Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Van

Zip lining sounded all well and good until we're up on the wooden platform, gearing up. It's not the height. It's the alligators.

"Look at this view!" Amelia says, breathless and bright-eyed. She tugs on the end of her braid, and I barely resist doing the same.

I know she wouldn't mind. We've been playfully touching each other practically since she hopped in my car. But I think if I tug on her hair, it will be pulling her into me. And that's a very bad idea.

And not because of the alligators.

"I am looking at the view," I mutter, forcing myself to look past her pretty face and her tempting braid, past the treeline to the pond below where dozens and dozens of alligators rest motionless like so many armored logs.

Armored logs with snappy teeth.

While Amelia was showering and I was trying not to think about her showering, I went downstairs and picked up a stack of flyers from the concierge on nearby activities, most of which are back on the mainland. Apparently, the only zip lining place with open slots today was this one. Which is an add-on excursion with your ticket to the alligator park.

Amelia's and my opinions on reptiles are as disparate as our feelings on Keanu Reeves's acting abilities. Amelia got even more excited about this when she realized we would get to see alligators.

"They're so cute," she said, which made me question her judgment even more than her faith in Keanu or choosing someone like Drew.

"Let's get you strapped in," the guide says, and my eyes snap to him just in time to see him wink at Amelia.

I frown. Could he have made that sound more like an innuendo?

"Hope you don't mind me getting a little up close and personal for a moment," the guy says, winking again, laying the innuendo on even thicker as he starts to help Amelia into her harness.

I check his nametag: Wave. Someone either had parents who were high when they picked out his name or he picked the nickname all by himself. As he kneels in front of Amelia, tightening the straps around her waist and, in my view, touching her a lot more than necessary, I find myself stepping closer.

Amelia doesn't seem to pick up on his intentions, which should tell the guy she's not interested, but when he stands back up, he does so right in her personal space, practically dragging his chest along hers on the way up. There's no way for Amelia to miss that , and she laughs nervously, backing up until she's pressed up against the railing.

"How's this feeling?" Wave asks, his voice low and throaty.

Pretty awkward, I'd like to say.

Instead, I forget about all the murder logs down below and sidle up next to Amelia, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and brushing a kiss to her temple. Time to reprise our honeymoon role-play.

"Hey, baby," I murmur, running my nose down her cheek to her jaw.

Amelia turns slowly, blinking up at me with slightly parted lips. Underneath her freckles, which I'm happy she didn't cover with makeup today, her cheeks flush a pretty pink. I was going to wink just to clue her in but even if Wave hadn't just ruined winking, the look Amelia's giving me makes me forget for a moment.

Forget why we're here.

Forget she's not mine.

Forget my own name.

"Hi," she whispers, like we're sharing a legitimate moment.

And then, we are.

I reach up and brush back a strand of hair that's escaped her braid. When my knuckles graze her neck, she shivers.

"You good, Mills?"

Because I'm not. In fact, I'm starting to suspect Amelia is going to ruin me.

But I sure am enjoying the ride.

Amelia smiles and my ribs suddenly feel tight.

"Yeah, I'm good, hotshot."

Wave clears his throat. "So everybody's all good, then?"

His eyes bounce between the two of us, and he takes the smallest step back. Still too close. I'm ready to get off this platform and to have Mills to myself again. Which isn't how today or any of this is supposed to go.

Wave clears his throat again and I take a step back from Amelia, trying to clear my head. But the only thing it does is make me want to go right back to having my arm around Amelia.

It also allows Wave to step back in. Dude doesn't seem to take hints.

Read the room, pal. Or, as it were, read the platform.

Now I clear my throat. Dramatically. Amelia giggles as I pin a glare on Wave. "Are you going to make sure my harness is tight enough?" I ask him.

"Looks good," he says, giving me barely more than a cursory glance.

"But you've got to check, right? Standard procedure and all that. Preventing lawsuits."

