Chapter 16 Colt
Colt
Icoast to a stop at the boards, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples. My lungs burn, but it’s the good kind of burn.
The kind that means I’m alive, pushing my body, not just waiting for it to heal anymore.
Oh, yes. The ice feels like home again.
Which is ironic, considering home is starting to feel a lot more like a certain bakery apartment with a kid’s drawing stuck to the fridge.
Are you going to be here forever?
Morgan's serious, ten-year-old eyes flash in my head, and my stomach clenches. I try to shove the memory away and focus on the puck at my feet.
Focus on anything but the impossible question.
So, naturally, my brain serves up the next best distraction: Zoey, naked and warm in her bed this morning, her skin soft under my hands.
I've never had slow, lazy, morning sex like that. The kind where you savor every inch, every sigh after a night wrapped in each others arms.
And yet, somehow, even with that sexy image making my skin burn all over agian, Morgan’s question still won't stop circling louder than Coach’s whistle.
Are you going to be here forever?
I don’t know.
I’ve never promised anyone forever. I’ve never even wanted to.
But looking at that crayon drawing this morning, seeing the three of us holding hands and the big, lopsided heart in the corner… something inside me cracked open. Something hungry and terrified and hopeful all at once.
"Fuck," I groan, shaking my head loose.
I take another lap around the rink, keeping the puck close to my stick, the cold air biting my lungs. The familiar rituals of practice usually calm me, they always have.
Today, it all feels distant.
Eventually, Coach blows his whistle to end the session, and Cade Jensen appears beside me, slapping my shoulder pad with his stick.
“Not bad for a guy who’s been collecting dust, Lane. Good to see you've still got some wheels.”
“Wheels, hands, and a devastatingly handsome face,” I pant, grinning. “The full package is back, baby.”
Samuel finishes chatting with Coach and glides over, his usual frown still firmly in place. “Skating’s looking cleaner, and you're not hesitating on your turns. Willa’s gonna be happy.”
I look over to where Willa has been watching me in the stands, a Frost Café cup sitting beside her.
“Willa’s always happy when I’m not concussed,” I say, leaning on my stick and shooting her a smile. “It’s her favorite version of me.”
The guys start heading for the tunnel, and I hang back for a second, just looking around The Den. The empty seats, the pristine ice, the massive scoreboard hanging dark above center ice.
A month ago, this was all I wanted. To be back here, in my element, with my team.
And it feels good. Great, even.
But it doesn’t feel like everything anymore.
I follow the guys into the locker room and my phone buzzes in the pocket of my pants as I retrieve them from my bag. I tug it out, expecting another update from Delaney about the partnership stats from last night's event she was waffling on about the second I stepped into The Den this morning.
Zoey: So… my brothers are insisting on ‘proper introductions.’ They want to buy you a drink. The Leopard Lounge. 7pm? Don’t panic.
I stare at the screen and a slow grin spreads across my face.
She wants me there. After this morning, after her quiet ‘you’ve done enough’ that felt like a gentle push away, she’s pulling me back in…
Maybe I'm not the only one still thinking about how wet she was for me this morning.
My thumb hovers over the screen and I type back.
Colt: Panicking is for rookies. I’ll be there. Should I bring a resume? References?
Three dots appear immediately.
Zoey: Just your charming self. And maybe a helmet. Declan arm-wrestled Gabe last night and won. He’s feeling… confident.
I laugh out loud, the sound echoing in the locker room.
“What’s so funny, pretty boy?” Gabe Devereaux appears beside me, already stripped down to his gear, a towel around his neck. “Your face is doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The one you couldn't wipe off your face last night. The ‘I’m-thinking-about-Zoey’ thing. It’s gross. All soft and shit.”
I shove him, but he’s a brick wall and doesn’t budge. “Shut up, Devereaux. I'm happy.”
“It's the hockey guys, isn't it?” Gabe asks, his dark eyes narrowing. “The ones that were here last night? At the sponsorship thing?”
I nod. “Yep. The Morrison brothers. Zoey’s personal security detail.”
Gabe puffs out his cheeks, letting out a low whistle. “Jesus. I saw them, man. They’re not just hockey guys, Lane. They’re like… walking trees. Except with teeth.”
“They’re professionals,” I say, as if that explains everything. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Gabe scoffs, crossing his massive arms over his chest. “They look like they’d happily use your spine as a toothpick if you looked at their sister wrong. Didn't you see Declan arm-wrestle that logger? He won. The guy has forearms like fucking Christmas hams.”
I lean my stick against the boards, trying to project a casualness I suddenly don’t feel.
