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  “I applaud your self-restraint but also regret it,” Leo said. “I think he’d definitely look better with a bloody nose at the very least.”

  Fisher slumped against the seat with a noisy sigh. “God, poor Felix. It’s blindingly obvious Paul gaslit the fuck out of him. No wonder he didn’t trust me.” He rolled his head on the seatrest to look at Leo, who was watching him with amusement and sympathy in his green eyes. “Do you want to go to a hockey game with me?” Fisher asked abruptly.

  Leo’s mouth fell open. “You mean….”

  “No.” Fisher shook his head. “Too… much. Too soon. But there’s an AHL league nearby, isn’t there? We could go to one of their games.”

  “Okay,” Leo said carefully. “But can I just ask… why?”

  “Because,” Fisher said, “I’m in love with a professional hockey player and if I want to have even the slightest chance of getting him back, I need to do some homework.”

  Leo flung his arms around Fisher’s neck with a delighted squeal, and Fisher laughed, blinking hard and hugging him back.

  “I knew you’d get your head out of your ass eventually!” Leo said, planting a smacking kiss on Fisher’s cheek before sitting back and beaming at him. “We need to bring Wren with us. She can actually teach you about this shit.”

  “I’ll call her as soon as we’re home,” Fisher said.

  Leo took his hand. “I’m so proud of you,” he said softly.

  Fisher lifted a shoulder but didn’t pull away. “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing,” he admitted, voice low. “What if he doesn’t—what if I drove him away for good and he wants nothing to do with me?”

  “Absolutely no fucking way that’s even possible,” Leo said. “He loves you too, Fish, I know he does. And we’re gonna help you get him back.”

  Fisher blew out a breath. “Okay. Okay. We’re doing this.”

  29

  “I need to talk to you.” Saint looked upset, and Felix shoved his helmet to the back of his head and reached for his water bottle.

  “What happened? Is it Caz?”

  Saint shook his head. “After practice. Don’t go home until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “Okay, cherry.” Felix watched him skate away, faintly puzzled. It had been a month since his life had blown up in his face, but he liked to think he was slowly putting the pieces back together. There were days when all he could do was hold his phone, staring at the black screen and aching to write down everything he was feeling so Fisher would know, but he never did it. He always put the phone away and went to pester Saint or Kasha or Vanya, anyone who could help distract him.

  They had a homestand over the next four days, and Felix was looking forward to a little time off. Their bye week was coming up, and Carmine had been voted into the All Star Game, something he complained about but was clearly delighted by.

  As if summoned, Carmine appeared, puck on his stick and a determined light in his eyes.

  Felix dropped his helmet into place with a jerk of his head, and crouched, all other thoughts driven from his mind.

  * * *

  Saint found him after practice as Felix was coming out of the shower, toweling his hair dry. His jaw was set in the expression Felix had come to recognize as his ‘giving bad news’ face.

  “You’re starting to worry me, cherry,” Felix said as he got dressed.

  “Have you heard from Fisher?”

  Felix froze. “Is he hurt? What happened?” He turned, fumbling for his shoes and nearly dropping them in his haste. He had to go, he had to—

  “He’s not hurt!” Saint said, grabbing his arm. “Fee, stop. Sit and listen to me for a minute.”

  Felix sank unwillingly onto his locker as Saint sat beside him.

  “Don’t be mad at me but I checked up on him,” he said after a minute. “I wanted to make sure he was okay. He didn’t come back after you two… talked, and I just—well. I’m nosy.”

  “No, you care,” Felix said.

  “He lost his job,” Saint blurted.

  Fuck.

  “Because of me,” Felix whispered. His lips were numb.

  Saint shook his head. “No. No, Fee, it wasn’t because of you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I talked to his assistant. Wren?”

  “How did you get her number?”

  Saint almost smiled. “Kasha. I asked him to give her my number and for her to contact me. She did, and we’ve been talking. Apparently there was a parent at the school who was harassing Fisher, trying to force him into something?”

