Chapter 4

Felix's placeis big but not quite big enough for the entire team, so we have to be particular about who finds out just how much our goalie loves to cook. Tonight, it's me, Van, Alec, Logan, Camden, and Wyatt, which is making for a pretty serious crowd. We need Eli here to crack some jokes, but now that he's married, we're seeing him less and less when we're off the ice.

Not that I blame him. The guy always wanted to be in love more than the rest of us do. At least more than I do, and I probably shouldn't speak for the rest of the guys. Except for Van. If my lack of a dating life indicates I don't want to settle down, his abundance of one says the same thing. We just deal with our aversion to relationships in different ways.

"Can we have seconds?" Wyatt asks from across the table.

"Not yet," Gracie says as she ladles out another bowl and sets it on the counter. "Summer is on her way over, and I promised her soup."

I jerk at the sound of Summer's name and knock over my water glass, sending it sloshing across the table.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Alec says as he picks up his bowl and scoots back. He's sitting closest to me and would have gotten a lap full of water had he not moved when he did.

"Sorry," I mumble as I take the dish towel Felix offers me. He eyes me knowingly, but he's too good a friend to say anything out loud.

Which is just as well because whatever he thinks he knows, he doesn't. Although, based on how I acted at practice today, I understand why Felix might assume.

I'm not saying Dominik hasn't been an idiot—he's not playing like an Appie or behaving like one when he's off the ice. But once I saw Summer up in the stands, something came over me, and I stopped thinking about anything but wanting to impress her. I laid into him too hard, then acted like some kind of hotshot center, leaving my zone and scoring just to show her that I could.

It had to be a momentary lapse in judgment.

Summer does talk too much, and I'm not interested in her. In fact, I'm so not interested that as soon as I finish this ridiculously good soup, I should probably take off and head home.

Once the mess is cleaned up, I pursue my food with renewed determination, scarfing down the last few spoonfuls with record speed. I'm seconds away from standing up when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, frowning at a couple of new texts from my little brother.

Blake

Just met with the attorney. He's saying I should plead guilty?

I don't know what's happening. I didn't do anything, Nate. I swear. Why should I plead guilty if I didn't even go inside the house?

I sink back in my chair, hating that I'm so far away from my family. I don't fully understand the trouble my sixteen-year-old brother has gotten himself into, but I know he's a solid kid. He's playing hockey at a prep school in Boston, on scholarship—we are definitely not a prep school kind of family—and I thought he was doing pretty well. But then a few weeks ago, Mom called and was completely beside herself, saying Blake had been arrested and she had no idea what she was supposed to do.

I've tried my best to piece together the details, but unfortunately, Blake's version of what happened is woefully lacking, and Mom's version sounds a little too much like a bad movie plot for me to think she's getting everything right. I'm guessing the truth is somewhere in the middle. So far, I haven't been able to find it.

Because I'm not there.

I can't be there, and the public defender who has been working with Blake keeps dodging my phone calls, responding with curt texts that say I'm not Blake's legal guardian and thus not entitled to the details of his case.

Which sounds to me like he just doesn't want another person hounding him—especially one who isn't signing his paychecks.

My mom lives with my sister, Cassie, who is also trying to help, but she has two young daughters, one with special needs, and a husband who travels for work. She doesn't have the time or bandwidth to drive to Boston to track down a dodgy defender.

I've thought about trying to hire Blake a private attorney, but short of just randomly picking one off the internet—there are about a million in the Boston area, I looked—I don't know how I would even begin to try.

But I might have to try now. If Blake's attorney is telling him to plead guilty even if he's not, what good is he actually doing him?

I type back a quick reply to Blake.

Nathan

Can you talk? I want to hear about your conversation.

Blake

Can't. About to start practice.

Nathan

They're letting you play?

Blake

Not in games. But for practice, yeah.

Nathan

Call me after? We'll figure this out. Don't plead guilty to something you didn't do.

I stare at my phone for a beat, but Blake doesn't text back.

I have to do a better job of figuring this out for him. He's just a kid. And as much as I know Mom loves him, she's not much of a bulldog. She won't question what an attorney suggests—she won't push back. She's always been trusting by nature. A little too sweet. A little too gentle. She isn't a fighter.

Even if she was, she's two hours away from Boston in Portland, Maine. She's barely better off than I am.

"Hey, you okay?" Alec says, and I look up to meet his gaze.

"What?"

"You got up like you were leaving, and now you're frowning at your phone. I'm just asking if everything is okay."

