Somewhere in the haze of the next day, between kisses and a thorough exploration of each other’s bodies, we talk about the bar and my plans for it. Thatcher roughs out a plan of what needs to be done to gut the place, and I wrap my head around what it means to begin the project.
I catch Thatcher looking at me sometimes, and I know that me being called up took something out of him. I’m not sure of theexact demons he wrestled with while I was gone, but I know his support came with its own sort of price.
The next week is a blur of sawdust and stubborn trim and takeout containers with our names scribbled on the lids. Jamie wraps himself around me like I never left, and Liz, surprisingly, doesn’t complicate things. She’s still flighty, still in one of her “trying” phases, but she doesn’t push. Not yet. She mostly remembers her promises to Jamie, and Thatcher starts relaxing a little when she makes them.
The citizens of Fox River Falls look to see me and Thatcher together, and I see their gaze slide over her and Thatcher differently, not even registering them as a possible couple.
My head is clear on the ice, back into the feel of the Iceguard. My head is also clear on some decisions about the bar. And a good thing too, considering the work it needs and the fact I now have Thatcher’s help.
Thatcher and I fall into something quiet and sure. We don’t call it anything. We don’t need to.
He lets me help in the bar in the late afternoons and weekends. I’m terrible with measurements, but decent with a sander. We talk while we work—about bar layouts, liquor licenses, salvage lumber. About real things. Grounded things.
At night, he doesn’t send me home. The sort of half-in half-out existence goes from me bringing an overnight bag to him putting my clothes next to his in the closet.
He carves the shelves for the back wall of the bar one slat at a time, refusing to accept anything less than precision. I start drafting drink menus on my phone and putting my business plan into something cohesive, not just a mess of notes. It feels stupid. It also feels like a future.
Two weeks later and I’m at the kitchen counter pretending I know how to make pasta sauce—I don’t, but I’ve gotten prettygood at following a recipe if there’s a video—when the phone rings.
Jerry.
I suck in a breath, dry my hands on a towel, and pick up.
“You’re still looking good with the Iceguard,” Jerry says by way of greeting.
I smile. “What’s going on?”
“Chicago wants you back,” he says.
My heart doesn’t drop. It doesn’t leap either. It just . . . steadies. Like I was already expecting this call. Like I’ve been waiting to know what it means.
“Just for a few games?” I ask. The Knights aren’t expected to get too far in the playoffs, so it makes sense with the timing.
“No. This is a different offer, Monroe. Next season. The full year, at least. You’ve seen Dom play. Coaching staff thinks he needs a veteran next to him. Somebody calm. Somebody who knows how to steer the bench, and they liked your chemistry with him.”
“And they want me for that?”
“They want the Roe Monroe they saw in Boston. The one they see with the Iceguard and the youth teams down there. You were a quiet storm. You know what that means?”
I lean back against the counter.
“Means I’ve got leverage,” I say.
Jerry chuckles. “I’m listening. But you might want to call your agent first.”
“Regular season contract. No trade clause.” I shoot back. Something my agent would dither about even though I’m serious about it being a deal breaker.
“You serious?”
“As a pulled groin in January.”
Jerry snorts.
“You’re asking for no movement on a fourth-line stabilizer slot.”
“I’m asking for one team. You want one year? Promise me one city. For one season. If they want me to settle that kid down and hold the line, they need to let me be confident that I’m not about to be traded away when someone comes asking.”
Jerry sighs. “They’re already asking. Did your agent tell you?”
