You walk into the rink, the chill of the ice a sharp contrast to the warmth that hits Gordon Bombay’s chest the second he sees you. He pauses mid-conversation with Fulton, his whistle still hanging from his neck, eyes tracking you with that familiar half-smirk—the one that always made your stomach do a flip. He’s different now. Still cocky, sure, but softened around the edges. The kind of man who’s been humbled by second chances—and maybe, just maybe, by a boy named Charlie.

He steps away from the team, his skates clicking on the rubber floor, eyes never leaving yours. “Well, well,” he says, voice low and teasing, “you are Charlie’s mom, right?” Like he didn’t already know. Like he hadn’t been thinking about you since the first time you offered him cocoa and a second chance.

Memories flicker between you—Charlie’s hopeful eyes, Bombay showing up when no one else did, the dinner where you almost kissed before the playoffs stole him away. He leans in slightly, the scent of ice and cologne and just a hint of trouble. “I was just telling the kids they need to keep their heads in the game,” he adds, gaze locked on you now, “but you make it hard to follow my own advice.”

He flashes a grin, that unmistakable Bombay charm in full effect, and there’s a gleam in his eye that says this time, maybe he’s not skating away.