Page 20 of Cross the Line

It had been Mom’s dream to play hockey just like her dad before her. Grandpa Joe had played for the Bruins, instilling a love of the game in my mom. She’d played all through college. But because she was a woman, she’d been denied the opportunity to play professionally.

The PWHL hadn’t existed back then. And women’s hockey hadn’t made its Olympic debut until 1998, years after she’d stopped playing to work full time and be a mom. I could only imagine the sense of loss and frustration she felt, wanting something so badly but lacking opportunities.

Every time I played a game or won an accolade, I searched for her in the crowd. Or I held a hand to my heart so she would see me on-screen and know that it was for her. For everything she’d sacrificed, for all the things she hadn’t been allowed to do. I did it for her and the women who’d come before me. I did it for myself and my teammates. And I did it for the women who would come after me.

Dad gave my arm a squeeze, his eyes shining with pride. “Proud of you, Lo.”

“Thanks.” I beamed at him.

I could remember my reaction to the call—I’d been buzzing. My first thought had been to text Carson.

Me: Apparently, the NHL wants me on their advisory council, and I’m pretty sure you’re responsible for that.

Me: If so, thank you. Sincerely.

Trouble: Nah, KT. You earned this all on your own.

Somehow, over the past few months, Carson had become one of my biggest supporters. For a man who usually came across as cocky and mouthy, he could be surprisingly sweet. Tender and introspective. I wondered how many people he let see that side of him.

I only wished Levi could see him in a different light. Carson had made a mistake in the past, which he’d admitted. But hopefully he’d learned from it.

Carson and I were going to be working together on this new campaign. And it was my hope that the campaign would show Levi that Carson really wasn’t a bad guy.

“Also,” I said, taking a deep breath. “They asked two NHL players to be the face of the campaign.”

Levi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Who?”

“Fizzy and Kovi.”

Levi’s brows cinched together. “Kovi?” It was as if he’d enunciated every syllable, punctuating each one with a growl.

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the way my skin heated under his scrutiny. “Everyone calls him that.”

“Yeah, but since when do you call him that?”

Fortunately, Dad jumped in, saving me from a response. “That makes sense.” Dad nodded, considering. “It’s a smart move, pairing a seasoned veteran known for keeping his cool on the ice with a younger player who’s a social media star.”

“Social media star,” Levi scoffed. “What a joke.”

“Sorry, Lee.” Dad held up his hands. “I know you don’t like the guy, but Carson’s got some cool behind-the-scenes content. It’s clear that he puts a lot of thought and effort into his posts.”

I loved that my dad was so keyed in. I loved that he respected Carson’s talent both on and off the ice.

“You two used to be such good friends,” Mom lamented, her gaze focused on Levi. “I just don’t understand what happened.”

Join the club.

My eyes darted between them, wondering if Mom could get the answer out of Levi. But if he hadn’t confided in either of us after all these years, I wasn’t sure he ever would. I hated the idea of him holding on to this grudge—not because of my friendship with Carson, but because I could tell that whatever had happened, Levi was clearly hung up on it.

Levi’s jaw was set in a firm line. It was almost as if he were clamping his mouth shut to prevent himself from speaking. I frowned, both at my brother’s pained expression and the fact that my plan was failing.

Mom placed her hand on Levi’s arm and said, “Sweetheart,” just as there was a knock at my door. When they knocked again, I frowned, glancing around the table. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I headed over to the door, peering through the peephole. A courier was standing on the other side, an insulated bag in hand.

“Delivery for Logan Frost,” he said the moment I opened the door.

“I—” I tilted my head, brows furrowed. “Yeah. That’s me, but I didn’t order anything.”