“She just stormed in and found herself a place to slot in as ifshe’s always been there?” he asks, making it sound like he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
Hell. He does. He has Reese.
“Yeah, something like that,” I mutter as we head to our floor.
“I’m not going to lie to you. Relationships for pro athletes are fucking hard. But when you find the right one, it’s more than worth trying to figure it all out.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “Is she a hockey girl? Does she get it?”
I think about Casey and the life she’s lived with James Watson as her father.
“Yeah, she gets it.” She probably gets it more than I do.
“Good. That’s a good start. Just…be open and honest with her. And…figure out ways to be creative in your time apart. Makes it more exciting when you return,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Yeah...we’re, uh…trying.”
“Good man. See you in the morning, yeah? One more game, then we can go home.”
Home.
Whenever I’ve thought of home before, it’s been my house, wherever that might be. So why when he says the word does my mind immediately take me to wherever Casey is? I fear I’ve got a real problem here. And the fact that her father is my coach isn’t the biggest one.
I’m pretty sure I’m falling for Casey Watson, and there’s fuck all I can do to stop it.
48
CASEY
“Yes, Rivers,” I scream, watching our little number fifty-five flying toward the goal with the kind of skill some professionals would be jealous of.
I’m sure having an NHL-playing father helps, but even a professional can’t teach that kind of talent. She might have hockey in her blood, but this is more than that. She was born to play.
I’m so proud of her and her team. Watching them kicking ass on the rink is one of the best things about my week.
Sutton manages to fake left, losing the defenseman who’s trailing her, as she races around the back of the net. She does this little spin thing and shoots before her head has caught up with her body.
The puck flies into the top left of the goal, and the Polar Bears parents scream with excitement.
The Angels goalkeeper stands there looking utterly stunned—as does Megan, and most of our team, to be fair.
Sutton, on the other hand, looks totally unaffected by that epic display of talent.
She didn’t even look at the freaking goal.
This girl is something else.
It takes the team a second before they dive on Sutton,celebrating her incredible goal, which puts them even further in the lead.
They’ve got this game in the bag, even with half of the third period to go.
Our players change shifts, and the second Sutton steps off the ice, she approaches me, her expression set in her usual game face.
She’s so freaking serious, and I know exactly where she gets it from.
“Sutton, that was incredible,” I say, a wide smile on my face as I drop to my haunches to speak to her on her level.
But my smile falters when I see tears in her eyes. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” I ask, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder—not that she can feel it with her pads.
Her bottom lip trembles.
