Chapter 4
Maria
The bell over the café door jingles, and for a second my heart lifts. I expect the boys—backpacks slung low, arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes tonight after dinner. But it’s not them. It’s Tuck and Nicklas.
They step in from the late-afternoon chill, bringing with them the sharp scent of cold October air. Monday means we close early. Soon enough the café will be quiet and golden light will slant through the front windows. It’s one of my favorite times of the day.
I wipe my palms on my apron and my stupid hands shake when I reach for the coffee carafe.
Honestly, I wish Tuck’s mere presence didn’t undo me like this.
I go for casual. Easy. Unbothered. I don’t even look up at first, but I feel it anyway, the weight of Tuck’s eyes tracking me as I cross the floor. My pulse trips over itself.
We almost kissed yesterday.
Almost.
I wanted it. He wanted it. The air between us had been thick with it, charged and impossible to ignore. But wanting and doing are two very different things. And I can’t. I just…can’t.
He offered to help me after I doubted I could do everything. That’s what he does. Team captain. Protector. The guy who shows up when someone needs something. He was out at Noah’s cottage cutting wood this weekend.
Wood.
Dear God.
I force my thoughts back into line before I dump a full pot of coffee into someone’s lap.
“How was practice?” I ask, aiming for breezy.
I only know they had morning practice because Gina stopped by with little Grant after dropping Zoe at school. Grant and Mom came in later too. Mom looked mostly okay, but she couldn’t stop sneezing. Allergies, maybe. Though to what in October, I have no idea.
“Practice was good,” Tuck says, his voice low and steady. Solid. Dependable. The kind of voice you lean on. Except if you’re a single mother with a ready-made family.
Nicklas flashes that grin, the one that makes half the town’s single girls forget their own names. It’s unfair, really. The dimple, the swagger, the careless confidence.
But I’m not a girl. I’m a grown woman. And I’m immune.
“Coffee?” I ask.
They flip their cups over in unison and I fill them, the dark liquid curling up in fragrant steam. I only spill a tiny bit on the table, and Tuck quickly mops it up with his napkin.
“Sorry, I’ll bring more.” I clear my throat. “Grabbing a bite?” I ask.
“I want something sweet,” Nicklas says, waggling his brows in a way that would be ridiculous on anyone else. “Something sweet like you.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I don’t give myself a headache. “Original.”
He laughs, delighted with himself. Nicklas has a reputation. Puck bunny hound. Media darling. The guy who leans into the role they’ve carved out for him. But I don’t take anything he says to me seriously. I’ve seen him when no one else is watching.
When the café is empty and the lights are dim.
When he lingers, quiet, thoughtful, staring into his mug like it might hold answers to…
something he’s seeking, but might be afraid of actually finding.
He’s offered to help stack chairs, wipe counters, take the trash out.
No cameras. No fans. No teammates. There’s something softer under all that shine.
I think about his family, where he comes from, why he feels safe to shut down around me, and me only.
I don’t ask. It’s not my business. But I’m here if he ever wants to talk.
“Shut the fuck up, Rookie,” Tuck mutters, kicking him under the table. “God, I don’t want you anywhere near Kate.”
Kate.
The name lands like a pebble dropped into still water.
Who the hell is Kate?
If there even is a Kate. Maybe I misheard him. Maybe he said something else. And even if he didn’t—if Kate exists—it’s none of my business.
Absolutely none.
So why does my stomach tighten like someone just pulled a drawstring?
Nicklas winces. “What was that for, dude?”
“Maria is not one of your puck bunnies,” Tuck says, voice low but sharp. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it.
Nicklas’s grin softens, the cocky edge fading. He tips his head toward me, that dimple flashing. “Sorry, Maria.”
“It’s okay,” I say lightly, leaning toward Tuck. “I always save the cinnamon rolls that fall on the floor for Nicklas.”
“Hey!” Nicklas protests, scandalized.
I laugh, the sound bubbling up and lighting the mood around me. Nicklas smiles at me then—real, unguarded—and for a second he doesn’t look like a professional athlete with endorsement deals and a tabloid trail. He looks young. Almost boyish.
Older than my sons, sure. But not by much.
And maybe that’s why I see it.
That flicker of vulnerability he tries so hard to bury. The loneliness that peeks through when he thinks no one’s paying attention. I know that look. I’ve raised boys. I’ve watched them try to be bigger than their feelings.
Nicklas and I have this unspoken understanding. His teasing is harmless. Easy. Safe. I think, if I’m honest, he looks at me like I’m something steady. Something solid. Maybe even something maternal. Which makes the way Tuck is looking at me now feel anything but safe.
