17. Riley #3
That was the part Riley liked best about their system. She could spend hours reshaping a profile by millimeters and testing how the holder sat beneath the boot, but the rink always delivered the final verdict. Graham brought that information back without dressing it up.
No marketing department translated it.
No sponsor needed a quote.
Just steel, ice, and whether a kid stayed on his feet.
“Toby’s blades are magic with that custom hollow,” Graham said. “His edge work held through every tight turn. He didn’t blow a single tire out there.”
Riley reached for the skate and tilted it beneath the lamp. “Any chatter when he loaded the heel?”
“None.”
“Toe bite?”
“Clean.”
“Then don’t touch the profile.”
Graham raised both hands. “Wouldn’t dare.”
Wade gave Riley a sideways look. “You hear that? Former league MVP finally learned to take instructions.”
“Three years of training,” she said. “We’re making progress.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“That’s why we’re discussing you.”
Graham laughed and leaned against the bench.
The restless man Riley remembered from the NHL years had always needed motion.
He paced tunnels, checked phones, chased the next obligation before the current one had even ended.
This Graham could stand beside an unfinished pair of junior skates and spend ten minutes debating whether a ten-year-old needed another degree of pitch.
Nothing was chasing him.
Wade picked up the runner and pointed it toward Riley. “The lead engineer gets the credit. She spent three hours re-profiling that steel yesterday.”
Riley opened her mouth to tell him three hours was an exaggeration.
It was not.
Graham’s gaze shifted from the skate to her, and his grin changed into the familiar expression that still managed to make the last three years of fighting for this life look unfairly easy.
“Trust me, reminding my wife how brilliant she is sits pretty high on my agenda.”
Graham pushed away from Wade’s bench and started toward Riley.
She barely had time to smile before Clara spotted him from across the shop.
“You’ve been spotted,” Riley said.
Graham glanced toward the aisle. “I’m in trouble now.”
Clara abandoned whatever Mac had been showing her and sprinted across the floor, curls bouncing around her face.
“Daddy!”
Graham laughed and knelt to catch her. Clara launched herself into his arms, and he caught her around the waist, lifting her against his chest to kiss her cheek.
“Hey, sweetheart. Did Mom build us another set of rocket ships today?”
Clara nodded with complete seriousness. “Fast ones.”
“Obviously.”
“The fastest.”
Riley shook her head. “You two are becoming impossible.”
Graham looked over Clara’s shoulder at her. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Mac walked toward them with Maisie beside him. “Alright, surrender the menace. Maisie and I promised to walk her down to the boot shop and show her how those leather presses operate before lunch.”
Clara twisted in Graham’s arms. “The loud one?”
Maisie pointed toward the front door. “The loud one stays off until Uncle Mac says you’re far enough back.”
Mac held out his hands. “Shop rules apply even when you’re the boss’s kid.”
Graham handed Clara over. “Watch your pockets, Mac. She spent half of practice trying to swipe my whistle.”
“I found it,” Clara announced.
“You tried to steal it.”
“I found it.”
Maisie laughed. “That defense is going to hold up great in court someday.”
Mac settled Clara against his side and headed toward the entrance. “Come on, outlaw. Let’s go bother people who actually work for a living.”
Graham called after him, “I heard that.”
The bell over the front door chimed as Mac carried Clara outside with Maisie following close behind.
For a moment, the shop seemed larger.
Wade returned to the runners on his bench, giving Riley and Graham the kind of privacy that no one needed to announce anymore. Wade’s tools clinked in the background, and the rink continued its muted scrape beyond the shared wall.
Graham turned back to Riley.
This time, nothing intercepted him.
He walked over and wrapped both arms around her waist. Riley stepped into him without thinking about it, resting against the lingering chill of his jacket while his hands settled at her back.
There was no urgency in his embrace.
No apology hiding inside it.
No fear that somebody would call his name and pull him toward another room.
He was simply there.
Riley let herself stay there too.
Graham looked toward the door Clara had disappeared through. “She’s getting so big. And she is definitely carrying your exact stubborn streak.”
“Don’t pin that on me.” Riley tipped her head back to look at him. “I’m pretty sure she’s just addicted to chasing hockey pucks.”
“That part might be mine.”
“Finally, some accountability.”
His smile widened.
Outside, Clara’s voice drifted faintly through the front windows before fading toward the boot shop. Riley pictured her demanding access to every machine Mac owned, Maisie encouraging half the questions, and Mac pretending the whole thing annoyed him.
Graham drew Riley a little closer.
“Let her chase whatever she wants,” he said. “We’re going to be right here to watch her do it. I love you, Riley.”
Riley smiled up at him.
“I love you too, Graham. We’re exactly where we belong.”