  Felix nodded. “I know. Fisher hadn’t decided what to do about him, last we spoke.”

  “Wren said he showed up right after you left and Fisher snapped. Yelled at him, told him exactly what he thought of him. This dirtbag went straight to the dean and accused Fisher of sexually assaulting him. The dean gave him a choice of quitting and getting a good reference, or getting fired and fighting it.”

  “He chose to quit.” Felix folded forward, elbows on his knees. Fuck, Fisher.

  “How do you know that?” Saint asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. “Why don’t you assume he’d try to fight it? He has a chance at a good case, with a decent lawyer.”

  Felix lifted his head. “Because it’s him,” he said, and sighed. “He won’t want this dragged out in the open. The thought would horrify him. He’d rather quit and keep his dignity.”

  “You really do love him,” Saint said quietly.

  “I told you, not everyone is as lucky as you and Caz,” Felix said, bumping shoulders with him gently. “I’m better for the time I spent with him, no matter how it ended. I just wish—”

  “That you could fix it.”

  Felix nodded.

  “I have an idea.”

  30

  Fisher was jerked from sleep by his phone ringing. He pried one eye open to see the time—close to eight a.m. Being jobless was wreaking havoc with his schedule.

  He fumbled for the phone, nearly dropping it, and got it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Am I speaking to Fisher Montgomery?” a brisk voice asked.

  “Yes,” Fisher said. “Who is this?”

  “My name is Harper Curtis, and I am the dean of Primrose House. Have you heard of us, by any chance?”

  Fisher rolled upright fast. “I—yes, of course I’ve heard of you. Everyone knows about Primrose House. What—how can I help you, ma’am?”

  “We recently had an opening for one of our kindergarten classes, and I understand you parted ways with your previous employer not too long ago. I would like for you to apply.”

  Fisher opened and closed his mouth.

  “Is that something you’re interested in?” Harper asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” Fisher managed. “Yes, of course. I’m—thank you so much for thinking of me. If I may ask, how did you find me?”

  Harper made an amused noise. “That’s not something I’m able to divulge. I also want to caution you that I’m not offering you the job—merely the opportunity to apply for it. If you get the position, it will be because you’re the best candidate for it and for no other reason. When can you come in for the initial interview?”

  Fisher’s head was spinning. What was even happening? How did the dean of Primrose House know who he was, let alone that he was currently looking for a new job?

  He dragged his brain into gear. “Any day from Wednesday on is fine,” he said.

  “Excellent. Let’s have you come in Thursday morning at eight. I’ll send you an email with directions and instructions. I’m looking forward to meeting you, Fisher.” With that, she disconnected, leaving Fisher gaping at nothing.

  After a minute, he called Leo.

  “How the fuck would I know how to contact the principal or headmaster or whoever of Pygmalion House?” Leo demanded.

  “Primrose,” Fisher said, a bubble of laughter swelling in his throat.

  “My point stands. It wasn’t me, Fish.”

  “Maybe it was Wr
en,” Fisher mused. “Gotta go.”

  Wren answered on the second ring. “Hey Fisher!”

  “Did you give my name to the dean of Primrose House?” Fisher asked.

  “Did I what?”

  Fisher slumped at the honest bafflement in her voice. “Well, if you didn’t, then I would dearly love to know who did.”

  “Maybe—” Wren hesitated as if not wanting to say his name.

  “It wasn’t Felix,” Fisher said immediately. “He doesn’t have kids, he doesn’t want kids, he has no reason to know Primrose House even exists.”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?” Wren asked.

  “Yeah, of course. The Embers are about to clinch a spot and I’m not about to miss it.”

  Wren giggled. “If Peyton could see you now, huh?”

  “Shut it,” Fisher said without heat. “Speaking of hockey, how’s your boyfriend?”

  “Not my boyfriend,” Wren said immediately. “But he’s good.” Her voice softened on the words and Fisher swallowed his laugh.

