I blush, and my nerves disappear.
“I know you’ve met a lot of the characters?—”
My gaze snaps in his direction.
Anticipating my question, he says, “Just saying, hockey romance is hot. You could write one. Let’s see, the hero would be about this tall.” He measures the air in front of us at his exact height. “Strong, handsome. Dare I say strapping? Butdistinguishedtoo.”
I can’t help myself. I crack up with laughter. The jokester still lives somewhere inside him and I’ll admit that I like it.
Swinging our hands between us, he says, “Come on. There are a few more people I want you to meet.”
The next hour passes in a blur of names and faces. Some I’m relieved to recognize—Ella, Jess, Leah, Gracie, and a few more. But others, I’m only now placing with stories Fletch has told me.
His teammates greet him with backslaps and jokes about his big charity game win—which I thought was a loss, resulting in their bet … and me, us—but perhaps, since we’re actually here together, it’s a net gain. Meanwhile, their partners welcome me with genuine warmth.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Cara, the coach’s daughter and wife to defenseman Pierre Arsenault, says as she pulls me into their circle. “We were starting to think Fletch made you up.”
I laugh. “Trust me, I’m real. Awkwardly, painfully real. I’m the woman who kissed him by accident, agreed to marry him through a website, and somehow still managed to fall for him. If I wrote this in a book, my editor would send it back with ‘TOO RIDICULOUS’ in all caps.”
“Careful. She’s a writer. She’ll put you in her next romance if you misbehave,” Gracie says with a wink.
“Too late. You’re all already characters in my head,” I joke.
The women laugh, and I feel myself relaxing. “Honestly, my life has become a romantic comedy I’d be too embarrassed to publish. But here we are.”
Juniper grins. “I think we’re going to get along great.”
Gracie bounces a little on her toes. “Tell me you’re considering writing a hockey romcom.”
I’m not sure I’ll jump genres, but say, “I’ll consider it.”
They laugh, and just like that, I’m part of their group. The women I’m just meeting now ask about my books, my writing process, and how I met Fletch. I navigate the questions carefully, sticking to our agreed-upon story that’s close to the truth but leaves out the mail-order part. It’s not that we’re ashamed, but it’ll open the door to too many questions that, quite honestly, I don’t have the desire to share with strangers.
“We have watch parties for away games,” Heidi explains as we sample the Christmas cookies that Whit made. There are the classic flavors, plus pinwheel poinsettias, macaroon blossoms, peppermint meltaways, and shortbread thumbprints with jam.
Delaney says, “The watch parties rotate from house to house. You can host one once you’re settled.”
“That sounds fun,” I say automatically, then pause. Once I’m settled? Where will that be? The thought follows me through the evening. I’ll have to talk to my mother about the house—and baking. Maybe Whit offers classes. Perhaps it’s something she and I could do together as a mother-daughter bonding activity.
I also learn that the team has all kinds of gatherings, from game nights—board games—brick oven pizza parties, they go big on birthdays, and holidays are total blowouts.
As Fletch mingles with teammates, I find myself picturing life here—a permanent life. Writing in the mornings, attending games to cheer for Fletch, hosting watch parties in ... where? My childhood home seems the obvious answer, but what about the renovations Fletch has been overseeing? Would I sell it after all his work? And if not, how can I pay him back?
Fletch appears at my side, offering a cup of eggnog. “Puck for your thoughts?”
“Just thinking about the future,” I admit.
Something flickers in his eyes. “Anything specific?”
Before I can answer, Badaszek’s booming voice cuts through the room. “Gather ‘round, everyone! Time for the Secret Santa exchange!”
Fletch takes my hand, and we join the circle forming around the tree. Watching him interact with his teammates—the camaraderie, the inside jokes—I realize how much this community means to him. This is his world, his family beyond family.
And I want to be part of it.
The realization hits me with startling clarity. I don’t want to leave after thirty days. I don’t want to wander from rental to rental anymore. I want roots, connection, and belonging—all the things I’ve convinced myself weren’t for me.
“You’re up, Turley,” Badaszek calls.