"Oh. Yeah. It's nothing."

Alec wrinkles his brow like he doesn't believe me, but I don't want to get into it here. I make a mental note to call Blake's attorney again tomorrow—there has to be something I'm not understanding—then slip my phone into my pocket and stand up. But before I can thank Felix and Gracie for dinner and say goodbye, a knock sounds on the door, and Gracie hops up to answer it.

I swear under my breath.

Blake's texts distracted me, and now it's too late for me to escape.

"I assume you've all had the chance to meet Summer?" Gracie says as she shuttles her toward the kitchen table.

Summer scans the room. She looks at Gracie and lifts her eyebrows. "So, when you said you made enough soup for an army, you really meant for an entire hockey team?"

"Not the whole team," Gracie says. "And I promise I saved you some. Do you know everyone? Do you need names?"

Summer props her hands on her hips. "Actually, I've been studying the player roster, so let me see if I can do this by myself." She makes a show of pointing at each guy, listing off his jersey number and position. Finally, she turns to me. "And you're Nathan Sanders," she says. "Number…?" She wrinkles her forehead like she's thinking and purses her lips to the side before she says, "Twenty-three?"

I nod my head in acknowledgment, hating that my number was the only one she struggled to remember.

Hating even more that I noticed.

Summer raises her fists in a tiny cheer. "And you're a left defenseman."

I nod again, and Summer turns, seating herself in the chair I vacated moments before. She's wearing jeans now, more casual than anything I've seen her wearing at work, and a flannel shirt that makes her eyes look stupidly blue. She has on a tank top underneath, and every time she moves, I catch a glimpse of the way it hugs her curves. Her dark brown hair is down and loose around her shoulders, a contrast to her creamy white skin. Her hair is usually up when she's at work, so I've never noticed how long it is—almost to her elbows.

"Just don't ask me what any of those positions mean," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Parker insists I'll get there if I keep watching the games, but so far, I still feel clueless."

It's nice that Summer doesn't pretend to know more than she does. A lot of women do—they're always easy to spot because they sound like they memorized talking points off of SportsCenter. Others pretend they don't know anything at all, asking question after question, like they think it's the only thing hockey players ever want to talk about.

Which, admittedly, isn't far from the truth. But I don't want to talk about hockey with someone who's only pretending to be interested because she recognizes me from the broody videos Parker posts on TikTok.

But Summer is neither of those things. She's not pretending to know everything, but she also isn't faking an interest. She doesn't seem even a little bit starstruck, even though collectively, the guys around the table have millions of followers on social media.

It's a definite point in her favor. Or it would be if I were tallying points. Which I'm not.

I'm also not leaving. So. Not sure how credible those convictions are at this point.

"Let me help you out," Alec says. "Here. Give me your glasses." He gathers everyone's cups from around the table and assembles what I assume is a makeshift representation of a hockey team. He smiles at Summer. "All you need is a little hands-on demonstration."

Summer chuckles. "Is that so? Well, teach me then."

He holds up his own glass. "Okay. So this guy is the center, which puts him here." He drops the glass in the middle of the table. "He's usually the guy with the puck."

"Yeah, I am," Van says, cocky like always.

Alec pushes two more cups into position. "Over here, we have Eli, who isn't here because he's married now and can't be bothered to show up, but he plays right wing. And over here, there's Logan, who is left wing. The wings can do pretty much anything, offense or defense, depending on what the game needs."

I should leave. I'm not a part of the conversation, and I want to try to call Blake. But now I'm curious to know what Alec will say about me. And I'm more curious to know how Summer will respond.

"Back here is where you have your defensemen," Alec continues. "That's where you'll find Nathan and me. Our primary job is to cover Felix—the goalie—and keep the puck away from the net."

Summer's eyes lift to mine for the briefest moment, then she looks back at the six-man team Alec organized. "Honestly, when I was watching practice today, it mostly seemed like a free-for-all. Everyone was skating everywhere."

"It only looks like that because the game moves so fast," I say, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. I don't know why I'm jumping in, and my teammates seem surprised that I've opened my mouth at all, but I keep talking anyway. "There's always a little room to shift positions when play demands it, but we rely on each other. We have to be able to trust that our man will be there when we need him to be."

"Hear, hear," Felix says. "Defenders who stick to their positions make my job a lot easier."

Summer is watching me intently, sending a prickle of unease up the back of my neck. But unease isn't exactly the right word. She doesn't make me uncomfortable, just…hyperaware. Her gaze is more like a touch, sending a wave of sensation skating across my skin. Makes me wonder what would happen if she touched me for real—a thought that sparks an unexpected craving deep in my gut.