Do I really want a man called Wave getting all up close and personal in my very personal space? No. I really don't.

But I suspect he'll like it even less. And though maybe it is a standard practice and not just something he did to get close to Amelia, it's clear he had zero intention of doing the same for me.

Guess Wave doesn't care if I fall into a gator pond.

"Wait," Amelia says, her fingertips brushing my arm. "Are you allowed to zip line?"

Wave's head snaps up. He's frowning, but I swear the guy looks hopeful. Probably at the idea of separating Amelia and me.

"Heart problems? Medical issues? Did you even read the waiver?"

"No medical issues." Though I do seem to have a heart problem. One that got me up on this platform to begin with.

"He plays hockey," Amelia explains.

"Ah. That explains the black eye," Wave says.

I glare at him. "That's not where I got the black eye. Are you going to check my equipment or not?"

Amelia tugs at my arm again, and I turn toward her as Wave crouches, checking my harness a little more enthusiastically than necessary.

"Would my dad be okay with this?" Amelia asks. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Nothing in my contract says I can't zip line." There are a lot of other stipulations about what I do, especially during the season. Some of which might actually extend to include something like this. But I'm not letting Amelia go by herself.

"Don't worry about me," I tell her. "Are you nervous?"

"Can't wait," she says, beaming.

Wave pulls something a little tighter than necessary and I grunt, glaring down at him. "Hey, pal. I'm all for safety, but I'd also like to have children at some point in the future, so let's not tighten things too much down there."

"You want to have kids?" Amelia asks softly, and the hopeful look she's trying to hide has me feeling a surge of hope too.

Swallowing around the tightness in my throat, I say, "Someday."

It's not something I think about often, mostly because I haven't been in any serious relationships and I haven't been in a hurry. There were times I swore I'd never want to have kids, not after what my parents put us through.

At the same time, I love my sisters. I love the idea of growing a big, nosy, stepping-over-boundaries family. Of having my own chance to do things differently than my parents did. I've thought about having kids with the same distant sense of maybe one day that I've thought about having a wife and a life after hockey.

Which is to say, I haven't thought about it much. Or often.

The very first time I considered it with any kind of concrete idea was the night I met Amelia. Before I realized who she was. Then I tried to shove all those thoughts into a storage bin in the attic of my mind.

Until yesterday, when thoughts I shouldn't have started plaguing me again.

Until now, when I'm absolutely wondering about possibilities.

Though I certainly didn't mean to lead our conversation here at this exact moment. I really just wanted Wave to stop messing with straps so close to my crotch.

But as Amelia's pale blue eyes search mine, I find myself imagining me on my hands and knees as I play monster the same way my dad did with me and my sisters—on the very rare occasions he wasn't working. Before our parents' divorce and the carousel ride of new partners, new spouses, new exes.

I won't do that to my kids. It won't be rare to play with them. Not an exception. It will be the norm . If I'm going to do the family thing someday, I'll be home more, play with them more, have laughter and squeals of delight be my new soundtrack, replacing the slice and swish of blades on ice and the resounding thump of a puck hitting the boards.

Another sound exists in this vision too, jarring me when I realize it's Amelia's laugh.

I blink, and then I can see her there too.

We're in a backyard in summer, the scent of grass and something grilling close by. Dirt pressing into my knees and palms as I chase a little blond girl with pigtails, sudden weight digging into my back as a boy tries to tackle me. Amelia's laughter rises over soft music playing from somewhere. She's watching me with a wide smile, sitting in an Adirondack chair, a baby curled up against her chest, a tuft of dark hair like downy duck fluff on top of her head. I don't know how I know it's a baby girl, but I just do.

The vision is so clear, so vivid, that for a moment I am completely frozen. It feels like I've been pummeled into the boards by a huge defenseman and had the wind knocked out of me.

This is … I don't know what this is. Unfamiliar. Terrifying.

Considering our present circumstances, a terrible idea.

Yet I find myself wanting to call my sisters and ask for advice. Which would be the first time I've ever done that.