  “You haven’t told him anything, right?”

  “We don’t talk about you, Fisher. Kasha’s a sweetheart, but his first loyalty is to Saint. Anything I said would go to him, which means it would go to—” She hesitated. “So no. I haven’t told him anything.”

  “How are the kids?” Fisher asked.

  “They miss you,” Wren said. “Trying to explain you’re not coming back isn’t going well. I wish—”

  “I know. Me too. Have you seen anything of Calum?”

  “Ugh. No, the nanny drops Max off now.”

  “Well, at least you don’t have to deal with him too. Tell the kids I said hi, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Who else could it have been? He didn’t have time to ponder it. He needed to get his suit dry-cleaned, book a haircut, and run some errands he’d been putting off so he’d be ready for Thursday.

  * * *

  “So have you figured out yet how you’re going to do it?” Wren asked.

  Fisher shook his head, mouth full of hotdog. The warmup music was so loud he had to lean in and shout once he’d swallowed. “It’s not like I can manufacture a reason to run into him somewhere, especially after what Paul did. And it’s not exactly the kind of conversation you have over text, you know?”

  Leo leaned over Wren’s other side. “Text him, ask him to meet,” he suggested.

  “So he can leave me on read?” Fisher snorted. “No thanks. There has to be a middle-ground between text and ambushing him. I just have to figure out what it is. And what to say that he’ll actually believe.”

  “Tell him you’ve been learning about hockey,” Wren said. “What’s a hat trick?”

  “Three goals in a game.” Fisher rolled his eyes.

  “Fine, what’s a natural hat trick?”

  “Three goals in a row,” Fisher said promptly. “Saint got a natural hat trick his second year.”

  “And a Gordie Howe hat trick?”

  “A fight, goal, and assist in the same game. Carmine got one of those this year.”

  Wren kept going, quizzing him on various terms and positions. When Fisher didn’t know the answer, he searched it up and then wrote it down, committing it to memory. He looked up after the third time to Wren watching him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Wren said. She looked suddenly guilty. “It’s just—you’re so serious about it. Like this is a test you don’t want to fail.”

  “In a way it is,” Fisher said. “I need Felix to know I’m committed.”

  “You know he wouldn’t care if you never learned the first thing about hockey, as long as you supported him?” Leo asked.

  “I know.” Fisher squirmed in the too-small seat. His knees were almost up against the glass, but at least they could see everything. “But it’s like—my way of apologizing, I guess.”

  “It’s supposed to be fun,” Wren said. “Not… penance, or whatever you’re doing.”

  “It’s not penance!” Fisher protested. “I’m taking it seriously because I take everything seriously. Ask Leo.”

  “Before he adopted Maya, he took an actual course on how to care for a dog,” Leo said. “Like paid money for it. This is what he does.”

  Wren studied Fisher. “So you don’t hate it?”

  The players took the ice to a scattered chorus of cheers from the crowd that had gathered to watch the warmups, and the conversation stopped briefly so they could watch. Black, silver, and teal jerseys swirled on their end of the ice, the players lining up to take shots on the goalie, in his crease and ready.

  Fisher watched everyone, cataloging what he saw, making mental notes of questions to ask Wren later or look up on his own. When they finally left the ice, he turned back to Wren.

  “I don’t hate it,” he said. “I really don’t. I expected to, not gonna lie. I thought it was all senseless violence. Bloody knuckles and missing teeth, you know? But you were right. It’s so much more than that. It’s… beautiful, in a weird, physical way. And I get it. The more I watch the goalies, the more I see why Felix loves it, why he won’t give it up. Only a monster would ask him to walk away from this.”

  Wren smiled up at him. “I think you’re ready.”

  “You’re definitely ready,” Leo added.

  “Great,” Fisher said, slumping in his seat. “Now I just have to figure out how to make him believe me. And also apologize for being such an asshole.”

  Wren patted his arm. “Something tells me you’re not gonna have to try very hard.”