Because there’s nothing maternal in his gaze.
It’s warm. Intent. A little territorial.
And entirely too aware.
My pulse stumbles again.
I focus on the coffee pot in my hands, on the dishwasher running in the kitchen, anything but the memory of how close his mouth was to mine yesterday.
Too close.
Close enough that I can still feel it.
“What can I get you to eat?” I ask, tucking the order pad under my arm even though I already know what they’re going to say. Hockey players are creatures of habit.
“I’ll have the seafood chowder,” Tuck says without hesitation.
Of course he will.
He always orders it on Mondays. Says it tastes like something his grandmother back home in Nova Scotia used to make.
Nicklas lifts his mug and takes a long sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Same.” He sets it down with a quiet clink. “Think you could slip me a few extra scallops?”
I nudge his shoulder. “Always.”
His grin widens. But I don’t miss the way Tuck’s jaw tightens. The way his eyes follow the easy brush of my hand against Nicklas’s arm.
He probably thinks I’m charmed.
That I’m falling for the rookie’s dimples and swagger.
If he only knew.
If only he understood that Nicklas feels safe because he doesn’t want anything from me, doesn’t need to put on a show. Because the way he looks at me is uncomplicated. Light.
Tuck, on the other hand…nothing about the way he looks at me is light.
I turn before he can read any of that on my face and head into the back.
The kitchen smells like cream and thyme and brine from the ocean.
I stir the chowder slowly, watching the steam curl upward.
Two generous scoops into heavy ceramic bowls.
I make sure Nicklas gets his extra scallops.
I tear open two fresh rolls, still warm, and plate them beside the butter.
I carry the tray out just as the door bursts open. Cold air rushes in first. Then my boys. They tumble inside in a mess of backpacks and elbows, loud and chaotic and mid-argument.
“I told you that’s not even what happened—”
“Because you never listen—”
“Boys.” My voice is calm but edged with warning. “Not here.”
They freeze mid-shove and glance past me, spotting Tuck and Nicklas in the booth. Instantly, their shoulders square, chins lift. They try to look like men. Like they aren’t just two gangly teenagers who still forget to rinse their cereal bowls.
“It’s fine, Mom. It’s just Uncle Tuck and Uncle Nicklas.
” Josh gives a casual wave, like he’s not impressed that two NHL players are sitting in the café.
It’s sweet, really. The way they’ve folded themselves into this hockey family.
Truthfully, they’re both still starstruck.
Posters on their walls. Jerseys worn thin.
The kids of the players call the other guys ‘uncle’ because this is a tight knit hockey world. Since my boys are Zoe’s half-brothers, they’ve claimed the right too. Even if technically, I’m not really part of that family.
Not officially.
“Mom, I’m starved,” Josh says, already shrugging off his backpack and unzipping his coat.
Nicklas slides over without hesitation, making room in the booth. “Get in here, man.”
Josh beams, and drops his coat onto the back of his chair.
Tuck, though…Tuck shifts. Just slightly. His shoulders stiffen as Josh squeezes in beside Nicklas. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. Discomfort? Awareness?
Maybe it’s the reminder. That I’m not just Maria. I’m a mother—who comes with a family—and that makes him uncomfortable.
“I’m going to call Ari,” Lucas announces loudly, already halfway up the stairs to the apartment before I can respond.
“Don’t yell,” I call after him, but he’s gone.
I set the chowder down in front of Tuck and Nicklas. The steam curls between us, fragrant and warm. Tuck’s hand brushes mine as he reaches for his spoon.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
My pulse stutters.
I turn quickly, heading for the door to flip the sign to Closed before anyone else wanders in during the last fifteen minutes of the day.
That’s when I see Mom and Grant outside. What are they doing here? I pull the door open just as Mom buries her face in her elbow and sneezes—hard.
“Oh my,” she mutters, fishing a tissue from her coat pocket.
“Bless you,” I say automatically, stepping aside to let them in. That’s when I notice what Grant is clutching to his chest.
My stomach drops.
“Grant,” I say, with a hard shake of my head. “You can’t bring that in here. It’s against code.”
He looks up at me, wide-eyed and easy going. “Oh, it’ll just be for a minute.”
“You can’t,” I start, feeling like this is going to go sideways fast.
“You got a kitten?” Josh blurts. He shoots up from the booth and hurries to Grant, who beams and carefully transfers the small tabby into Josh’s waiting hands.