"Hmm. I can see how Nathan would be good at that," Summer says. "Hockey positions. Parking spaces. He takes his territory very seriously."

I look up—I can't help it—and catch the teasing glint in her eye. I want to smile. I almost smile.

Almost.

"Well now I can't wait to watch another game just to see if I've learned anything," Summer says.

"I'll answer your questions anytime," Alec says smoothly, and a sharp pulse of jealousy pushes through me. A stupid pulse of jealousy, because I'm not interested in dating Summer. I knew this would happen—that eventually, someone would try to win her over. Better Alec than anyone else on the team.

I move over to the table and gather up the guys' empty bowls while Alec and Van start what looks like an actual hockey game using their utensils and the top of the saltshaker. "Come on, Nathan. Wanna play?" Van says, scooting his chair over to make room.

"I'll take care of the dishes," I say. "Maybe don't hit Summer in the face with your puck?"

"Or…I could just move over to the bar," Summer says, lifting her bowl just as the saltshaker lid sails past her head and lands on the floor.

"Probably a good idea," Felix says. "If you idiots break anything, you're paying for it," he says to the rest of the guys.

Summer settles onto the barstool across from the sink, and Gracie sits down beside her. I don't want to read anything into the fact that she abandoned Alec and moved closer to me, but I find myself moving slower anyway, taking an extra-long time to rinse each dish.

"So, guess who texted me after work today?" Summer asks, her attention fully on Gracie now.

My ears perk up, and my movements slow even further.

These spoons seem particularly dirty; probably they need to be scrubbed by hand three, maybe even four times.

"Oh, no. Please tell me he didn't," Gracie says.

"He totally did. But it's fine. I deleted and blocked his number. I mean, one text was just about work, but the second message was…less about work."

There's a strain in Summer's voice that I don't like, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it from here.

Nothing, that's what. Because she isn't talking to me. She's clearly speaking quietly on purpose. With the water running, she probably thinks I can't hear, which is all the more reason for me to stop listening.

"I just can't believe that after everything, he still thinks he has any right to text me," she says.

"He's gross, Summer," Gracie says. "And he's the freaking district attorney. Isn't he supposed to be an upstanding citizen or whatever?"

"Elected by his peers," Summer says with annoyance. "I'm just glad I don't work there anymore."

"Me too," Gracie says. "Especially because it means you're here."

That's right. Summer worked for the DA. A DA who clearly mistreated her.

I drop a bowl, and it clatters into the bottom of the sink, splashing water all over the front of my sweatshirt. Both of the women look up, but it's Felix who moves in beside me.

"You all right, man?" he asks under his breath. "I think that's the cleanest that bowl has ever been."

"It just slipped," I mumble. I turn off the water and dry my hands on the towel sitting beside the sink.

Wait. If Summer worked for the DA, she might have some insight into how I could help Blake. Would it be too obvious to ask her now? It might clue her in to the fact that I was eavesdropping, but for Blake, I'm almost willing to out myself. I'm about to open my mouth to do just that when Alec calls over from the table.

"Hey, Summer. If you're finished eating, come play. It'll help you learn the rules."

She rolls her eyes at Gracie, but she still gets up and heads to the table, smiling the whole way. My teammates are pounding their fists on the table as Van hits the salt-shaker-lid-turned-hockey-puck into a tiny goal they've constructed out of toothpicks and napkins. When he makes it in, he lifts his hands over his head to cheer. "Hat trick, baby!"

I watch Summer until she's sitting in between Van and Alec, then look away, catching Gracie's gaze.

She's studying me, her head cocked to the side. "You okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. Thanks for the soup. I'm gonna head out." There's no way I can bring my brother up to Summer in the middle of the mayhem Alec has created. I nod toward the table. "Thanks for dealing with…all of us."

Gracie nods, her smile wry. "Felix is worth it."

I'm still standing by the door, shrugging on my coat when Summer calls after me.

"Bye, Nathan."

I look over my shoulder, my gut tightening when I see her gaze fixed right on me, her shoulders back, her posture relaxed and confident as she lifts her hand into a wave.

The same sensation from before washes over me, and goosebumps break out over my skin as a thought settles into my mind with utter certainty.

Summer Callahan does not find me the least bit intimidating. Instead, she seems to find joy in sparring with me, even provoking me.

I like it way too much.

Pretty sure that means I'm in serious trouble.