Hot Chocolate and Hockey Heart Attacks

I followed Knox out of the rink like a girl who definitely wasn’t already replaying his wink on loop in her head. The cold slapped me harder outside, wind whipping through the parking lot like it had a personal grudge against California transplants. My boots crunched on the salted sidewalk, and Knox—still half in pads, helmet tucked under one arm—looked like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover titled “Hot Guys Who Don’t Own Coats.”

“Truck’s this way,” he said, nodding toward a beat-up black pickup that screamed small-town hockey royalty. Stickers plastered the back window: EVERGREEN EAGLES, a cartoon bird flipping the bird (ironic), and one that read “I brake for slapshots.”

I hesitated. “You’re not driving me anywhere until you lose the shoulder pads, Callahan. I have standards.”

He grinned, teeth flashing white against the dusk. “Fair. Gimme two minutes.” He popped the tailgate, yanked off his jersey right there in the parking lot—because of course he did—and swapped it for a hoodie that still smelled like the rink. Underneath? A gray thermal that hugged every ridiculous muscle like it was tailor-made. I forced my eyes to the snow-dusted ground before my brain filed a formal complaint.

“Better?” he asked, tossing his gear bag in the truck bed.

“Marginally less likely to cause a public health hazard.”

He laughed and opened the passenger door for me like we were on a date instead of a pity hot-chocolate run. I climbed in, trying not to notice how the cab smelled like mint gum, pine air freshener, and boy. Dangerous combo.

The drive was short—three blocks to a place called The Frosty Mug that looked like it had been decorated by a Christmas elf with commitment issues. Twinkly lights everywhere. Inside, it was warm chaos: hockey posters on the walls, a jukebox playing old rock, and the smell of cinnamon and melted marshmallows that made my stomach forgive Minnesota for existing.

Knox waved at the barista like they were old friends. “Two specials, extra whipped cream, and don’t skimp on the chocolate shavings, Lila.”

Lila—a girl with purple streaks in her hair and a name tag that said “Future NHL Wife”—winked at him. “Captain’s got a guest. This the famous Avery?”

I blinked. “Famous?”

“Word travels fast when Coach Kane brings his kid to practice and she almost gets murdered by a puck,” Lila said, sliding two massive mugs across the counter. “Knox already texted the group chat.”

I shot him a glare. “You texted about me?”

“Had to warn them you’re a flight risk,” he teased, paying before I could even reach for my wallet. “Figured if you ran back to San Diego, at least they’d know why.”

We claimed a corner booth that smelled faintly of maple syrup. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers while Knox stretched his long legs under the table, accidentally brushing my boot. I yanked mine back like I’d been burned.

“So,” he started, blowing across his drink. “California girl in hockey town. What’s the verdict after forty-eight hours?”

I took a sip—rich, sweet, perfect—and decided honesty was safer than sarcasm for once. “Cold. Loud. Everyone stares at me like I’m an alien who might melt if the temperature hits fifty degrees. Also, my dad keeps calling me ‘team morale.’ I think he’s one bad loss away from making me wear the mascot head.”

Knox’s laugh was soft this time, genuine. “He’s intense, but he’s good. The guys already like him. Me included.” He leaned in a fraction, blue eyes catching the string lights. “And you? You hate hockey, right? Be honest.”

“I don’t hate it,” I said carefully. “I just… don’t get it. Back home, sports were optional. Here it feels like a religion. People actually chant your name in the grocery store. It’s weird.”

He shrugged, not offended. “It’s home. My dad played for the Eagles before he… yeah.” A shadow flickered across his face, gone before I could ask. “Anyway, I’ve got practice every morning, games three nights a week, and college scouts breathing down my neck. But this?” He tapped the mug. “This is the good part. Small-town stuff. Hot chocolate with the new girl who falls dramatically.”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed anyway. “I didn’t fall. I was strategically repositioning.”

“Strategically adorable,” he countered, and the way he said it—low, teasing—made my stomach do that stupid flip again.

We talked for an hour that felt like ten minutes. He told me about the team’s playoff chances, how the left winger (some guy named Finn) was secretly terrified of pucks to the face, and how the town threw a bonfire after every win. I told him about missing the ocean, my half-finished fantasy manuscript about dragon-riding librarians, and the way my mom had cried when we left San Diego because “who moves to Minnesota on purpose?”

He listened like I was the most interesting thing in the rink. No interruptions. No checking his phone. Just those eyes, steady and warm.

Until his phone buzzed. He glanced at it and groaned. “Team group chat. Finn says if I don’t bring you to the bonfire this weekend, he’s stealing my captaincy.”

I laughed. “Is that code for ‘the whole town wants to inspect the new girl’?”

“Pretty much. But it’s fun. Hot dogs, bad singing, and someone always tries to teach the rookies how to chug hot chocolate without brain freeze.” He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his empty mug. “Come with me? As my… moral support. Or whatever you want to call it.”

My heart did a full slapshot. “I don’t know, Callahan. I’m still recovering from the puck assassination attempt.”

He leaned across the table, close enough that I caught that mint-and-victory scent again. “One bonfire. One night. If you hate it, I’ll personally drive you back to the rink and let you throw pucks at me for revenge.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling too big. “Tempting. But only if you promise no more winking. It’s weaponized.”

“No promises,” he said, eyes sparkling. “But deal on the rest.”

We walked back to his truck under a sky full of stars that looked sharper up here, no city lights to dull them. He opened my door again—gentleman hockey player, apparently—and when I slid in, our hands brushed. Just for a second. Electricity. The kind you read about in the books I swore I only read for the dragons.

Back at my house (Dad’s new rental, a cute blue two-story with icicles already forming), Knox killed the engine but didn’t move. “Thanks for not hating Minnesota on sight, Avery.”

“Thanks for the hot chocolate and the ego boost,” I replied, unbuckling. “Even if your flirting game is ninety percent puck-related puns.”

He grinned. “Wait till you see my slapshot game. It’s a solid eleven.”

I was halfway out the door when he added, softer, “Hey. Text me if you get cold tonight. I know all the best ways to warm up a California girl.”

I shut the door before my face could betray me, but inside the house, I leaned against it, heart racing like I’d just run suicides on the ice myself.

Dad was in the kitchen, flipping through playbooks. “How was the hot chocolate?”

“Fine,” I lied, voice too high. “Knox is… tolerable.”

He raised an eyebrow, coach-suspicious. “Tolerable enough for the bonfire?”

I froze. “You know about that?”

“Small town, kiddo. Plus he asked my permission before practice ended.” Dad smirked. “I said yes. But if he hurts you, I bench him for the season.”

I escaped upstairs before I could combust, flopping onto my bed with my phone already open to his contact (somehow added between mug one and mug two). His last text from the group chat stared back at me: New girl survived the puck. 10/10 would almost-kill again.

I typed back: Bonfire. But only because I want to see you eat your words when I hate every second.

His reply came instantly: Challenge accepted, Kane. See you Saturday. Wear layers. I’ll bring the heat.

I stared at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot in the dark.

Forty-eight hours in Evergreen.

And I was already texting the team captain at midnight, heart doing overtime, wondering how long I could pretend this was just hot chocolate.

Spoiler: not long.