No wonder she thinks fireworks don’t exist
Logan
Sundays mean brunch.
Doesn’t matter if it’s hockey season or not, this crew always finds a way. Usually, it’s at Jake and Charlie’s, with their kids running wild while pancakes burn in the background. Sometimes Zoe cons Reid into hosting with the promise of muffins he didn’t ask for. Today it’s Eli and Tamara’s turn, two blocks from mine.
I cut across the neighborhood with Dusty at my side, leash slack, his paws clicking happily against the pavement. He likes the walk, and I tell myself this counts as cardio. By the time we reach the driveway, the scents of bacon and cinnamon are in the air, and the low roar of chaos leaks through the windows.
Dusty’s tail wags. Mine doesn’t.
I didn’t have this growing up—houses you could just walk into with family meals loud enough to shake the walls, and someone saving you a chair. My parents preferred quiet. Control. Order and schedules. But brunch here is nothing but disorder, and it took me longer than I’ll admit to stop feeling like an intruder. Still not sure I have, but I keep showing up.
With the guys, it’s easy. Locker room chirps and ice-level banter; I know that language. But here, in a family home with kids and casseroles and framed photos on the walls of people who actually know how to belong to each other? I don’t fit. The rink, I understand. This, I’m still getting used to.
The second I open the front door, I know I’m in trouble. Brunch with this crew isn’t food, it’s a contact sport with carbs.
Noah comes flying down the hallway in socks, drowning in his youth pads, a mini stick dragging in his wake. His five-year-old sister, Meadow, barrels after him with a tiara slipping down her head.
“Hi, Logan!” He launches at me, and I catch him before he brains himself on the tile and set him back down gently.
“Morning, champ.”
He beams and bolts for the backyard, while Dusty pads in behind me, gives one dignified shake, and stretches out on the entry rug. Good boy.
I give him a quick scritch behind his soft ears, then step forward—only to be stopped by a tiny dark blur near my feet.
Miso.
The schnauzer freezes mid-strut, beard twitching, eyes narrowing the way a bouncer looks at a fake ID. She makes a sound that’s not quite a bark and not quite a growl, but more like a gremlin gargling gravel. When her head tips, I see what’s dangling from her mouth.
My head.
Rubber, to be precise—the chew-toy version.
Tamara had the bright idea last Christmas to get “Custom Family Chew Buddies”—a full set of squeaky Storm players in tiny jerseys, plus accessories. The dog toy bin under the window looks like an Etsy fever dream of rubber pucks, mini hockey sticks, and our entire crew immortalized in chewable form. Lulu’s mini-Lulu lost her ponytail in twenty minutes. But my mini-me is Miso’s favorite victim to systematically dismantle.
“Miso, baby!” Tamara sings from the kitchen, voice sweet enough to rot teeth. She crooks two fingers. “Come to Mommy, gorgeous girl. Is the big, scary hockey man here to ruin your morning?”
Miso prances over in a perfect little show pony trot, tail vibrating. Up close, I get the full horror of mini-Logan—one arm chewed to a tragic nub.
“Good girl,” Tamara coos, kissing Miso’s angry little eyebrows. “You tell him what you think.”
I roll my eyes and step out of my shoes. The open-plan kitchen is already at capacity. Dusty trails me in, and the moment Miso spots him, the demon transforms into a debutante. She wriggles free, trots to Dusty with her chewed trophy, and places my rubber head reverently between his paws.
Dusty blinks, gives an aristocratic sigh, and lowers his chin beside it.
Miso does a proud little circle and taps his nose with hers.Kiss.Then, just so there’s no confusion, she kicks the head with one dainty paw until it bumps against my foot.
“Message received,” I tell her.
She bares her teeth in something that isn’t a smile.
“Mi-soooo,” Tamara warns in a voice spun from sugar. “We don’t threaten Mommy’s friends before pancakes.”
Miso snatches the head, then trots back over and allows herself to be scooped up as if she’s forgiving us all for existing. Dusty shifts to a sun patch and sighs again.
I shoulder into the room, the air thick with coffee and cinnamon and whatever butter spell Tamara puts on pancakes. Reid Hutchison—Hutchy—lifts his mug in silent greeting, while Chase Walton points a fork at my chest.
