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“Faye’s dating again?” The line goes silent, and my head falls between my shoulders because—shit. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

Honest to God, I think I hear Pop grin. Conniving asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.

I go to take another swig, but the bottle is empty.

“Holt, we both know you’re going to need something to do with yourself soon.”

My spine snaps straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t play hockey forever. It’s a boy’s sport and you’re a man now.”

He’s been saying this crap since I really was a boy. A boy hell-bent on marrying one specific girl.

I walk my bottle back to the kitchen. I eye the fridge, but shove the mug under the coffee machine, punching the buttons that’ll mix me the brew I like.

“I have another four years on my contract.” I don’t mention I’m nowhere near aging out. Sure, lots of players age out in their thirties. But not me. Not yet. I lost everything that mattered for the game. I work hard to be exceptional. And I’m not ready to hang up the towel. My scores back that.

But Dad doesn’t want to hear any of that.

He goes on. “Like I said, you’re going to need something to do with your time when you’re done with the game. You’ve always been good with your hands. You can frame a house as well as Tanner. Laying flooring is a breeze, but you won’t be doing a whole lot of that because you’ll be overseeing projects.” He grunts something unintelligible, adding, “Mostly, you’ll be in the office or in the truck. Driving between sites.”

“I haven’t worked construction in over ten years.”

“It’s like riding a bike.”

It’s not. “Pop⁠—”

The old man cuts me off. “We both know it’s always been your plan to return to Rubble Ridge.”

“This is news to me.” I lean back into the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. The caffeine burns on the way down.

There’s a swollen pause. Dad says quietly, “I know you’ve got property here, Holt.”

Every part of me tenses. I grit, “I’m not talking about that, Pop.”

How the hell does he even know? No. It doesn’t matter how he knows. I don’t care.

I don’t care about a lot these days. Just hockey. But hockey is over for the season.

“Give me the summer, Holt. Please. I need help, son.”

Well, shit. Dad doesn’t do this. Doesn’t show vulnerability. Doesn’t beg.

I sigh. Should have gone for another beer.

“Building regulations have changed in the last ten years.”

Pop chuckles. He knows I’m close to cracking.

“You can be here today. I’ll walk you through everything over the next week. Your Mom’s been after me for a day off, so I figure I can give her the day before them fancy doc’s cripple me for the next few months.”

“Dad,” I groan a curse. “I can’t just up and leave today.”

“Why not? The season is done. You’ve got nothing there, unless you’ve got some girl I don’t know about.” He mumbles something untoward. Pretty sure I’d take offense if I could understand it. “The way you’re in those grocery magazines with all those different girls, I doubt it.”

“I can’t just drop everything here.”

“We’ll see you for dinner tomorrow. Your mom will make lasagna.”