Chapter 10
The highway stretched ahead of us, cutting through the Vail Valley in long ribbons as it curved alongside the Eagle River.
I cracked the windows of my old truck, letting the early summer wind and the sharp scent of pine rush in.
A radio station out of Glenwood Springs hummed low, classic rock filling the cab as background noise meant to break up the quiet tension.
Daisy angled toward the window, golden hair whipping loose around her face. She closed her eyes, lashes resting against her cheeks, pulling whatever peace she could from the air. And after everything she’d just revealed about her life in that courtroom, I couldn’t blame her.
So much loss.
So much hurt.
So much pain I didn’t think she showed anyone.
When her hair whipped forward again, I reached behind me, grabbed my Mayhem hat from the back seat, and dropped it onto her head. “Here.”
Her eyes flew open—blue and startled beneath the bill. I felt her gaze settle on me, heavy and searching, clocking the way I’d stepped in again without being asked.
Unfortunately, because of how our story began, she already knew this about me. I acted first. Helped first. Gave first. Then hated myself for expecting anything back.
What she didn’t know was that I couldn’t stop myself—especially not with her—even if I tried.
A careful smile tugged at her mouth, small and restrained. She pulled her hair through the snapback and twisted it into a loose ponytail. “Thanks.”
I kept my eyes locked on the road, not trusting myself to say more after the morning we’d just survived. And hell—she looked good like this. Jeans. A T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. My hat.
Too good.
No matter how inconvenient, Daisy Winslow had burrowed under my skin the second she challenged me to Truth or Dare three years ago.
Back then, energy spilled out of her, reckless and bright—laughing too loud, dancing in the street, singing as if she dared life to keep up.
This Daisy carried herself differently. Quieter. Dimmed. Life hadn’t just worn her down; it had taken pieces and never given them back.
She turned back to the window, arms crossing over her chest, shutting me out again.
I was used to silence—I chose it often enough myself—but this one twisted something restless in my chest, the urge to do something, be something, that might pull her back from wherever she’d gone.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
Six weeks of living together was going to be a problem.
A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, impossible to ignore problem.
The radio crackled with static, then slid into Blondie’s Call Me.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Daisy’s fingers start tapping against her leg.
A moment later, she sang along under her breath.
Her voice sounded more cautious than I remembered, but it filled the cab anyway.
When the chorus hit, she sang louder, clinging to the rhythm as if it could hold her up.
I glanced at her again, hoping for a glimpse of the girl who’d spun circles around me, dancing in the street.
She caught me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Didn’t take you for a Blondie fan.”
Her mouth tilted, that almost-smile again. “The Foreigner shirt didn’t give me away? I love your Grandpa rock.”
My lip twitched, barely holding back a smile at that familiar bite. “Oh, we’re back to this then?”
“You’re still old, right, Daddy?”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Don’t say that.”
This time she chuckled, and it was the most genuine sound I’d heard from her all day. “I love classic rock, though. Blondie. Stevie Nicks. ZZ Top. Genesis. And Magnum P.I.–era Tom Selleck, obviously.”
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “I wondered when this would come up.”
Her grin flashed quick and sharp, dimples cutting into her cheeks. “Have you kept the mustache all this time? Or did I time my arrival just right to witness it again?”
The back of my neck warmed. Damn her for remembering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, shit.” She turned toward me, one leg folding up onto the bench seat between us, eyebrows lifting beneath my hat. “You kept it, didn’t you?”
This time I looked out the window, avoiding her. “Turns out you were right. A duster is a good look for me.”
“I can’t believe I’ve missed out on three years of this.” She waved a hand at my face, then let out a slow sigh and turned back toward the window.
I flicked a glance at her, then back at the road. If she only knew how often I’d replayed our goodbye—how many times I’d wondered what might’ve happened if I hadn’t walked away.
We drove the rest of the way back to Linwood in an easy silence.
Daisy knew every song on the radio and sang along, soft at first, then louder when she forgot to be self-conscious.
The music seemed to smooth the sharp edges, unwinding the tight coil in her shoulders, until she resembled the woman I’d met years ago.
If I didn’t know better, I never would’ve guessed her life had just been upended.
The Welcome to Linwood sign came into view when I exited the highway, painted in cheerful blues and greens.
