12. Ty
TY
Imove along the boards, tracking the drill Emma set up, trying to look like I belong here. Like I know what I’m doing. Like I’m not just a guy who got voluntold into helping out and is now hoping none of these girls notice he’s half a step behind at all times.
“Heads up,” I call, tapping my stick lightly against the ice as one of them corrals a pass. “You’ve got more time than you think.”
She glances up, uncertain, but she does it. The adjustment is quick, but she sends the puck clean across the ice. Better.
Truth is, I’m still figuring this group out. Who needs a push. Who needs space. Who’s going to test me just to see if I crack. One of them skates past me a little too fast, shoulder-checking me on purpose.
“Pass the puck, Hannah!”
“I did—you weren’t looking, Clara!”
“I was looking!”
“Hey.” I clap once, turning my attention across the ice to the duo in question. These two are oil and water. If I can get them to get along, they’ll dominate, but right now they need to agree on something. Anything. “We’re not rewriting history mid-play. Reset.”
There’s muttering. A dramatic sigh. One stick taps the ice like she’s filing a formal complaint. But, something catches my attention.
Clara points to her wrist, not in a we’re still arguing way, but indicating to Hannah to look.
I frown, watching as Hannah looks down at her own wrist. She huffs, nudges the puck back.
“Fine. But you still missed the pass.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
But they’re moving again. It’s head-scratching, let me tell you. I’m still trying to work out what just happened, when my gaze drops to Clara’s wrist. Then Hannah’s.
Ohhhh. The bracelets. Right. I glance down at my own wrist without thinking. Huh.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth.
“Vivian with the friendship bracelets for the win,” I mutter, pushing off and letting the drill run.
Who would have thought it? Team bonding. Actually working. I shake my head, still watching them. Didn’t have that on my bingo card.
“Okay,” I call, watching them move as a unit now. “Better. Way better.”
And it is. They’re faster now. Talking more. Still arguing, but it rolls off them instead of shutting everything down. By the time I call them in, I’m not even pretending.
“Great practice,” I say. “And I mean it.”
A few grins. One kid fist-pumps like she just made the Olympic team, while Hannah smirks. I’m starting to like her style, or at least lose some of the initial fear I had of her. Would not want to cross her in an alley late at night, let me tell you.
“Keep working on your passing. Heads up, not down. And communication. You’ve got them so use your voices for something other than arguing with each other.”
“That’s boring,” someone mutters.
“Yeah, well, welcome to teamwork,” I manage, biting back my own laugh. “Great job, see you all Thursday. Same time, same rink. Don’t forget everything we just did.”
“No promises!” someone calls, already skating off.
“I am loving your honesty,” I shoot back.
The group breaks and after-practice chaos begins—parents, bags, someone yelling about a missing water bottle, a kid dramatically face-down on her hockey bag like she’s been through a war.
I’m grabbing my water when I feel my skin tingle. Nope, that’s too kind. It’s more of a light crawl, one that happens when you know someone is standing right there. Right behind you. It’s that specific awareness of someone standing just a little too close.
I turn around and my point is proven.
“Ty,” she says, smiling. “I’m Ava’s mother.”
Ah. “Mrs. Callahan, right?”
“Danielle,” she corrects, her voice breathy and hopeful as she steps closer.
Right. Danielle. Danielle’s top is…low.
Very low.
I take a breath, gearing myself, when a twinkle of something pulls my attention down. I’m pretty sure I see…no. No way.
Is that glitter?
Has the girl’s mother shown up at the rink to pick up her daughter with glitter all over her chest?
The moment the word chest fills my mind, I drag my eyes up because all I can think is, there’s glitter on them there boobs and I don’t want to look, but also I don’t want to judge.
She could be headed somewhere that requires glitter to accent her—what does Emma call it? Her decolletage?
So, we’re just gonna look at her face. Face is good. Face is safe.
“I just wanted to talk to you about practice,” she says, taking a step closer to me.
“Sure,” I respond, taking a tiny step away from her. Two can do this tango. “What’s up?”
“I noticed Ava wasn’t getting as much ice time today. I thought after our talk the other day, she would?”
“We’re rotating more right now,” I say. “Trying to build different skills across the group.”
“Mmm,” she hums, like that’s not a completely normal explanation. “She really thrives with more one-on-one attention.”
I have no idea what that means in a hockey context, and I’m not going to find out.
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye on that.”
She smiles. Still close. Still shimmering.
“Maybe we could talk about it more,” she adds. “Outside of practice?”