"Van?"

Amelia's right now voice pulls me back to the moment. Where we're standing on a platform above a bunch of prehistoric dinosaurs who hopefully can't jump high enough to chomp us. I suck in a breath, my heart thrashing wildly and sweat gathering at my temples and my lower back. Her face puckers in concern, and even Wave picks up on it as he stands, finally done messing with my harness. I'm sorry I ever asked.

"It's normal to be nervous, but if you need to barf, do it over the railing. It's not easy to clean all the way up here. And the fish will eat it." He points to the pond below and laughs.

"Ew," Amelia whispers.

"I'm not nervous," I tell him with a glare, then turn back to Amelia. "I'm fine. Just … remembered something I forgot to do before I left home."

"What?" Amelia asks.

"Uh …" I search for some logical explanation because there's no way I'm telling her I just got the wind knocked out of me while imagining her as my actual wife and the mother of my children. "I forgot to feed my fish."

"You have fish?" she asks.

No .

"One. It's a beta." I did have a beta once. Super easy to take care of. I could have one again if needed.

Like, if Amelia came to my place. It would be easy to pick one up. I think they sell them at every pet store. The harder thing would be getting Amelia to my house to prove the existence of my currently nonexistent fish.

"Who's watching him while you're gone?" she asks.

"Who?"

"Your beta."

"Oh. It's a fish. He's fine. We're only gone for four days."

Wave claps his hands. "Well, if you're not going to hurl, we can go ahead and get started," he says.

He explains how the harnesses hook to the cables, the way we'll end up at the platform we can see in the distance. Across from the gator pond. I try not to watch one of the alligators swimming below, its whole body motionless save for the powerful, slow sweep of its tail through the water.

I don't know much about alligators other than to know they're reptiles, which I avoid as a general rule, and they might look mostly lazy and slow, but they can jump out of the water and run faster than a person on land. I've seen enough TikTok videos to know that.

"Who's starting off?" Wave asks, and I immediately tap Amelia on the shoulders.

"Ladies first," I say. "Unless you'd rather follow me."

I really don't want to leave her on the platform alone with Wave for any length of time, so I'd prefer to send her on and hope the next employee doesn't try hitting on her while I'm still making my way across.

"I'll go," Amelia says, and the next thing I know, Wave is clipping her onto the cable. She stands with her toes on the edge of the platform and glances back at me. "See you on the other side, hotshot."

The grin she sends my way makes something clench inside my chest, reminding me of the growing pains I used to get as a kid, a deep throbbing ache just above my knees before I grew an inch almost overnight.

And then Amelia kicks off the platform and is gone, screaming happily as she goes.

I can't help but keep one eye on the gators as I watch her go, my fingernails cutting into my palms.

"Don't worry," Wave says with the fakest smile I've ever seen. "You'll be okay."

Amelia tilts her head back to the sky, stretching her arms wide.

No. No, I'm actually not sure I will be okay.

And when it's my turn and I step off the platform, hurtling toward the next station, I hardly feel the drop in my stomach.

Because inside, I was already in free fall.

Amelia licks a drip from the side of her ice cream cone. "Tell me about your sisters."

My focus on her mouth is jarred away by the mention of my sisters. It almost feels as though they've been deposited on either side of Amelia. We're strolling through the park, enjoying a post-zip line snack.

Or, as I like to think of it, a yay-we-weren't-eaten-by-gators celebratory ice cream.

No gators attacked us, and no more employees hit on Amelia. Possibly because every time I joined her at the next platform, I glared at any male nearby, and she greeted me with a huge hug, eyes shining and smile wide.

Because she's having a good time zip lining , I kept reminding myself. Not because of you.

Now, we're back on the ground and have been wandering the park. It feels way too much like a legit date. Aside from the alligators, which should never be on a date. Even so, it's the best one I've ever been on.

"My sisters?" Hopefully, she didn't just see me fixated on her mouth.

