Chapter Twenty-Seven
Plot Twists we’re definitely not walking down the aisle.
I’m not giving up my independence, goals, and dreams for a guy who slaps around a rubber puck for a living. ”
She doesn’t look convinced.
She’s looking at me like this is a Disney movie.
“Breathe, Harper,” I remind her, taking another sip of my latte.
“Uh huh. Just one date and suddenly you’re skipping through Dallas like a Disney princess on espresso.”
“I’m not skipping.”
“You’re emotionally skipping.”
I laugh, then pause—because her words settle somewhere in my chest.
It was different last night. I felt… lighter. And maybe a little seen, which is terrifying in its own right. But who knows, maybe this is what growth looks like? Just getting out of your own head long enough to do something different.
Harper takes another bite of her croissant and eyes me carefully. “So… are you gonna see him again?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He kind of ended things abruptly.”
Her brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we kissed. But after? He pulled back. Said he better take me home. Like he was the one drawing boundaries.”
Harper stares at me, stunned. “Well damn. I think I like him now.”
I groan. “Don’t say that.”
“You already do,” she says, with a knowing look.
I flip her off, and she laughs, victorious.
After a beat, she says, “So what about the book?”
I sober instantly. “I… actually have an idea.”
She stills. “Wait, really?”
I nod, picking at the corner of my napkin. “It’s nothing like anything I’ve written before. It’s scary and soft and hopeful and maybe… a little bit romantic?”
Her eyes widen.
“I don’t even know where it came from,” I mumble. “It just hit me after the other night. But it’s so off-brand, it might tank everything I’ve built.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Or it could be the best thing you’ve ever written.”
I glance up.
“I mean it,” she says gently. “You’re not the same person you were when you started writing those books. Maybe this is your next chapter.”
The lump in my throat is unexpected.
“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write it,” I admit.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You are.”
And for the first time in a long time… I almost believe her.
The air’s crisp as I step out of the coffee shop, latte in hand, still thinking about Harper’s relentless optimism. The girl could put a positive spin on an IRS audit. I love her for it. I hate her for it.
Mostly, I wish I believed her.
The bookstore across the street catches my eye, but I keep walking, not ready to risk seeing a display of hockey-themed romance novels with my face awkwardly Photoshopped next to Chase’s.
Instead, I duck into a boutique I don’t recognize—one of those beachy, boho places with soft lighting and too many mirrors.
A little bell chimes overhead as I enter, and the scent of jasmine and expensive leather hits me immediately. Everything in here is stupidly pretty. Delicate. Soft.
Not usually my thing, but I’m already here, so I decide to look around.
Dresses. Tops. Flowy skirts I’d never wear unless I was running barefoot through a vineyard. I tell myself I’m just killing time, that it’s research for future character building or some other lie.
And then I see it.
A slip dress.
Midnight blue. Satin. Bias-cut and delicate without being frilly. The kind of dress that doesn’t try too hard. The kind of dress that says: I didn’t come to impress you, but go ahead and be impressed.
I reach out before I can stop myself. Let my fingers trail the fabric. It’s… lovely.
“Want to try it on?” the salesgirl asks, appearing beside me.
I almost say no.
But then—I don’t.
Inside the dressing room, I slide the dress over my head, and for a minute, I just stare.
Not because I look incredible.
Not because I’m suddenly transformed.
But because I don’t hate what I see.
There’s something about the way the fabric clings to me—unapologetically. It reminds me of something I haven’t felt in a while.
Desire.
Not for anyone else.
For myself.
I stand a little straighter. Smooth the fabric over my hips. And I know—I’m buying this damn dress.
Not for Chase.
Not for a photoshoot or an event or the fans.
For me.
Maybe I am a little different lately.
And maybe that doesn’t have to be such a bad thing.
Harper once bet me that I’d fall for Chase. At the time, I brushed it off as ridiculous. Now, I’m starting to see how easily a girl could fall for him… And that scares me.
Letting my walls down won’t be easy. But it might be worth it.
Back at my condo, the afternoon light spills across the living room in soft golden stripes. I toss my keys into the bowl by the door, drop the shopping bag on the couch, and then… hover.
