I had to be careful with how much to reveal before the public hearing. "My boss wants to expand the Northern Professional League and bring a team here."
"No shit." Evan held up his scotch. "That would be great for the town."
“What would be great for the town?” Rob slid into the chair across from us.
“Beck here is building a new rink.” Paul snorted. “It’ll only be good for the town if regular folks can afford to use it.”
"It'll be accessible," I said. Though I had no idea if it was the truth—Mr. King was a businessman, not a philanthropist.
Evan raised his glass. "To progress."
"To progress," Me and Rob echoed. Wick’s mug stayed firmly on the table.
Evan finished his scotch. "Shep. You’d better be sure that your boss is on board with the community programs. Logan basically sponsors every kid from Track Street. The church ladies raise money for figure skating, and the town subsidizes the ice time. Talk to your old girlfriend Clara. She coaches for free." He stood and grabbed his jacket. "Good luck with your project."
My basket of wings arrived after Evan left, but I'd lost my appetite. Was the mention of Track Street deliberate? Evan knew where I'd grown up, and how hockey had saved my life. "I'm going to head out. See you at the meeting tomorrow, Rob."
"Are you going to eat those?" Wick took a bite of one of my wings.
"They're all yours." I grabbed my coat and left.
Outside, the snow had started to fall again. Soft, fat flakes swirled in the Christmas lights. As I gulped in the fresh mountain air, my scotch-soaked brain tried to process everything that had just happened.
No wonder Clara freaked out about the rink. And fricking Logan Brush was the Chance Rapids version of hockey Santa. Would my boss run free programs? I knew the answer. Like me, William King was a businessman; and for the first time, that title didn't feel very good.
The lights from the flower shop shone onto the snowy sidewalk. Through the frosted glass, I watched as the blonde woman wiped her hands on her apron, then took it off.
Before I could think, I tugged on the door handle. It was locked, but instead of walking away, I knocked.
She checked her watch, but came to the door and opened it. "Let me guess. You forgot your anniversary."
"No. I—" How did I explain this? "I need to apologize to someone."
Her expression softened. "Come in."
The scent of eucalyptus and cedar hung in the air. After the chaos of The Last Chance, the serenity of her shop brought me some clarity. "That’s the one." I pointed to the rose arrangement in the fridge.
"That's four hundred dollars."
"I'll take it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You must've messed up pretty bad, my friend."
"You have no idea."
She taped the paper over the top of the roses. "Try not to get snow on them." When she handed them to me, her fingertips brushed mine. "I hope she can see that you mean it."
What the hell kind of flower shop had I stumbled into? "I do mean it."
"I know." Her tone was matter-of-fact.
I paid and walked back to my room at the Inn. The girl at the front desk gave me a crystal vase filled with a water-and-sugar solution. In my room, I placed the vase on the roll-top desk. The petals were a deep red and silky between my fingertips. Roses were Clara's competition flowers.
Back then I could only afford a single stem at a time, but she kept and dried every single one.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through to find Clara's contact. It was still saved after fifteen years.
I'm sorry. Can we talk?
