19. Tyson
nineteen
Tyson
So much for earning the team’s respect at the parade—not only did I split my pants in front of everyone, the guys somehow tricked me into eating horse treats.
Thankfully Brenna, Kingston Brewer’s cousin, carries a sewing kit wherever she goes because she’s a wedding planner, and she was able to sew my pants.
But seriously, I’m over being embarrassed.
The chirps never stop. I’m never going to win their respect.
There’s so much pressure to be better, I can’t take it.
Still lugging my last hockey stick to give away, I peel away from the team at the first chance I get.
I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I pull up the parade map on my phone, trying to plot the best spot to “casually bump” into Lottie before they leave.
It’s easily ninety degrees, if not a hundred, and my practice jersey is soaked in sweat. I peel it off and drape it over my shoulder. I’ve got another shirt underneath, so I’m still warm, but it’s a tad easier to breathe.
I spot Lottie near their trailer, parked at the end of the route. She looks incredible in a bright pink sleeveless shirt that shows off her arms. I didn’t know I had a thing for arms, but now I do. Or maybe just when they are on her.
She’s standing between Bodan and her mom, who is in full shark mode, practically yanking pedestrians off the curb and forcing them to shake her hand.
Instead of business cards, she’s passing out garden seed packets, pretending to know something about gardening in a bid to be relatable.
Her approval rating must still be in free fall because I’ve never seen her this desperate.
"I’m telling you, daisies are the heart of my garden!" Senator Halloway’s voice carries over the crowd. It makes me chuckle—I’m one of the few people who know her precious garden is all a farce.
Lottie catches my eye, and an exhale slips out before I can stop it. Her face instantly brightens as she smiles at me. "Ty, are you coming to save me?”
"Rough morning?" I grin, stepping closer. I nod a quick hello to her mom, then ignore Bodan standing next to her. He’s not a bad guy, but my brain refuses to acknowledge any man standing next to my queen.
"Not really rough,” she sighs, looking down at the leash in her hand. “Cinnamon has decided today is the day she enters her terrible teen years."
I give the goat a side-eye and Cinnamon returns a very judgmental expression. Lottie isn’t exaggerating. "Hey,” I say, holding my hand out cautiously. I smell like horse treats, and I half-expect her to bite me. To my pleasure, she lifts her chin and ignores me.
I lean in, holding up my hockey stick. "Hey, I have to hand this out for PR. If you need a break from your mom, you can walk with me until I find someone to give it to.”
“Ah, sure.” Her gaze flicks to her fake date before she steps forward.
“Bodan should be okay with my mom.” Without hesitation, she pulls the goat along.
Technically, I could give the stick to anyone right here, but it might feel like part of her mom’s campaign.
I respect what she does and all, but I don’t want to be associated with the campaign.
Plus, I need this moment to walk next to Lottie.
We haven’t had much time together, and it’s certainly not like our Julys at the lake.
I don’t think we’ll ever get that feeling back.
The heat is thick, and we haven't gone fifty yards when a tiny kid with a beaming smile wanders into our path. "Wow, what kind of dog is that?" The kid's eyes are wide at the goat.
"It’s a goat, buddy," Lottie says, tugging the leash and holding her back from jumping on the kid.
Sweat drips from my face, and I don’t care to loiter longer than necessary. I raise the stick toward him. "Do you like hockey?"
The kid’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. "Yeah!"
“Well, it’s your lucky day, because I play for the US Stars team, and I have a stick to give out.
Would you like it?” I push it toward him, making sure he can see my signature.
He takes it and excitedly runs to tell his mom.
I’m so focused on watching him scramble away with his prize that I don't notice the weight shift off my shoulder.
I’m grinning when Lottie giggles. "Ty, did you notice you lost something?”
I whirl around. Cinnamon has my jersey in her jaws. From the looks of it, she’s already managed to swallow half a sleeve.
"Hey! That’s not a snack!" I lunge for it, but she plants her hooves and pulls back.
I don’t want a tug-of-war with a four-legged vacuum, but those jerseys are expensive. Lottie is doubled over, laughing so hard she’s clutching her stomach. "Not to be gross, but I think she smells the salt from your sweat. She loves salt."
"That’s nasty!” Reaching forward, I grab it with a sharp tug, and the jersey pops out of her mouth with a sickening rrrrip .
I stare at a gaping hole, right through the sleeve.
Lottie drops to her knees in front of the goat.
She cups her little face in her hands, looking her dead in the eyes.
"Cinnamon Halloway," she coos in a high-pitched, sugary baby voice. "You didn’t mean to eat Ty’s shirt, did you? You just couldn’t help how great it smelled, right?
" Cinnamon lets out a soft noise and nuzzles her palm.
I stand here, holding a ruined shirt, and I can’t even be mad. Watching her talk to a goat like it’s a toddler makes my chest flip. She glances up at me, cheeks flushed from the heat.
Man, she’s stunning.
"Sorry," she says, still smiling. “She’s—”
I cut her off. “Don’t apologize. Actually, I won’t be able to wear it anymore with the extra ventilation. It’s full of holes now." I make a split-second decision to toss the mangled jersey to her. “You can keep it.”
She catches it with her left hand, hugging it close to her body. "You're giving me your jersey?” She eyes the hole, then back at me with a playful glint in her eyes. "Boy, that makes me feel pretty special. I didn’t think you guys just handed those out."
My heart slams into my ribs.
I hadn’t planned it to mean anything. It was purely an impulse—her goat ate it, so it felt like a “you-break-it-you-buy-it” gesture.
But now, with the way her eyes are glinting at me, I’ve changed my mind.
I’ve never actually given one of my jerseys to a girl before.
Suddenly this moment feels heavier, like one that matters.
“Yeah, I guess I am giving it to you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You should wear it to one of my games.”
Her expression softens. "My mom would forbid it," she whispers, glancing back toward where her mother is still doling out fake gardening advice next to Lottie’s fake boyfriend.
"You know, with her whole scandal and all.
" She looks at the jersey in her hand and back up at me, a defiant little smirk forming. "But, ah, I'll see what I can do, Ty.”
I swallow, hanging on to the way my name sounds on her lips.
Like she made it extra soft and gooey.
Ah, she’s just being friendly.
Is she?
I don’t need to catalog the way her eyes linger on mine. I drag a hand down the back of my neck, trying to ground myself.
Say something normal , I tell myself.
Anything!
Instead, I huff out a breath that’s halfway to a laugh, because I’m not convinced anything coherent will come out. She has no idea she just knocked my world off its axis. All I can do is stand here, pretending I’m not unraveling from the inside out as I picture her in my jersey.
What if she comes to one of my games?
I’m already a nervous wreck without her there.
But wait…what if she comes?
My gaze drifts to the side.
She’s not interested in hockey.
If she comes, that means she’s interested in something else, right?
That something…would be me !