“Thanks again, sir. That was a close call.”
“Better safe than sorry. No unnecessary risks out there on the roads or at the Fish Bowl.”
Or the ice, as it turns out. I want to ask him the NHLplayer equivalent of “Are we there yet?” but hold back, knowing better than to tease a tiger.
Liam, our captain, skates over, spraying ice as he stops beside me. “How’s the renovation coming along?”
So many questions, yet the most important one, at least in this context, remains unanswered.
When will I play again?
Coach lifts an eyebrow with interest.
“Mikey’s father’s contracting company is great. They’re doing an amazing job.”
“Glad to hear the love shack will soon be ready for the newlyweds,” Liam jokes.
I hate to admit it, but I miss the days when he was all broody grump and hardly said a word to anyone.
“The roof repairs are done, the electrical updates finished, and the plumbing is nearly there.”
“Which just leaves the fun part—the finish work,” Robo says, sliding into the conversation.
Hayden skates up with a smirk. “And the mail-order bride situation? How’s that working out?”
“Shh.” I stiffen with sudden nerves, but thankfully, Vohn has Badaszek’s attention now, probably discussing the next big game against the Wisconsin Warriors.
“He’s blushing!” Pierre announces to the team.
“She’s not just a mail-order bride. Bree is staying with me until our arrangement ends.” My stomach dips at the notion as if Santa publicly announced that I’m on the naughty list.
Coach Badaszek blows his whistle again. “Enough chit chat! Back to work!”
As they skate away, I hear Jack shout, “Tell us more about that cozy cabin during the storm!”
I pretend not to hear him, but the memory surfaces anyway. Bree curled up beside me as we sunk together on thecouch with the fire keeping us toasty, her soft laugh, the way she’d looked at me in the firelight. Then the sleepy snuggling. I’ve been dreaming about it ever since. Something fundamentally changed between us that night. Something I can’t stop thinking about.
“Ready to see the progress?”I ask Bree as we pull up to her family’s old Victorian.
She nods, excitement and anxiety mingling on her face. The house looks different already—the scaffolding is gone, revealing fresh paint on the exterior and trim. The new windows gleam in the afternoon sun.
She gasps. Unfortunately, the interior will happen later, but watching her reaction fills me up inside. I tried to convince the A-2 crew that I could help—hey, I’m handy—but they insisted I leave it to the pros.
Bree runs her hand along the freshly painted handrail that leads up to the wrap-around porch and gazes at the exterior of her childhood home. We step inside, and though it’s still a construction site, it’s nothing like the lonely, abandoned shell it was a mere few weeks ago.
“Mikey’s dad said the biggest lift was the roof and the exterior, but there were some sizable electrical and plumbing repairs, too. The kitchen, floors, paint, and bathrooms are on the list. I wish I could have it finished for you by Christmas, but I’m afraid it won’t fit under the tree.”
I wait for her response, but her eyes remain wide—whether because she’s taking it all in or for another reason, I’m not sure.
She wanders into the front room, her boots echoing on the wooden floors. Light streams through the oversized windows, casting geometrical patterns across the empty space.
I point to the big front windows. “A Christmas tree would look perfect there. Tall ceiling. You could fit a massive one.”
Her smile falters slightly. “For another family, I guess. When I sell it.”
I feel an unexpected pang in my chest. “You’re still planning to sell?”
“I have to pay you back somehow,” she says, not meeting my eyes.
