Nate POV

“Hailing from the frostbitten heart of Northern Ontario, the Coldwater Icehawks are no strangers to grit, grind, and blood on the ice. Known for their razor-sharp speed and punishing defense, the Icehawks have built a reputation as the team no one wants to face late in the season. With a legacy of hard hits, clutch plays, and a fanbase that brings the storm every damn night, Coldwater isn’t just a hockey town, it’s a battlefield. When the Icehawks take the ice, it’s not just a game. It’s war on skates.” The new press release droned from the locker room speaker, all bravado and battlefield metaphors. I was half-listening when I overheard Liam say Riley’s name.

“I’m telling you,” Liam said, shoving a protein bar in his mouth like he hadn’t just downed a greasy breakfast burrito, “Riley’s perfect for Chaz.”

I paused mid-tape, glancing up from my stick. “Who the hell is Chaz?”

“Our backup goalie. Tall. Sensitive. Into poetry or whatever. Avery says Riley’s not into jocks, so she figured goalie was the closest loophole.”

“She’s setting her up with Chaz?” I said, sharper than I meant to. “The guy who cried during The Notebook and calls his dog his ‘emotional anchor’?”

Liam blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

I tightened the tape. Too tight. Snapped it off and started again.

“I thought she kissed you?” he added, too casually acting like he wasn’t tossing gasoline into a bonfire.

“She did. Once. Doesn’t mean anything.”

But it did. It fucking did.

I finished taping, tossed the stick onto the rack, and headed out without another word.

I didn’t have a plan. Just a location Avery casually mentioned over drinks last night. A small-town bookstore café Riley ran with anti-sports snark and zero patience for bullshit.

I wasn’t stalking her.

I told myself that at least five times as I drove out of the city and toward the next town over, hands tight on the steering wheel like they were going to rat me out.

I wasn’t stalking her.

I just… had some time off. And curiosity. And a completely rational craving for a muffin from a bookstore café, I just so happened to Google last night after texting Avery.

It wasn’t stalking. It was recon.

The town hit like a postcard. Slower pace. Fewer honking horns. More pedestrians with tote bags and dogs in sweaters. I parked across the street like a coward. Watched the little brick storefront for a minute. It had charm. The kind of quiet you didn’t get in locker rooms or arenas. Sign on the window said something like No Cleats, No Jocks, No Bullshit. The sarcasm was aggressive.

She’d written that. I’d bet money on it.

The bell jingled when I opened the door, and the smell of fresh coffee and paperbacks smacked me in the face. A low hum of indie music. The hiss of steamed milk behind the counter. A handwritten chalkboard menu. Plants hanging in macramé slings. Floorboards that creaked underfoot like they had opinions.

Then her voice cut through it all.

“Oh my God,” Riley said from behind the counter. “You again?”

She wore a faded sweatshirt that said Death Before Decaf, hair twisted up in a lazy bun, and zero makeup, just clean skin, sharp eyes, and the kind of expression that could cut through steel.

I smirked, strolling up like I hadn’t driven 45 minutes with my brain on fire. “I was in the neighborhood,” I said, heading toward the counter, heart doing things I don’t talk about. “And I needed a muffin. Is that a crime?”

Her eyebrow went up. “That depends. Did you drive all the way out here for a muffin?”

“No comment.”

She gave me a suspicious squint, then slid a tray of fresh blueberry muffins onto the counter. “You want one of these, or are you hoping I’ll trip and fall into your mouth again?”

Jesus.

I grinned. “Both?”

She huffed, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “You’re a menace.”

“And you own a café that roasts both beans and people. It’s a vibe.”

She handed me a muffin, and for a second, our fingers brushed. Nothing dramatic, just skin against skin, but it lit me up like a goddamn fuse.

I looked around the place, buying myself a second. It was small, cozy, and alive. Bookshelves flanked every wall, mismatched chairs surrounded tiny tables, and a sleepy golden retriever lay under a corner armchair like furniture.“The place is cool. Cozy. You do all this yourself?”

“Yup,” she said, crossing her arms. “Left the city burnout behind. Opened a shop for people who hate sports and love books. My kind of people.”

“Right, anti-sports. You mentioned that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start. Avery already tried to set me up with some hockey guy.”

My jaw tightened. “Oh yeah?”

“Some goalie, apparently. I told her I’m not interested in cocky jocks who think strategy means remembering what night to rotate their Tinder girls.”

“Sounds like a real tool,” I said, biting my muffin hard enough not to say something dumber.

“Exactly. I want a normal guy,” she said, pointing at me like I was a damn golden retriever. “Like you. Chill. No ego. No groupies. Just... muffins and sarcasm.”

I almost choked.

Normal guy. Right. No ego. No groupies. That’s what she saw. That’s what I’d be…for now.

I was dying inside.

But I didn’t flinch. Just leaned on the counter, acting like my name wasn’t printed on the back of a jersey in every arena in the division. “Yeah, I’m real lowkey.”

“Suspiciously lowkey,” she said, eyes narrowing again. “You still haven’t told me what you do.”

“I told you, I’m between things right now. Taking time off. Being mysterious.”

“That’s sketchy as hell.”

“Or,” I said, holding up my muffin, “I’m just a man who really loves baked goods.”

She laughed…snorted, actually, and I felt it in my chest like a bruise I didn’t mind having.

We kept talking. Banter, yeah, but there was more under it this time. Real stuff. Favorite books. Worst dates. Favorite curse words. I liked the way she challenged me. She was funny and cutting and smart, and none of it was performative. I liked the way she didn’t care who I was or who she thought I wasn’t.

I didn’t want it to end, but I knew better than to push. I leaned in just enough to feel it.

“Listen,” I said, tossing my muffin wrapper in the trash. “I know I’m not your usual type. And I know I’m probably going to say something stupid again soon. But… you wanna grab a coffee sometime? Or take a walk? No pressure. Whatever normal people do in broad daylight.”

She blinked. Looked down at the counter. Back up at me.

“I don’t date mystery muffins.”

“But I’m charming.”

“You’re a risk.”

“Is that a no?”

She hesitated. Bit her bottom lip like it might have the answer.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally, and I swore I saw a smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

I nodded, backing toward the door, fingers twitching like I’d just taken a shot that might hit the post.

I wasn’t winning yet.

But she hadn’t told me to get lost either.

That was something.