Chapter 2
TWO
GINA
It had to be him.
Out of all the men coming in and out of this town, it had to be him.
Okay, I’m willing to admit there aren’t that many.
This is small-town Alaska, after all. But still, like most places, the men outnumber the women.
Surely one of those guys must have nothing better to do than coming in to serve as the Mustangs’ coach for the next three weeks.
Why did it have to be him? Dane.
“Un-freaking-believable,” I mutter.
“I know, right?” Scottie says, taking the water bottle I brought her and spraying a stream of water into her mouth. “Can you believe they got us the Coach Dane to finish the season?”
“No,” I say, doing my best not to stare at him—though he’s the only place my eyes seem to want to go. “I really can’t believe it.”
I’ve always known there was a chance he’d come back here. He did build that damn mansion of his on the outskirts of town.
But as it spent more and more time empty, with the occasional renter, I kind of stopped expecting him to ever come around. I stopped looking over my shoulder to see if he’d made a surprise visit.
I finally let myself breathe.
Except now he’s here. Not just in that mansion, but in my town.
At my kid’s hockey practice.
Standing at the edge of the rink in a knit jacket that clings to his shoulders, hands shoved into his pockets. Silently watching the kids practice like this place still belongs to him.
Like he never left.
I need to look away. I should look away. I don’t. It’s as if I can’t.
He’s broader than he used to be. Everywhere. Broader shoulders. Wider stance. More muscular in the chest and arms.
That’s no surprise. Until a few years ago, he was the king of the ice as a professional hockey player.
Now, he’s their coach.
He must still work out. I wonder what his workout includes. I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of throwing cabers or doing that thing with the ropes that I’ve never quite figured out what it does besides make a person look absolutely ripped.
He’s also older. The boyish softness is gone in his face. It’s been replaced with harder lines that are both more solid and assured.
He’s clearly the kind of man people listen to when he speaks. Which makes sense, since that’s his job.
He looks strong. Confident. Powerful.
He looks exactly like the kind of man who doesn’t belong in my carefully rebuilt life.
As if sensing my stare, his gaze lifts. Our eyes lock.
The recognition hits instantly in his hazel eyes. I can see it even from this distance.
My pulse stutters.
“Mom?” Scottie says, following my line of sight. “Do you know him?”
“I used to.”
“What does that mean?”
Before I can answer, or even come up with one, he’s already moving toward us. His skates crunch on the ice as he moves closer to the boards.
“Gina,” he says, his voice so deep, hit sends a caress down my spine.
I force a smile. “Dane.”
For a beat, neither of us moves. The noise of the rink fades into the background—sticks tapping, skates scraping, kids shouting—until it’s just the two of us and all the years in between.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe this is all the conversation we’ll need to have before we can both go on our merry little ways.
“Your daughter…” he says slowly.
Maybe not.
He turns his gaze toward her, surprise clearly written on his face. “So you’re the infamous Scottie.”
“I am,” she says proudly, taking another swig of water. “And you’re Coach Dane.”
“You aren’t exactly what I was expecting,” he says, clearly carefully choosing his words.
And it’s a sentiment we’ve heard many times before.
“I know, it’s confusing. And I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason no one asked questions when she signed up for the team.”
I fold my arms more tightly across my chest to keep the flicker of irritation—and the conflicting butterflies in my stomach—in check.
“If you’re going to say she shouldn’t be playing with boys, you can save your breath.
Because we’ve heard it before. Besides, this is the only team in town, and my daughter deserves to play. ”
His dark brows knit together. “Why would I say she shouldn’t play with boys?”
The genuine confusion on his face extinguishes most of the heat from my fury.
“It’s usually the first thing most people say when they realize Scottie is a girl.”
“It sounds like most of the people you’re talking to are backward-thinking idiots.” He lifts a shoulder. “So what if she’s a girl?”
“That’s… a refreshing response.” I release a breath and let my arms fall back to my sides.
Dane’s mouth curves slightly, like he knows he’s just passed some invisible test.
“She’s a hel—heck of a good skater,” he says. “And she has great puck control. I noticed right away.”
My chest tightens at that. Pride wars with something more complicated—something close to gratitude.