I grab the bag.
A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of my full-length mirror, barefoot on the hardwood floor, slipping the dress back over my head. It falls into place like it belongs there. Like I belong in it.
It’s soft. And sleek. And scandalous in a way that feels quietly powerful.
I smooth my hands over the fabric. Tilt my head.
And—okay—maybe I do look a little amazing.
I grab my phone, still uncertain why. Snap a photo. Nothing too extra. Just enough to say: Is this a terrible decision or my best one yet?
I almost send it to Harper.
Almost.
Instead… my thumb hovers.
And then I scroll to another name.
Chase.
I don’t overthink it.
I just type.
Scarlett: Should I return this?
I attach the photo.
Thumb hovers over the send button.
I send it anyway.
Immediately regret it.
Pace the room once. Twice.
Then—
Chase: Holy hell.
Do not return that.
Ever.
I laugh, one hand pressed to my mouth, heart thudding like an idiot.
And for the first time in a long time…
I don’t feel ridiculous for wanting to be seen.
Just maybe?
I want to be seen by him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Send Help. I Caught Feelings
Chase
We land in Arizona around midnight, and I’m still grinning like an idiot.
Not because we just stomped the Kings on their home ice—though, yeah, we did. And not because I scored two goals and assisted on a third—though that was pretty great too.
No, I’m grinning because I can’t stop thinking about Scarlett.
Specifically, the way she looked trash-talking me at axe throwing—despite the fact that she was losing—badly.
The way she looked when she tasted the peanut butter milkshake—eyes drifting closed—like it was pure happiness. And I put that look there. Me.
The way her voice had gone quiet—just for a second—when she talked about her parents. About the lake house. About the before and after.
And that kiss?
That kiss wrecked me.
Soft, then not-so-soft. Curious, then sure. It was a kiss that didn’t just mean something—it changed something.
Basically, I’m screwed.
“You’re smiling again,” Tyler says from the hotel bed across from mine. He’s scrolling through TikTok like it’s a competitive sport. “You got a secret girlfriend, or are you just pleased with yourself?”
“Both,” I mutter.
He looks over, eyes narrowing. “Oh damn, am I about to lose that bet?”
I’d almost forgotten about that stupid wager we’d made. Tyler didn’t think I could get the Ice Queen to agree to a date, and yeah, I guess I did. “I’m not collecting on that bet, dude. That was a joke.”
“Okay, so you and Scottie Calloway. Huh.” He scratches his facial hair. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I’m not one to kiss and tell, especially not with something as fragile as me and Scarlett. I don’t know if she’ll even agree to a second date.
Though something tells me she will.
“You guys hook up?”
I hurl a pillow at him.
He ducks, laughing. “You’re scoring more than usual, and this time, I actually mean on the ice.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up. You’ve been skating like you’ve got rockets in your skates. Whatever she’s doing to your game, keep letting her do it.”
I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling.
He’s not wrong. Something’s clicked. I’m lighter on my feet. Sharper. More focused.
Because for the first time in a while, I’m not chasing the next distraction. I’m thinking about her.
I’m thinking about the way her pulse fluttered in her neck when I leaned in to kiss her. The way her fingers curled into the front of my shirt like she didn’t want to let go.
And yeah, I didn’t want to let go either.
Which is a problem.
Because she’s not just any girl. She’s Scottie freaking Calloway—the woman who built a career on calling love a scam.
And I’m the one she kissed.
So now I’m lying here in this stupid hotel bed, supposed to be resting before our next game, and instead, I’m thinking about her lips, her laugh, and that look in her eyes when she let her walls down just enough for me to see inside.
I fish my phone off the nightstand.
Scroll to our text thread.
She hasn’t messaged since she sent me that photo of her in a dress.
I haven’t either.
We’re in that weird space between—what are we, exactly?
Still enemies? Definitely not.
Friends? Maybe.
More?
I want to find out.
But not through a screen.
So I tuck the phone away, close my eyes, and let my mind drift back to that kiss.
Yeah.
I am so screwed.