Love Song(127)

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

He knows exactly who I mean. “Have you tried calling her?”

“Yeah. A couple times. Texted her a bunch too. But she told Gigi she wants space.”

Dad waves that off. “Try again.”

“But she doesn’t want—”

“Wyatt, I appreciate that you want to listen to women here, but I can tell you this from experience: Sometimes they say they want space, but what they really want is for you to hold their hand. To be there.”

“She ended it. I’m not going to force her to love me.” Jesus. Sounds so pathetic saying that out loud.

“But you love her.”

“So fucking much. But I also can’t force her to believe me.”

Another silence settles between us, this one shorter, because my next words spill out before I can contain them.

“I played hockey this summer.”

His head swivels toward me. “Where?”

“The new community center by the library. They have a good rink.”

“Great rink,” he agrees. “The air is so crisp in there.”

“You mean cold, Dad. The air is fucking cold in there.”

He grins. “I love it.”

“I know you do.” My voice turns gruff. “I’m sorry it’s not what I want to do.”

“What?”

“Hockey. I know how badly you wanted me to follow in your footsteps.” Shit, how is one beer loosening my tongue? “I’ve spent a long time feeling like I’m not good enough.”

Dad looks shocked. “What are you talking about, not good enough? Wyatt—”

“No, let me finish. I’ve always felt like I let you down. Disappointed you because I chose to quit the team in high school, even though I probably could’ve been good enough.”

“Not probably, definitely,” he corrects. “But here’s the thing about hockey, champ. You can be technically perfect, have all the skills required of a great player. But if you don’t have heart, what’s the point?” He takes a quick sip of beer. “I listened to your song.”

“Which one?”

“‘Lightkeeper.’” He cocks his head at me. “It made me feel things.”

I can’t help but chuckle. My dad might not be the most articulate when it comes to explaining why he likes the music he likes, but I know what he means.

“You’re talented,” he continues. “And your heart is music. Not hockey.”

“You really don’t care that I didn’t want to play pro?”

“Look, when your mom and I talked about raising kids, we agreed that we wanted to show our kids the things we love. Hockey. Music. And if our kids loved those things too, that would be a bonus.” He offers a shrug. “I got my hockey player. Hell, your sister is better than I ever was.”

“Says the multiple Stanley Cup winner.”

“Stan’s more disciplined.” He smiles. “And you, well, you ended up loving your mom’s passion. But see, here’s the thing—even if you’d decided that you loved, I don’t know, engineering or origami, we would’ve been rooting for you. I don’t care what you do as long as you love it. I’m proud of you, always. No matter what.”

“Thanks, Dad.” My eyes feel hot, so I chase away the tears with a huge slurp of beer.

“As for Blake, if you love her, then you shouldn’t give up on her. Go see her before you leave for New York,” he suggests. “Bring her flowers, write a letter, anything to show her that you meant every word.”

He’s right. I should see her at least one more time before I leave town for who knows how long. I’m not sure about flowers, but…

I do know one thing guaranteed to get my foot in the door.





I don’t drive directly to Hastings. First, I make a stop in the city, double-parking on the street and praying I won’t be here long enough to get towed. In the lobby, I give the desk clerk my name. He picks up the phone, makes a quick call, and I’m surprised when he’s given permission to let me up.

I ride the elevator to the twenty-third floor and march with purpose to Apartment 2301. I give the door two sharp knocks. I don’t have to wait long.

The door swings open to reveal a smug wide receiver in a sleeveless hoodie.

Christ. This guy is the fucking worst. Who wears a sleeveless hoodie?

Isaac rolls his eyes at the sight of me. “What are you doing here, Graham?”

He remembers me at least. We’ve only met once, when Blake brought him to Tahoe the first year they started dating. I didn’t like him then, and I don’t like him now.

“She send you here to beg me to take her back?” he taunts.

I clench my jaw. Along with my fists. But I force myself to keep them pressed to my sides. “I’m here for Hot Boi,” I tell him.

His jaw drops. “You serious?”

“Deadly.”

Isaac stares me down. I don’t even blink. I come from a hockey family. I can handle a guy whose only job is running in straight lines and not getting grass stains on his tight pants.

“Bro,” he says. “It’s a toaster.”

I bare my teeth in not quite a smile. “And yet… Here we are.”