  “I’ve got it!” Leo said. “We go to a Birds game, right? And we get there for warmups, and you, Fisher, you bring a sign for Felix. Something that says ‘PLEASE TAKE ME BACK’ or something suitably romantic and sappy. Put it up against the glass and wait for him to see it. It’s foolproof!”

  “That’s ridiculous and we’re not doing that,” Fisher said flatly.

  “It’s perfect and we are,” Leo argued.

  The lights were dimming and the smoke machine was ramping up, so Fisher just gave him a glare before he settled in to watch the game and did his best to put the dilemma away at least temporarily.

  31

  One week later

  “Tell me again what you’re gonna say,” Leo ordered.

  Fisher gripped the wheel. Traffic was heavy but at least it was moving. A flashy sports car swerved in front of them and Fisher stomped on the brakes, swearing.

  “Assholes.”

  “Fish,” Leo prompted.

  “Right. So I’m gonna start with apologizing, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” Leo propped his feet on the dashboard. “Go on.”

  “Put your feet down,” Fisher said. “Do you know what would happen if we were in a wreck and your legs were like that?”

  Leo rolled his eyes but obeyed. “So, apology. What exactly are you gonna say?”

  “Not a hundred percent sure,” Fisher admitted, changing lanes as the cars in front of him slowed to a crawl. “Figured I’d let the moment guide me.”

  “Boring, but you do you, I guess.”

  “Can you not critique my groveling technique?” Fisher snapped. He braked hard again as a truck roared by on the shoulder, music blaring. “Motherfucking idiots, where’s a cop when you need one? I’m just going to tell him this whole thing is my fault, and ask him to forgive me. Is that good enough for you or would like to write me a script?”

  “Would you use it?” Leo shot back.

  “Nope,” Fisher said, slanting a grin at him. “Fuck this, I’m taking 213. Maybe it’ll be at least a little more bearable.”

  “Traffic lights,” Leo observed.

  “Can’t be worse than this,” Fisher snapped. He took the exit for the highway that connected with 82nd Ave, watching in his mirror to make sure his lane was clear.

  “Fisher!” Leo’s voice was high with terror, and Fisher looked up just in time to see the massive semi barreling straight for them. The collision was screaming metal and shattering g
lass, crushing force hurling them both hard into the unforgiving embrace of their seatbelts, and then Fisher’s temple connected with the window and the world went black.

  32

  Felix hadn’t hit a hot streak like this in a long time. It was like he knew, deep in his core, what the opposing team was going to do, three moves before they did it. Every shot they made, he was there to block, snatching the puck out of the air or blockering it away, scrambling back to get set up again as everyone went after it.

  He wouldn’t even let himself think the word, but he knew it was coming. He could feel it. Nothing was going to stop him. He left the ice after the second period, fierce delight fizzing in his blood, and made his way to the locker room with the team. No one spoke to him. They knew his routine by now. But there were taps against his pads, the occasional fist held out for a bump as the players listened to Flanahan talking strategy.

  Felix listened with half an ear, drinking water and running his own plays in his head. A phone rang somewhere and he blinked, looking up. The other players seemed equally baffled.

  “Whose is that?” Flanahan snapped.

  Saint cleared his throat. “I think it’s Felix’s.”

  The phone stopped ringing and then started again.

  “Why would it be mine?” Felix asked. “I’m not expecting a call. Unless—Maman—” He shot to his feet and scrabbled in his coat pocket, hanging from a hook in his locker. It wasn’t his mother, he realized, but the rush of relief was mingled with a spike of adrenaline when he saw Fisher’s name flashing on the screen. “What—”

  “Answer it,” Saint said.

  Still Felix hesitated, frozen in place, staring at the screen. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening. He’d made his peace with never seeing Fisher again, he couldn’t handle—whatever this was.

  Saint made an annoyed noise and snatched the phone out of his hand. “Hello?”

  Felix watched him, unable to look away. The rest of the team seemed equally spellbound, waiting breathlessly.