Rhett's hand tightened slightly in my hair, and I realized he'd stopped reading. He sat there with his magazine in his lap, watching me work.
"What?"
"You look peaceful. It's nice."
"It is."
The night stretched out around us, unhurried and ours. Rhett went back to his magazine.
My life was bigger than the rink now, and I'd finally stopped being scared of that.
Chapter twenty-two
Rhett
The cabinet hinge fought me for three minutes before I realized I'd been forcing it against the grain—amateur mistake. Dad would've caught it in five seconds and offered a lecture about patience.
I backed the screw out, adjusted the angle, and tried again. This time it sat clean.
The Underwood kitchen was finally coming together—new cabinets were installed, and the countertops were leveled. Mrs. Underwood had stopped by twice to ask if I was sure about the cabinet height, and both times I'd walked her through the measurements we'd agreed on three weeks ago.
Some clients needed to worry out loud until you finished the job. I got it. Your kitchen was where you lived—coffee at six AM, kids doing homework at the counter, and the quiet moments when you stood at the sink and watched snow fall outside the window.
I tightened the final screw and tested the door. Smooth swing. Perfect.
I packed my tools with more speed than care, tossing them into the bed of my truck. The heater blasted hot air that smelled faintly of antifreeze as I pulled onto the street. Through the windshield, the Fort William Gardens was visible in the distance.
As I drew closer, the rink lights cut through the lake haze, yellow-white against the gathering dark. Tomorrow was the playoff opener. Tonight was the last practice before everything would change.
I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. Grabbing my coat, I headed inside.
The sound hit me when I entered: skates carving hard turns and pucks cracking against boards. Coach Rusk's voice cut through everything.
"Desrosiers! That's your weak side, cover it!"
The stands were mostly empty. A few parents sat in the upper rows, and someone's girlfriend texted near the concession stand. Margaret from the yarn shop sat in the front row, working with knitting needles.
She waved when she saw me. I waved back.
On the ice, the Storm moved through a power play setup. Jake took the point, Evan anchored the corner, and Hog planted himself in front of the net like a wall.
The puck moved fast—tape to tape, no hesitation. When it finally came to Hog, he didn't try anything fancy. He redirected it clean into the corner where Pickle was waiting.
"THAT'S IT!" Coach bellowed. "HAWKINS! THAT'S HOW YOU PLAY YOUR POSITION!"
Hog tapped his stick against the ice.
I found a seat three rows up and settled in to watch.
Jake's voice carried across the ice. "Storm support staff has arrived! Honorary bruiser!"
The team laughed. Hog glanced up at me, stick still resting on his knees, and his grin was visible even through the cage.
Evan skated past Jake and said something I couldn't hear, but Jake's response was loud: "I'm being WELCOMING, Spreadsheet! It's called team bonding!"
Coach blew the whistle. "Less talking, more skating! Breakout drill! Let's GO!"
I watched them rerun it. And again. Each time, the pattern tightened, passes sharper, and positions cleaner. The team that had started the season as a collection of spare parts and second chances had turned into something deserving of a playoff shot.
