“And pro soccer. It's the family business." He says it lightly, but something in his tone catches my attention.
"Is that hard? The family legacy thing?"
He considers this, setting down his fork. "Sometimes. Dad played for the Fury, and now three of his kids play, too. Hockey's in our blood."
"But?"
"But sometimes I wonder..." He trails off, then shakes his head. "It's stupid."
"I doubt that."
He meets my eyes, and for a moment, I glimpse the vulnerability from last night. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I just... stopped. Quit hockey. Did something else." He laughs self-consciously. "They'd still have Tucker and Gunnar carrying the torch."
"You don't enjoy playing anymore?" I ask carefully.
"I do. Most days." He sighs. "But it's like... it's so tied up with who I am to them. Alder Stag, defenseman. Take that away… What's left?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and then stands abruptly.
"Trainer's looking for me. I should go." He gathers the remnants of our lunch. "Thanks for listening to me whine."
"That wasn't whining," I say firmly. "That was being human."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. "I'll meet you in the lobby at five? For the ride home?"
Home. The word catches me off guard—his home, not ours. Yet, in less than a week, it already feels more like home than anywhere I've lived in years—such a contrast to my reaction to Brad’s message.
"Perfect," I say and watch him go, wondering what else there is to learn about Alder Stag beneath the surface he shows the world.
I'm mentally exhausted but satisfied with the day's progress by quitting time. As promised, Alder is waiting in the lobby, deep in conversation with the head coach. He spots me and waves me over.
Coach Thompson’s face shifts when Alder stoops to pick up my bag. Coach turns to Alder. “Been meaning to talk to you about all the hubbub, A-Stag.”
I wince, but Alder keeps a warm palm on my arm. He says, “My agent has a lot of wheels turning. Doc here is working with me to make lemonade from all this.”
Coach Thompson nods, staring, licking his teeth. Eventually, he says, "You did a good job with T-Stag and his pretty face." Curiosity evident, he glances between Alder and me, but he’s professional enough not to pry. “A-Stag, we’ll talk soon.” Coach claps him on the shoulder. “Keep feeling free to share your strategy ideas with me, with or without your brother.”
Alder looks genuinely startled by the suggestion. "Thanks, Coach."
As we head to the parking lot, I can't resist saying, "Just a dumb hockey player, huh?"
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the small smile tugging at his lips. "One good idea doesn't make me a genius."
"No, but it does prove my point from last night. Your kind of intelligence counts, too."
He's silent as we approach his car, but as he opens my door, he says quietly, "Thanks for that."
CHAPTER 12
ALDER
I openLena's car door, the simple "Thanks for that" still hanging in the air between us. Her point about my hockey intelligence has settled deep in my chest, a small warmth I'm not ready to examine too closely.
The drive home is comfortable, the silence broken only by Lena's occasional comments about her day or my observations about traffic. This commute together feels strangely domestic as if we've been doing it for years instead of one day.
Her phone rings as we pull into the townhouse complex. I glance over and see her face tighten as Brad's name flashes on the screen.
"It's him," she says unnecessarily, voice suddenly small.
