“No wonder your dad hired you as his assistant. You know the game, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I spent a lot of time in arenas when I was little, not so much as I got older.” Since there were a number of years when I couldn’t stand to watch the game, I avoided it. It’s only now that I’m working here that I realize how much I’ve missed it. “But I get what makes a good player, and how sometimes switching out one player can strengthen or weaken a line.”

“That definitely makes sense. When Bishop came to Seattle, they moved him from forward to defense.”

“Really? Why would they do that? He and Rook are the top scorers on the team.”

“He’s a big guy, so they thought it would be a better fit.”

“I guess I can see that.” I scroll through the lineup of players. “Do they ever play Rook and Bishop on the same line?”

“Uh no, not that I’ve ever seen. Why do you ask?” Stevie pulls a pack of mints out of her purse and pops one in her mouth before offering them to me.

“Just curious. I get wanting to keep them separate so both lines are strong, but it would be interesting to see what putting them together would do for the team.”

“I guess if they don’t beat each other to death with their sticks it would be an interesting experiment.”

“Is that likely to happen?” I’ve seen those two bickering before. They’re worse than toddlers fighting over toys.

Stevie shrugs. “I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

“Could be entertaining, if nothing else.”

We sit in silence for a while and watch the players, noting who passes to who the most, whose form is the smoothest, and who takes the most risks, and the best shots. I find myself fixated on Kingston, although he is their main target. He’s also let in a lot more goals today than his stats indicate is normal for him. Another puck slips by, through the five-hole this time, and he tosses a glove on top of the net, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly frustrated. Bishop skates over and puts a hand on his shoulder—checking in, I assume.

“I wonder what’s going on with King today? He’s playing like sh—poop,” she says, censoring herself, although Kody isn’t paying attention to us.

“He’s usually a lot smoother,” I agree.

“And less distracted. Do you watch them practice often?”

“Not usually, no. But it’s easier to be where my dad is so I don’t have to go back and forth between the office and the arena if I have pressing questions.” He doesn’t answer texts or emails during practice.

Stevie taps her lip. “Interesting.”

I should keep my mouth shut and not ask questions, but I’m terrible at the whole impulse-control thing. “Interesting how?”

“Because he keeps looking over here, and I’m one thousand percent sure it’s not me he’s checking out.”

I fight to keep my eyes off him and fail. She’s right: he’s looking at me, and yet another shot gets by him, this time because he’s hugging the post.

“Oh my God, look at how red your face is! Do you have the hots for Kingston?” She says it way too loud while elbowing me in the side.

“What? No! Shhhh! Keep your voice down!” I duck my head, pretending to focus on my laptop, which would be more convincing if it weren’t sitting closed on my lap.

We’re close to the bench, and while there are only a couple of players making adjustments to their equipment, my dad is right there. As if I need him to overhear this conversation.

“Oh my God! You totally do! What is going on between the two of you?” She grabs my arm, eyes alight with some kind of weird excitement.

“Nothing. There is nothing going on. Can we drop this, please?”

She cocks a light-brown eyebrow. “I’m totally calling bullshit.”

“Call it whatever you want, but there’s a no dating players policy in effect, so there really is nothing going on between us.” My face feels like it’s on fire.

“Since when?”

“Since I started working for my dad.”

“There’s definitely a story to go with that comment.”

“There are actually many, and I’m not telling any of them right now.” I nod toward the bench, where my father is standing with his arms crossed.

“Okay, fine, dropping it.” She smirks. “For now.”

I don’t have a chance to come up with another retort because the sound of more children in the arena draws our attention. We both look over our shoulders to find Violet, Alex Waters’s wife, making her way down the stairs with two children in tow. I’ve met her once before, but she only had the two oldest boys with her that time. This time she ushers a pair of kids down the stairs. They look to be a little younger than Kody, and they’re holding hands.