hudson ignores her and shrugs his shoulder in dismissal.

“Right,” she says, checking her phone. “Tom’s circling the car park. We need to go.”

“Go,” I tell her. “We’ll get the tram.”

She hesitates, then brightens. “Actually, Hud, do you want to ride back with us? You haven’t been over for ages.

I know Fred enjoys having you there. And Tom was complaining the other day that you haven’t been over to play FIFA in a while.

I can drop you back home later, if you like.

” Freddie, Emma’s six-year-old son, tries hard to contain his excitement at the thought of having his ‘big’ friend over for a while, but his grin gives him away.

Hudson looks at me immediately. It’s an automatic reaction these days. He always checks in with me before answering anything now.

“That’s fine, go have fun.” I smile. “I’ll walk to the station.”

“It’s dark,” he replies, the worry etched in the wrinkles of his forehead.

“I am capable of walking through a lit car park, Hudson. It’s literally a five-minute walk. And it’s six thirty on a Saturday, I think I’ll be fine.”

He considers that like he’s weighing risk factors.

Emma laughs softly. “I promise I’ll get him home safe, Kate.”

“I know you will.”

Hudson studies my face one last time, then nods once. “Text me when you’re on the tram and then when you’re home.”

“I will.”

He hugs me quickly. It’s awkward and half-turned, as if he’s suddenly remembered he’s fourteen and that public affection has limits. Then he’s off, following Emma towards the exit. I watch him go until the crowd swallows him.

It’s strange how loud a building feels when you’re part of the noise, and how cavernous it becomes when you’re suddenly alone. I adjust my bag on my shoulder and head towards the car park. The tram station is on the other side of the car park, so I don’t have far to go.

The air outside is cold enough to sting. My breath fogs in front of me as I step into the yellow spill of the security lights. The stadium's hum is still present, but fading like an echo settling into brick.

Players start to emerge from the side entrance in twos and threes, laughing and lightly shoving each other, their phones already in hand. And then I see him.

Lukas stands near a dark SUV, his hoodie half pulled up over his head, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. He’s mid-laugh at something one of his teammates says, his head tipped back slightly and his posture loose, as if the game hasn’t left his bloodstream yet.

He looks different out here. Less composed and more alive.

As his teammate peels off towards another car, Lukas reaches into his pocket for his keys. He glances up and catches me looking. Well, actually, staring, if I’m to be totally honest. His expression shifts immediately. It’s not dramatic, more of a subtle sharpening of his senses.

He says something to Ryan. I remember him from the school visit. Then Lukas hands him his bag. Ryan raises an eyebrow, grins knowingly, and keeps walking.

I should keep moving. Instead, I hesitate as he closes the distance with easy strides, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his hoodie.

“You’re alone,” he says, stopping a few feet away.

“I’m aware.” I nod with a stupid grin splitting my face in two, as colour stains my cheeks. I have no idea why I’m blushing.

His mouth curves slightly. “Your son abandoned you?”

“He went home with my friend. Our kids are friends.”

“Ah.” He nods once, as if that answers something larger. “Good.”

“Good?” My eyebrows raise in question.

“He shouldn’t have to stand in cold car parks waiting for hockey players.”

There’s no arrogance in it; he’s making a statement. As though that’s the norm after a match.

“I wasn’t waiting,” I reply.

His eyes flicker with amusement. “Of course not.” His heavy accent does something weird to my insides.

Silence settles between us for a moment. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged in a way I don’t quite understand. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder again. I’m beginning to think it’s a nervous twitch, then I shove my hands into my jacket pockets.

“You played well tonight,” I say, because it’s safe ground.

He shrugs lightly, but I see the satisfaction he doesn’t bother hiding. “It felt good.”

“That first goal was brilliant.”

He tilts his head. “You noticed?”

“I’m not blind.”

He laughs softly at that; it’s a low, warm kind of chuckle. “Most people only notice the noise.”

“I notice patterns,” I say before thinking.

His gaze sharpens again, interested. “Patterns?”

“I work with children who think differently,” I explain. “You start to see rhythm everywhere.”

“And I have rhythm?” he asks.

There’s a playful challenge in his voice. “You were patient,” I say carefully. “You didn’t rush the second period, even when they were on you constantly.” I sound as though I know what I’m talking about, though the truth is I don’t understand the rules at all. I merely enjoyed the game.

He studies me as though I’ve surprised him. “You watched closely.”

“I watch everything,” I reply automatically.

That makes him smile.