"Yes," she says. "You said you have three of them?"

"Yes. One older—Callie—and two younger, Alexandra and Greyson. Lex and Grey."

She licks her cone again and I look down, scooping up a spoonful of vanilla because I was smart and got a cup. Less messy. Less licking involved.

"And?" Amelia says.

"And what?"

She punches me in the arm. "Tell me about them, dummy. Realize you're talking to an only here." When I stare blankly, she says, "As in, only child. I live vicariously through other people's sibling stories."

I feel slightly queasy thinking about Amelia and Coach in a big house alone. No siblings. No mom and wife. Just the two of them.

Then I think about Coach punching me in the face again if he saw me watching Amelia eating ice cream.

Right. Always a good reminder.

"Yeah, so my sisters are both the best and the worst. Bossing me around, ganging up on me, but also helping when I need it. They're independent, but come to me when they have issues they can't solve themselves. Or one or two of them will come to me when one of them needs help but is too stubborn to admit it."

She doesn't seem to pick up on my tension. "Do they ever come watch you skate? I'd like to meet them."

This makes my skin start to prickle, a low buzz of longing along my skin. "You don't even come to our games, do you?"

"I might start."

"Really?"

"Yes. I think I'd like to see what all the fuss is about. So, will I ever see them at a game? Are they fans?"

My lips quirk. "Callie had to be escorted out of my last game for the things she was yelling at the ref. And other fans."

"I love it." The wistfulness in her voice makes me hurt, and so I keep talking.

I tell her about how they dress up and paint their faces when they come to my games, making best friends with our fans while also nearly getting into fights. I talk about Grey and her music. Lex and the struggles she and her husband are having with fertility. Callie defending her dissertation on British literature in a few months.

"She's going to make us call her doctor the second she gets her PhD. I just know it," I say.

I realize I've been talking for a solid ten minutes. My ice cream is long gone, and we're back near the start of the park, and Amelia sits down on a bench shaded by lush foliage. She pats the space next to her, and I sit. A breeze cools my neck, which I'm thinking might be getting sunburned.

"I bet they get all up in your business about your dating life," she says casually.

A little too casually—almost like she's trying not to sound interested in broaching the dating topic.

"Not really."

She glances up in surprise from her cone. "No?"

"Mostly because I've never talked to them about anyone."

"I thought you said you dated a lot," she says.

"I have, but not anyone serious enough to bring up to my sisters."

"Ah. Right—you're Mr. Casual."

The words bother me. Partly because I don't want Amelia to think of me that way. And partly because that tends to be how everyone sees me: casual. Fun. The truth is, I'm not sure I've ever dated a woman who wanted more. Or thought I was capable of giving more.

I've heard some of my teammates complain about women who tried to get things more serious, tried to lock them down. Dumbo once got a whole new phone number and changed apartments to get away from a woman who wanted to be exclusive.

I've never had that problem.

It's almost enough to give a guy a complex. Up until now, I took note, but didn't really care. Because I'd rather not have to let someone down easy who got the wrong idea.

Now, sitting on a bench with Amelia's thigh brushing mine, I'm thinking about it. Wondering if I could be more than just a fun, casual guy for Amelia. If she ever wanted to date me, that is.

"That's me—Mr. Casual Goodtime Guy." My words are dry. Paired with the jazz hands I pull out of I don't even know where, I sound way more bitter than I feel.

"I didn't mean it like that." Amelia nudges me with her shoulder. When I don't respond right away, she pauses mid-lick and turns to me. "You know you're more than that, right?"

"Sure. It's nothing. I was just being dumb."

Amelia hums, like she sees right through me. "You're more, hotshot. Much more."

I have to look away for a few seconds to compose myself. From both her words and the sight of her tongue licking up the side of the cone. Together, it's a lethal combo.

"They'd like you," I admit. The words sound far more vulnerable than I want them to.

"Your sisters? I thought you didn't talk to them about women," she teases.