“She’s worked really hard to develop her skills,” I say. “The only time she isn’t practicing or studying is when she’s in school or in bed.”
Though, I suspect she sneaks it in at both.
Scottie straightens, practically glowing. “I play center.”
“Do you now?” Dane says. “That takes guts.”
“And speed,” she adds quickly. “And a good shot.”
He nods like she’s talking shop. “All true.”
I hate how natural he is with her.
I hate how easily he slips into this role, crouched slightly, engaged, like nothing else exists but the kid in front of him.
I hate how quickly my brain has jumped from being annoyed he’s back in town to thrilled he’s giving my daughter his undivided attention.
It makes it much harder to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want him anywhere near my life.
“Mom,” Scottie says, tugging at my sleeve. “Coach says he can help me with a new move that can help our offense.”
I swallow past a lump in my throat now. “Can he now?”
“Yep. He says he can show it to me now.”
“I don’t know.” I dart a glance at the rest of the kids who are starting to pack up their gear. “Practice is over.”
“But mom. Can’t he?”
My stomach drops. “Scottie, he’s already giving enough of his time to help the team. We shouldn’t ask—”
“It’s fine,” Dane says easily, straightening and glancing at me. “If that’s okay with you.”
For a split second, an irrational thought flashes through my mind—how easily this could have been our life if he hadn’t left. If I hadn’t gone with him.
I shove it away.
“A quick lesson is fine,” I say. “But we can’t be here much longer. It’s a school night, and I know someone who has homework.”
His smile softens, just a little. “I’ll keep it quick.”
As he turns back to Scottie, I watch them together—coach and player, mentor and kid—and try not to think about how dangerous it feels to let him back into our orbit.
Because I already know one thing for certain.
Dane’s presence is going to change everything. Again. No matter how long he’s in town, he’s going to turn my hard-fought world upside down.
Dane steps back onto the ice with the same ease he always has.
He doesn’t skate yet—just moves along the boards, pointing things out to Scottie as she follows his instructions. A small adjustment to her grip. A reminder to keep her knees bent. The tiniest shift in balance that makes an immediate difference.
She listens to him in a way that makes my chest ache.
I tell myself it’s because he’s a professional. Because kids respond to authority. Because this has nothing to do with the fact that he’s the man I once loved.
I fail spectacularly at convincing myself.
When he finally skates off and joins the other coaches near center ice, Scottie glides back toward me, flushed and smiling.
“Did you see that?” she says. “He showed me this trick where you sell the move before you make it.”
“I saw,” I say. “You looked good.”
Her grin widens. “He said I could come early tomorrow for a little one-on-one.”
My stomach flips. “Tomorrow?”
“He said he’d be here anyway.” She shrugs. “And he offered.”
Of course he did.
I glance across the rink, where Dane is laughing at something one of the other parents says. It’s an easy sound. A real one. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that.
“We’ll see,” I say carefully. “I’ll talk to him.”
Scottie nods, already distracted as her teammates call her back onto the ice.
I should shut this down. Set boundaries. Protect the life I’ve built and the fragile balance I’ve fought so hard to maintain.
Instead, when practice ends and parents begin gathering their kids and equipment, I find myself walking toward him.
Up close, he smells like high-end body wash and something else. Something muskier and masculine.
“Hey,” he says. “She’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “She loves the game.”
“I can tell.” He hesitates. “About tomorrow—if it’s too much, I get it. I don’t want to step on any toes.”
I study his face, looking for arrogance. Expectation. Anything that tells me he assumes he still belongs in my world.
I don’t find it.
“Early is fine,” I say finally. “We’ll come by before school.”
His smile is quick but sincere. “Great.”
We stand there awkwardly for a beat too long, both of us aware of everything we’re not saying.
“I should get her home,” I say. “And I have some work to do.”
“Right.” He nods. And I wonder if he’s been keeping tabs on me to know that I’ve taken over my family’s lodge on the other side of town. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
I turn away before I can second-guess myself. Before I can remember how easy it used to be to fall back into him.
Because one thing is already clear.
Letting Dane back into my world—even temporarily—is going to test every wall I’ve built.