He chuckles. “Always working. Enjoy the fruits of your labor for a minute!” He gestures towards the sparkling trees, the happy faces illuminated in the soft light. “It’s perfect.”
Itisperfect. Or it would be, if…
And then I see them.
They’re standing near the big maple tree at the far edge of the park. Denton looks… massive. Even bundled in a long, dark wool coat, he cuts an imposing figure. His shoulders are set in that familiar rigid line, his posture radiating a ‘do not approach’. He looks profoundly out of place amidst the cozy chaos.
Tabby, perched high on his shoulders, is a pink beacon of excitement. Her mittened hands are buried in his dark hair, her little face tilted upwards, taking in the twinkling canopy above them. She’s chattering animatedly, pointing towards the giant unlit spruce.
Denton’s head is tilted slightly, listening, his profile stern, but one of his large hands rests securely on her tiny booted foot anchored against his chest. That protective grip sends a pang straight to my heart.
He showed up. For her.
The relief is immediate, a warm wave washing over the cold anxiety. He kept his promise. To Tabby. The butterflies settle, replaced by a softer, warmer fluttering. He’s here. Inmyworld. However reluctantly.
I watch as a man in a Blades beanie does a double-take, nudges his companion, and points towards Denton. Recognition flashes across their faces. They approach, tentative smiles plastered on.
I see Denton’s posture shift slightly, his shoulders squaring even more, his chin lifting. The practiced, public persona clicks into place – the polite but distant hockey star. He nods and says something to them, his expression carefully neutral.
Another woman approaches, bolder this time, holding out what looks like a program or a trading card. Denton shakes his head slightly, says something short. She tucks the item away, and hurries off. His gaze flicks back to Tabby, his hand tightening protectively on her foot.
Seeing him like this – the celebrity, the public figure navigating the awkwardness of recognition – is strangely intimidating. This is a side of him I haven’t witnessed. The untouchable athlete.
“Hey, girl,” Charlie’s voice is suddenly beside me, her elbow nudging my ribs. She follows my gaze. “Ah. The fortress has arrived. And he brought the pink princess.”
We observe Denton’s interaction with another fan – a teenage boy this time, who gets a brief handshake and a nod before scurrying away, starstruck. “Handling his adoring public with his usual sunny charm, I see.”
“He’s just… private,” I defend, tearing my gaze away to refill a cup for old Mr. Peterson. “And he’s here for Tabby.”
“Uh-huh.” Charlie’s skepticism is palpable. She grabs a handful of mini marshmallows and tosses them into her owncocoa. “Well, Tabby looks thrilled. He looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal. You sure you want to sit with them?”
“I said I would,” I say, my voice firm. “Tabby’s saving me a spot.”
“Just… manage your expectations, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
She looks at her watch and gestures towards the towering spruce. “Shouldn’t we be flipping the switch soon? Mayor Davies is looking antsy.”
She’s right. The crowd is thickening around the base of the spruce. Mayor Davies, bundled in a parka and enormous red scarf, is fiddling with the oversized, slightly ridiculous ceremonial light switch we prop up every year.
“Okay, okay!” I call out, my voice carrying surprisingly well over the din. “Cocoa refills paused! Gather ‘round, everyone! Tree lighting in T-minus two minutes!”
A cheer ripples through the crowd. People surge closer, families shuffling children to the front, couples huddling together.
I quickly wipe my sticky hands on my apron – bright red with embroidered snowflakes – and weave my way through the throng towards the small platform near the switch. My heart is pounding again, but this time it’s the familiar, welcome rush of event adrenaline.
I step up beside Mayor Davies, accepting the cordless mic he hands me. The faces looking up at me are warm and expectant. My neighbors. My community.
The people who buy my gingerbread cookies and chat over morning scones. The ones who signed the petition against Tony Taviani’s development last year. The warmth of their collective gaze brings me back to being right here, right now.
“Hi, everyone!” My voice booms slightly through the speakers, making a few people jump and laugh. “Welcome to the 15th Annual Wicker Park Tree Lighting!” A cheer erupts.
“Thanks for braving the cold! And an extra big thanks to everyone who helped string lights, bake cookies –” I gesture towards the cocoa table where Charlie gives a mock bow, “– and generally spread the cheer! You make this neighborhood feel like home, especially during the holidays.”
More applause. Genuine smiles. Mrs. Rossi beams at me.
I catch a glimpse of movement at the edge of the crowd. Denton has moved. He’s no longer under the maple tree. He’s moved closer, still on the periphery but within clear sight of the platform.
Tabby is still riding high, her eyes wide with excitement, fixed on the giant, dark tree. Denton’s intense gaze, however, isn’t on the spruce. Unreadable from this distance, but undeniably focused. The intensity of it hits me for a second, stealing my breath.He’s watching me.