We rolled down River Street, mountains wrapping close on every side.
The storefronts lined up in mismatched colors, looking a mix of modern amenities and the remnants of a Western mining town.
We didn’t have much—a grocery store, a coffee shop, a bar, a restaurant, an outfitter, and Emmy’s Pilates studio—but it was just enough.
Hudson Hardware sat at the center of it all—barn red with crisp white lettering, the double doors thrown open to the summer air. Hanging planters spilled ivy and bright yellow pansies out front, just like my dad had always done.
Linwood in summer meant the mountains turned green, the air smelled like pine and river water, and the rink stayed just cold enough to keep the heartbeat of the town going. Even nestled in the Vail Valley, we weren’t a ski town—not really. We were a hockey town.
Beckett and I had taken over coaching the Mayhem last fall, two former players trying to give these kids the same sense of home we’d found on the ice. After bringing back the town’s first state championship in over a decade, I finally felt like I belonged here. Like this was my home.
Daisy’s gaze flicked from storefront to storefront as we drove through. For a second, I wondered if she saw it the way I did—not just a town, but a sanctuary.
She leaned back against the headrest, finally looking at ease, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away.
By the time we turned onto my sister’s street, the afternoon light stretched across the neighborhood, soft and golden.
Emmy’s house sat at the end of the block—a little two-story place with light-blue siding and white trim, the porch just big enough for a rocking chair and a hanging basket.
The matching detached garage sat at the end of the driveway, a basketball hoop bolted to its side.
Before we even turned into the drive, the sounds of my crew carried through the open windows.
Beckett had Junie perched on his shoulders, the two of them standing at the top of the driveway.
Jace, Emmy’s son, stood next to them with a basketball in his hands.
Silas “Smash” Delgado, one of the Mayhem’s defensemen, stood under the hoop with a sly smirk on his face.
Miles “Pickles” Claussen, our goalie, was off to the side with his hands cupped around his mouth, heckling non-stop.
Molly Morreau, our star center, sat in a lawn chair like a queen, calling out shots into a red megaphone. “Okay, your turn, Juice. These two idiots are done, so we’re down to you and Junie-Girl. Spin around three times, under the leg, off the garage, into the hoop.”
Jace groaned, but bounced the ball twice. “Why did we say you could call the shots? That’s not possible.”
Junie grinned wide, then leaned down and whispered in Beckett’s ear. My best friend held a hand above his head, and she slapped her little palm into it, the two of them already scheming.
“I swear, you’re evil,” Jace said to Molly, then attempted her instructions. He spun, bounced, and threw the ball, aiming right for the garage siding. Unfortunately for him, it bounced off in the wrong direction, not making the hoop.
“That was embarrassing for all of us,” Molly called through the megaphone. “I award you no points.”
Jace shook his head, then passed the ball to Beckett.
“Think we can do it?” Beckett said, looking up at Junie above him. He was six-foot-four, so she sat high in the sky, her little face as serious as I’d ever seen it. She gave him a brief nod, and Beckett grinned.
He bent at the knees, then bounced the ball twice, focusing on the hoop.
Without waiting, he wrapped one hand around Junie’s leg draped over his shoulder, then spun.
She squealed in delight, hanging onto his shaggy hair as he bounced the ball between his legs, then passed the ball up to her.
Junie held it just right, as if they’d been practicing this, and tossed the ball over his head.
It sailed through the air, bounced once off the garage siding, once on the rim, and miraculously dropped in.
“HORSE!” Pickles whooped. “They’ve got two points on you. You’re outta here!”
Delgado threw his hands in the air. “You can’t use the kid as an extension of your own height. That’s cheating!”
“Maybe if you’d grown in the last six years, you could be a little HOR too,” Miles shot back.
That earned him a glare, and about two seconds’ warning before Delgado launched himself at him. The two of them went down into the grass, wrestling with shouts about “goalie interference” and “unsportsmanlike conduct.”
Molly didn’t even flinch, lifting the megaphone again. “Two minutes for excessive whining.”
The second I stepped out of the truck, the noise from the driveway shifted fast.
“Holy crap,” Delgado said, pointing at me as if I’d grown another head. “He’s wearing real clothes.”