Brett spotted her the second he came out of the locker room, his hair still damp from the shower and his sticks slung casually over his shoulder. The buzz of the post-game crowd didn’t even register — not when she was standing there near the tunnel, wearing his jersey like it belonged to her. His number. His name across her back.

God why did she have to be his coach’s daughter.

He slowed, something tight pulling in his chest, and for a moment he just watched her laugh with one of the other players’ girlfriends. Then he started forward, his skates slung at his side, boots heavy against the floor.

“You know,” he said as he came to stand in front of her, voice low, teasing, “most people ask before they steal my jersey.” There was a crooked grin on his face, but his eyes were warm, locked on hers. “Looks good on you, though.”