A car alarm chirps somewhere to our left, as a gust of wind catches the edge of my coat and I pull it tighter around me.

“You’re cold,” he says. Everything he says is more of a statement. I put it down to English not being his first language.

“I’m fine.”

He steps slightly closer without touching me, but he closes the gap enough that his presence feels warmer. I feel the heat radiating from his body, and it does something weird to my tummy again.

“I can walk you to the station.” He nods once, signalling that the decision has been made.

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s two minutes,” he says lightly. “Humour me.”

I hesitate. There’s something almost absurd about it.

He’s younger than me by quite a few years, if my Spidey Sense serves me right.

He’s flashy and clearly accustomed to women throwing themselves at him in bars or at the rink.

And yet here he is, offering to walk me to the tram like a polite nineteen-year-old.

Please tell me he’s older than nineteen.

I make a mental note to Google his age once I’m on the tram.

“I’m capable of managing alone,” I say.

“I know,” he replies easily. “But I’d like to.” There’s no pressure in it. He exudes this kind of safety gene that’s hard to explain.

I exhale slowly. “Fine.” Because it seems there is no point in arguing with him.

He gestures dramatically, almost bowing before me as he waves his arm in the direction of the station. “After you.”

We fall into step, side by side. Up close, I can see the faint flush still clinging to his skin from the game. His hair is damp at the edges, and he smells faintly of soap, layered over the heat of his skin. It’s clean and sharp. And altogether delicious. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Does it always get like that?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“That.” I nod back toward the arena. “The noise.”

He considers the question seriously. “Yes. And no.”

“Helpful.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You get used to the volume. You never get used to the moment when the puck hits the net.”

“That rush?”

He nods. “It is…” He searches for the right word. “Electric.”

I watch his profile as he speaks. There’s something unguarded about him when he talks about hockey, less performative than he was two minutes ago. “You love it,” I say.

He glances at me, almost surprised. “Of course.”

“Not everyone loves what they’re good at.”

He smiles faintly. “I was on skates before I could write my name. My father built a rink behind our house every winter. It’s a thing back home. Everyone builds their own rink.”

“French Canadian,” I say softly.

He nods. “Québec.”

There’s pride in his voice, and something else I can’t quite figure out. We reach the edge of the car park where the tram stop lights flicker ahead. “You miss it?” I ask.

“Home?” He shrugs one shoulder. “Sometimes. But hockey is home too.” I understand that more than he probably expects.

The tram platform is almost empty. A digital board counts down the minutes to the next tram. Lukas takes his place beside me and looks set to stay the night.

“You don’t have to wait; it’ll be here in a few minutes,” I tell him with a smile.

“I know.” But he stays, and we stand side by side in the quiet. The stadium’s hum has faded to a memory. It’s just the distant rush of traffic and the hum of the overhead street lights.

“Hudson plays football,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, he does.” It warms me a little to know he remembered my son’s name after their brief conversation.

“He watches closely,” Lukas adds. “He does not trust easily. I noticed that back at the meet.”

The statement is so direct that it catches me off guard. “He’s fourteen,” I say carefully.

He nods. “And protective.”

There’s no mockery in his words, and it’s not a statement again. He’s not judging, merely observing. Which strikes me as being unusual for someone like Lukas.

“He’s had to be,” I say before I can stop myself. That’s not a story for someone I barely know. Lukas doesn’t press for more. He just nods once, as though he understands there’s a story there, and it’s not his yet.

The tram headlights appear in the distance. “You will come again?” he asks casually.

“To a game?”

“Yes.”

I hesitate. It’s ridiculous to pretend I didn’t enjoy it. The noise. The speed. Watching Hudson lean forward every time the puck crossed the line. “Maybe,” I say.

His mouth curves slightly. “Maybe is not no.”

“Don’t read too much into it.”

“I never do,” he replies smoothly.

I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “I doubt that.”

He grins outright at that, and I can’t suppress the laugh that escapes my lips. The tram pulls in with a hiss of brakes. The doors slide open, and I step towards them, then pause.

“Thank you,” I say. “For walking with me.”

“It was my pleasure.” There’s that tone again. Light and playful.

I step onto the tram and turn back before the doors close. He’s still standing there, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching. The doors slide shut between us. As the tram pulls away, I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a polite conversation in a car park. A hockey player being friendly.

Just a younger man who flirts out of habit.

And yet, as the stadium lights shrink behind me, I can’t quite shake the feeling that something shifted tonight. Not dramatically, but enough to notice.

And that unsettles me more than it should.