April laughs as we make our way down the stairs and onto the street. The dogs are pulling in different directions until she reminds them who’s boss. I take Moose and Buster. She’s got Scout and Purdy.
“I can’t believe you kidnapped Howie,” she jokes.
“It was an accident! The team was celebrating and someone put him in my bag and—you know what, I’m not explaining myself. The gnome has been through a lot.”
“Like when Robo’s brother used him to terrorize him and Leah?”
“Exactly like that.” I imagine she heard the stories from the WAGs, which just points to the fact that April fits right in. She’s practically one of them.
We walk through downtown Cobbiton, past the closed shops and the streetlights that glow warm against the cool night.
The Barn looms ahead, its converted exterior a mix of rustic charm and modern renovation—what will eventually be Leah’s hockey museum.
“Should we just leave him at the door?” April asks.
“And miss the opportunity to see what Leah’s working on? Absolutely not.”
“That seems like breaking and entering.”
“This is Cobbiton. No one locks their doors.”
Sure enough, as I assumed, it’s unlocked, and we slip inside with our canine entourage. The space used to house an ice rink and one day will again. However, right now, it’s mid-build, but incredible, outfitted with old hockey jerseys framed on the walls with room for more, vintage equipment displayed in glass cases, and photos chronicling the history of Cobbiton hockey from youth leagues to the Knights.
“Wow,” April says, turning in a slow circle.
I set Howie on a prominent shelf, pulling out my phone to snap a photo. “For evidence that we returned him.”
“And for social media?” April suggests. “The campaign hasn’t officially started yet, but we could start building the narrative?”
“We still have to sign the contracts.”
“I gave you my word.”
I nod, secretly giddy that she’s agreed to do this outrageous thing because what if … what if like my outlandish goal—or so I was told—to become an NHL player, April and I have a future together as more than friends?
“Whitaker will appreciate your enthusiasm.”
She grunts as if he’s not high on her list of favorite people at the moment. Good to know because he’s been slipping down mine as well.
I pull out my phone and I reach for her to come close. “Get in the shot.”
She positions herself next to Howie and makes a funny face.Snap.Then smiles.Snap.Looks at me.Snap.Howie. The dogs even get in on the action. I take several photos, and in every single one, she’s radiant. Happy. Beautiful.
We post the best one with the caption:Date night delivering a lost hockey gnome. #RelationshipGoals
“This is so weird,” April says as we head back outside.
“Which part?”
“All of it. Posting about us like we’re really dating. Creating ‘content.’ Staging photos.”
“Having fun?”
She looks up at me, and the streetlight catches the warm brown of her eyes. “Rule number eight. Yeah. I am having fun.”
“Me too.” I always do with April.
After letting the dogs run around what was the outdoor rink area last winter and is now a dried-up mud bog, we continue walking and are heading toward Main Street. The dogs seem to know where we’re going before I do, because they all suddenly stop in front of the empty storefront between the Busy Bee and Once Upon a Romance.