There it is. Before I can figure out how to respond without accidentally agreeing to something I absolutely do not want, laughter cuts across the rink. I glance past her and resist the urge to crack up myself.
Liam’s leaning against the boards, grinning like he just found free entertainment for the evening, and Owen’s beside him, already losing it.
Next to them is Nathan, one of our newbies coming up to play in the next season.
His arms are crossed and he’s watching like he hasn’t yet determined whether the situation requires intervention.
Probably smart to reserve judgment. I’m trying to.
“Friends of yours?” Danielle asks.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter. Then, louder: “Yeah. Teammates.”
Liam gives me a little wave, while Owen sticks his tongue out in our direction, much to Nathan’s amusement. Great.
“Anyway,” I say, returning my attention to her. “I need to wrap things up here.”
She doesn’t move right away. She waits a beat. Then another. Then, another. Finally, she steps back. “We’ll talk soon.”
I nod like that is absolutely not going to happen. “See you Thursday.”
As she walks off, I finally give myself permission to exhale. I survived that challenge, now on to the next. I make it three steps before I find it.
“So…glitter,” Liam says.
“Do not.”
“Full glitter,” Owen adds.
“I hate both of you, but we are out of here. Leaving,” I cut in. “Right now. Immediately.”
Liam grins. “Dinner?”
I grab my bag. “Dinner.”
Nathan falls into step beside us, and I notice he doesn’t ask any questions. Smart guy. He’ll fit right in.
By the time we get to The Oarhouse, I’ve almost forgotten about the glitter. Almost.
“Table for four,” Liam says, already halfway inside like he owns the place. We get seated near the back—booth, good sightlines, low lighting, the kind of place that pretends it’s casual but charges like it isn’t.
Menus hit the table, and water shows up as I’m scanning my options. When the waiter drops off a bread basket, I’m pretty sure he tossed it to us like he was feeding zoo animals. Fair enough, we can be feral.
Liam settles back and immediately reaches for the little QR code stand like it’s the main event.
“Oh, this place is perfect,” he says.
“For food?” Nathan asks.
“No,” Liam says, offended. “For this.”
He taps the code and turns his phone toward us. “It’s their playlist system.”
I glance at it. “Their what?”
“Playlist system,” Liam repeats, like I’m the problem here. “You sign up for a free account, you add songs to the queue, and the whole place runs off what people pick.”
I frown. I can see a lot of holes in this plan. “So anyone can just choose the music?”
“Yes,” he says. “And it’s brilliant.”
“That sounds like carnage,” Nathan says.
“It’s curated carnage,” Liam corrects.
Owen leans in. “It’s like Netflix but for music. Only people judge you based on your choices,” he says. “Which is honestly half the fun.”
That does not help. I shrug my shoulders as Nathan leans back slightly, also unimpressed. “That sounds weird.”
“It’s not weird,” Liam says.
“It’s a little weird,” Nathan counters. “And untrustworthy.”
“Untrustworthy?” Liam repeats.
“I don’t know,” Nathan says. “Feels like I’m giving strangers insight into my personality through song choices.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” Owen says.
“Yeah,” Liam adds. “That’s the point.”
Nathan shakes his head. “Hard pass.”
“It’s great for dating,” Owen says, cutting in. “I’ve met, like, two of my last dates here because of the playlist.”
I look at him. “Two?”
“Two recent ones,” he says defensively. “It works.”
“For you,” Nathan mutters.
Liam’s already nudging the phone toward me. “Come on, Ty. You’re up.”
I hesitate for half a second.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing it.
It’s simple enough. Sign up. Create username. Preferences. I begin scrolling, checking out a plethora of artists. Genres. Recently played. A list of songs pops up, already queued by other people in the restaurant.
I scan it, not expecting much until I see…Okay. Whoever’s running Benson Boone right now, I can’t be mad at that. Solid choice.
I scroll a little further. An old Eagles track slides into view. I pause. Alright. Respect. That one earns a nod I do not give out lightly.
I keep going. It’s only a matter of time before I land on the Swifties. More than one Taylor Swift song appears, and the corner of my mouth tips before I can stop it.
I don’t hate it.
I glance around the table like I’ve just committed a minor crime by thinking that. Then, without really meaning to, my fingers brush against the bracelet still wrapped around my wrist. Peace. I let out a quiet laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Owen asks, already suspicious.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, scrolling again like I wasn’t just having a full internal moment about my music preferences.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was nothing.”
I tap a song into the queue—safe, neutral, unremarkable.