The space between us felt... different. Not flirty. But not friendly either.
I let my hand drop and took half a step back. “There. You’re twig-free.”
“Thanks,” he said, voice low.
Neither of us move.
If he leans in, I am not sure I will stop him.
Chapter six
Colton: Twigs and Trust
It was just a twig. No reason for my pulse to spike when she stepped in and reached for it. But it did. It was the surprise—her hand in my hair, the soft brush of her fingertips. No it wasn’t.
Riley wasn’t the kid sister anymore. She was close, warm, and confident. And my brain—traitor that it was—chose that exact moment to notice how good she smelled. How her fingers lingered. How much I didn’t want her to step back.
Maybe she could see me as something more than her brother’s screwed-up friend.
I shook it off—at least, I tried to. No reason for that moment I almost kissed her to mean anything. Just proximity. Nerves. The weather. Whatever excuse I could come up with to explain why my pulse was still acting like I’d taken a hit on the ice.
But Riley James was also my handler. Ryan’s sister. And I was a walking headline waiting to happen.
Which made this whole thing complicated.
I pulled onto Main, still trying to reset my head. Just clear it and move on.
Maybe coffee would help. Maybe drills. Maybe anything that didn’t feel like the way she’d lingered, the way my brain refused to shut up about it.
Then my phone buzzed. The notification was lighting up my phone as I pulled into town. Vanessa Carlisle had dropped her article.
"The Fall of Colton Hayes: From NHL Golden Boy to AHL Headache."
Fantastic.
I skimmed the first paragraph as I parked near the diner. It wasn’t just a rehash of the scandal. It was a deep dive. It chronicled every bad decision, every late-night party, every time I’d shown up to practice hungover or skipped post-game interviews. She made me sound like a train wreck. Honestly, maybe I was.
What stung the most was the suggestion that the rescue work was just a PR stunt—"a convenient attempt at image rehab, staged with the help of a quaint dog shelter and one very patient woman."
I clicked off the screen, but the words stuck like gum in my brain. I wasn’t angry. Not exactly. I was tired. Embarrassed. I was suddenly aware of how flimsy my progress felt if one article could knock it off balance.
That was the part I hadn’t prepared for—not the headlines, but how much they’d still sting. I’d started thinking that trying would make it easier. If I kept showing up and doing the work, it would start to feel solid. But maybe change didn’t come with a gold star or some magic switch that flipped the past into something else. Perhaps this was just how it felt—one step forward, two back. And you kept showing up anyway.
I decided to stop for coffee on my way to practice. I could at least pretend I was doing something normal. But even before Igot out of the truck, my stomach was tight. The article had me twisted up.
Decaf it is.
The bell above the diner door jingled as I walked in. The smell of coffee hit me first, sharp and comforting. A couple of regulars were tucked into their usual booth near the window, papers open, coffee mugs half-drained. One glanced up at me, then back down—too fast.
I could feel it starting before anyone said a word. That shift in the room. The quick look. The silence with a shape to it. Like the pause before a faceoff.
I walked in anyway. Pretending I didn’t notice. Pretending it didn’t matter. But every step toward the counter made my stomach tighter. Every step toward the coffee counter felt heavier.
"Did you see the article?"
"Poor guy’s toast. NHL’s not going to touch him after this."
"He’s lucky they let him play down here."