I've backed myself into a corner here. I can say that we're not dating, which feels harsh. Even if we're not. We're … I don't know what.

But I don't know what Amelia would think if I tell her I planned to tell them about her.

Would she read too much significance into that? Would it put too much pressure on me?

I know with certainty, all three of my sisters would have a few choice words to say if they were here now. They would recognize in half a second how I feel about Amelia, and I would never hear the end of it. No doubt they'd love her.

But at least one if not all of them would slap me in the back of the head and tell me this is not the time in Amelia's life to have some chump falling all over her. They'd tell me to give this space. Not to put too much significance into anything. Definitely not to think about kissing her when her feelings are likely all over the map. They'd tell me not to add any pressure to Amelia.

They would be right.

I glance at Amelia, like her face will somehow give me the right response. Instead, I lose myself in the warmth of her cool blue eyes, the spray of freckles on her cheeks, the way sunlight spins her hair into gold.

One side of her mouth lifts in the smallest of smiles. "What?"

I can't stop myself from reaching over, sliding a strand of her silky hair between my fingertips. "I'd like to tell them about you. If … that's something you'd like."

So much for not adding pressure.

From a hidden speaker above our heads, a booming voice announces the gator feeding in five minutes. We both jump. Amelia almost drops her cone.

I'm both relieved and disappointed by the way it ripped away the mounting tension of the moment. I drop Amelia's hair. She giggles and bites her lip.

"Let me guess—you want to go to the gator feeding?"

"Can we?" Amelia asks, eyes so bright there's no way I could say no to her.

"As long as they're not feeding us to the gators."

"I think it's raw chicken," she says.

Gross . But for her, fine .

We get up, and maybe I shouldn't, but I toss my empty cup in the trash and take her hand, sliding my fingers between hers. They're sticky from the ice cream, and I don't even mind.

"You are the slowest ice cream eater I've ever seen," I say.

"It's a gift. You and your sisters are close," Amelia says. "What about your parents?"

Now there's a conversational land mine. I try not to stiffen. Because I might have siblings where Amelia has none and I might have two living parents, but she has something I don't. A parent who cares .

Shrugging, I watch a family walk past, their littlest child in a plastic alligator stroller. "There's not much to say. They got divorced when we were young. Got remarried and divorced again and again to other people in a steady rotation. Bounced the four of us between houses in a constant battle of one-upmanship."

"Wow." Her voice and her eyes soften. "So they had joint custody?"

"At first, we split time between them—literally alternating every day—and we mostly fended for ourselves at both houses. Later on my dad got a new job in another state and we all moved in permanently with my mom. He'd fly us out sometimes at holidays, taking us on extravagant trips with his woman of the moment, all as a way of getting back at my mom. Totally toxic."

"I'm sorry." Amelia squeezes my fingers and rests her head on my arm. Her touch smooths over the years of stockpiled hurt. Not like a touch could fix it or anything, but she makes me feel somehow less sad about the whole situation.

But while she's looking at me, not what's left of her cone, a big drip runs right down the cone and halfway down her wrist.

"Shoot," she says, dropping my hand.

Before I've given any thought to it—clearly—I grasp her arm. "I got it."

And then I press my lips to her skin and follow the path of sticky sweetness all the way to the cone. Our eyes locked the whole time. My heart a pounding drum. A single bead of sweat racing down the center of my back.

Amelia watches with heavy eyelids and parted lips. I pull back, keeping my fingers wrapped around her arm, clearly a sucker for punishment.

"Thank you," she says, just as I say, "I'm sorry."

"No apologies. Remember?" Her voice sounds strained but soft, like she's worked hard to get this whisper out.

"Those are your rules," I tell her.

"Maybe we should make some for you, hotshot."

We probably should. And my rules would start with: Stop falling for a woman who was supposed to marry someone else yesterday .

Followed by: Keep your hands—and mouth—to yourself .

But I've always been horrible at following the rules.