“I'm not going to some arm-wrestling competition! It’s a drink. An introduction. They probably just want to make sure I’m not a total asshole.”
Gabe looks at me, and a weird, unfamiliar flutter kicks up in my stomach.
Because maybe Gabe's onto something.
I’ve charmed parents before. I've smiled my way through awkward family dinners, and discussed the weather with protective fathers of ex-girlfriends.
It was a performance. A game I knew I could win because I didn’t care if I lost. There was never anything on the line except my own amusement.
But this?
This is Zoey’s family. Her people. The men who taught her to skate, who probably threatened every boy who ever looked at her in high school.
They’re the gatekeepers to the most important person in my world.
And for the first time, the outcome matters.
“I’ll be fine,” I say again, more to myself than to Gabe. “I’m charming. And despite what you've always told me, Big Guy, I’m a delight to be around.”
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Gabe corrects, slapping a heavy hand on my shoulder pad. “Just… maybe don’t tell them about the stick figure tattoo on your ass. Or the cherry lip balm you hide in that bag. Actually, just… be less you for a couple hours.”
I shove his hand off, laughing, but the laugh feels thin. “Noted. Be less me. Got it.”
I hit the showers, cranking the heat all the way up to try and clear the nerves. Then, an hour later, I’m standing outside The Leopard Lounge, taking some deep breaths as I try to remember how the fuck to breathe.
Through the glass windows, I can see the place is packed.
Lars is behind the bar, laughing with some hockey fans and sliding two fresh beers across to them.
I can smell it already, the crispy fried goodness mingling with craft beer and an irresistible, mouthwatering sweetness that can only mean one thing: Lars’s honey-glazed wings, the stuff of local legend and late-night cravings.
My stomach rumbles, but as I pull the door open there, in a large circular booth near the back, is my destination.
Zoey spots me and her eyes light up. She slides out of the booth and meets me halfway, her hand finding mine easily.
She’s wearing a soft-looking sweater, and her hair is down, curling around her shoulders. Jesus. She looks almost as good as she did last night.
“You came,” she says, rising on her toes to press a quick, nervous kiss to my cheek.
“Of course I did.” I squeeze her hand. “You okay? You look…”
“Terrified?" She giggles nervously. "Because I am. Mason’s already on his second beer, Beck is analyzing my life like it’s a legal contract, and Declan…” She glances over her shoulder. “Declan is just… acting all weird. He keeps asking where you are.”
I follow her gaze and three sets of eyes are now locked on us.
The one in the middle—Declan, I remember from last night—is built like a fucking tank. He has enormous broad shoulders that strain against his plain black t-shirt, and his arms are crossed over a chest that looks like it could stop a puck without padding.
He’s not smiling either. None of them are smiling.
“Right,” I murmur, looking over to Lars as he clocks my expression and immediately begins pouring me a beer. “No pressure.”
I collect my drink and Zoey leads me to the booth. “Guys, this is Colt. Colt, these are my brothers. Mason, Beck, and Declan.”
Mason, to the left, now has a friendlier face. He’s got a beard and a smile that reaches his eyes as he extends a hand. “Heard a lot about you, Lane. Mostly from Morgan, who seems to think you’re some kind of pancake wizard.”
I shake his hand. “A title I wear with pride. Nice to meet you, Mason.”
Beck, on the right, is leaner, sharper. His handshake firm. “Beck. Take a seat, man. You fly us out first class, you get a pass on the first round of questioning.”
“Ah, thanks,” I say, sliding into the booth beside Zoey, which puts me directly across from…
Declan.
An awkward silence descends.
The man doesn’t say a word. He just watches me while tapping his beer glass with one finger.
Then, from the bar, a familiar voice cuts right across the room.
“Oh, this is gonna be good! Samuel, pay up! I told you Lane would wear the gray shirt!”
I turn to see half the Snow Leopards roster clustered at the bar. Samuel, Cade, Gabe, Silas and Theo… hell, even Coach Ashford is lurking in the corner with a whiskey, all of them looking mildly entertained by my discomfort.
Cade is waving a twenty dollar bill in Samuel’s face as they all very blatantly gawk across at us, amused.
"Fine." Samuel rolls his eyes and slaps a bill into Cade’s hand. “But remember, I had ‘breaks a nervous sweat’ in the first five minutes. My bet’s still alive.”
I flip them off, trying to get them to mind their own damn business. Do they listen? Of course not.
Zoey groans, burying her face in her hands. “I’m going to kill Delaney.”
Thankfully, a server appears, saving us. “Can I get you folks some food?”
Declan finally speaks, his voice a low rumble. “Yeah. A basket of the honey-glazed wings. Extra sauce.”