I shrug his hand off. “I didn’t notice.” I grab my soap and shampoo, heading for the showers, needing the hot water and steam to scour away the lingering sugar scent and the unwelcome thoughts about Holly James. “We’ve got one more session. Then it’s done.”
Evan falls into step beside me as we walk towards the shower area, the sound of running water and echoing voices growing louder.
“Den… it’s okay, you know. To enjoy something. Something that isn’t just hockey or being a dad or… existing.” He pauses, letting the words hang. “Three years is a long time to live like that, man. Maybe it’s time to consider… taking a shot.”
I stop walking, turning to face him fully. He meets my gaze, his usual humor replaced by a deep, unwavering concern. He’s the only one who dares to say it. The only one who knows how tightly the walls are built, how deliberately empty the space inside them feels most days.
But letting someone in, lettingthatkind of warmth and disorder near Tabby… nearme… feels like the ultimate defensive breakdown.
“It was baking, Evan,” I say, my voice tight, the words a shield. “That’s it.”
I turn and push through the swinging door into the steamy shower room, the humid air hitting my face like a wall. “Now, if you’re done psychoanalyzing me, I need to wash the stink of this practice off.”
Evan doesn’t follow me in. He just calls after me, his voice carrying over the rush of water and the shouts of other guys, “Just think about it, Blakey! What’s the worst that could happen? You get covered in sprinkles? Oh, wait…” His laugh fades as the door swings shut behind me.
I stand under the hottest spray I can tolerate, letting the water pound against my shoulders, my neck, my face. I scrub methodically, the sharp scent of pine soap making me feel better.
But the steam seems to conjure up images. Not just Tabby’s joy this time. Holly’s face, smudged with icing, laughing. The way her eyes had crinkled at the corners, warm and bright despite the obvious exhaustion I’d glimpsed when we first arrived. The startling jolt when our fingers brushed over the piping bag. The absurdity of me, Denton Blake, star defenseman, fumbling with apron strings.
Embrace the mess.
Her voice, teasing and warm, echoes in the tiled room, mixing with the drumming water. It’s ridiculous. Insane. Everything about that bakery, that woman, is the antithesis of my ordered world. It’s messy, unpredictable, emotionally risky terrain.
I shut off the water and wrap a towel around my waist. The locker room is quieter now, only a couple of stragglers packing their bags.
I dress quickly: boxers, jeans, a plain black thermal shirt, my peacoat. I shove my practice gear into my bag, the zipper closing with a decisive rasp.
Walking out into the players’ parking garage, the cold Chicago air hits me smack in the face. I unlock my SUV with a chirp, the interior lights blinking on.
I pull out of the garage, merging into the slow crawl of downtown traffic heading out towards the suburbs, towardshome, towards the quiet, predictable sanctuary I’ve built for Tabby and myself.
The city lights blur past the windshield, streaks of red and white against the deepening twilight. I focus on the road, as a light drizzle begins to fall.
One more session. For Tabby.
That’s the plan. Get through the next baking lesson, fulfill Tabby’s wish for a ‘castle’, maintain a polite, distant civility with Holly James, and then close that particular chapter. Return to the safe, predictable rhythms of hockey, training, and the quiet, measured existence that keeps the emptiness at bay.
But as I navigate the familiar turns towards home, a treacherous thought enters my mind. It’s not just the memory of Tabby’s radiant smile that surfaces. It’s the way Holly had looked at me, just for that split second at the end, after Tabby hugged my legs. That fleeting, unguarded moment when her warm brown eyes had held something… soft. Understanding, maybe? And then, that tiny, almost-smile I’d let slip. Why hadthathappened?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening.
Wednesday. The next lesson. Operation Gingerbread Castle.
I tell myself firmly, rehearsing the internal playbook, that I’m only looking forward to it for Tabby. To see that light in her eyes again. That’s the only objective.
But deep down, beneath the layers of control and carefully constructed distance, a traitorous part of me – the part that remembers what warmth feels like – whispers something else.
It whispers that maybe, just maybe, I’m also looking forward to stepping back into that warm, chaotic kitchen. To seeing the woman who stands in the center of the storm, unfazed and smiling, covered in flour and magic dust. And that thought, that quiet, dangerous admission, is a distraction I can’t seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.
Chapter 7
Holly
The bell above the door chimes and I look up, wiping a streak of frosting from my cheek with the back of my hand. My stomach plummets like a dropped soufflé.
Tony Taviani stands just inside the doorway, brushing imaginary snowflakes from the shoulders of his immaculate overcoat. He’s not alone. A younger man in a sharp, expensive-looking suit hovers just behind him, holding a sleek leather portfolio.
“Ms. James,” he purrs, his voice cutting through the cheerful jingle of “Silver Bells” piping from the speakers. “Busy as always. The festive spirit must be good for business.”
