Page 10 of Protective Pucking Orc

“Good luck in tomorrow’s game, Dakvaar.”

It wasn’t an offer of affection; it wasn’t even a sign of regard.

But her wishes warmed me all the way to the ice rink, and I played better than I had in weeks.

Chapter Three

Sofia

The door to Mrs. Jourdan’s apartment clicked shut behind me, and I paused in the hall, buttoning up my coat and smiling at that last glimpse I’d had of my daughter. She’d been crouched beside little Ethan, both of them giggling as they stacked plastic blocks into a wobbly tower. Ethan knocked it over with a triumphant shriek, and Rosa clapped, her dark pigtails bouncing.

My baby.

The thought hit me like it always did—sharp and sweet and aching. She wasn’t a baby anymore. Not really. In a year she’d be old enough for kindergarten. The Bramblewood Bluff Elementary School was just a few blocks from our apartment, a squat brick building with a bright blue playground and a mural of mountains painted on the side. I’d walked past it a dozen times, imagining Rosa in a little backpack, skipping up the steps, making friends.

If we’re still here.

The thought soured the warmth in my chest.

I tugged on my hat and headed for my car, the cold morning air biting at my cheeks. The streets were quiet, the sky still that pale, sleepy pink right after sunrise. Bramblewood was beautiful like this—still and hushed, like the whole town was holding its breath.

And I loved it.

That was the dangerous part.

I loved the way the mountains loomed in the distance, dusted with snow even in summer, their peaks catching the first light of dawn like they were winking at the town. I loved the way the air smelled crisp and clean, like pine and earth, no matter the season. I loved the way the aspens turned gold in the fall, their leaves fluttering down like confetti over the sidewalks. Rosa had collected them last October, pressing them between the pages of her coloring book, her small hands careful as she smoothed the edges.

“Look, Mama, they’re like fairies!” she’d whispered, and I’d had to blink back the sting in my eyes.

I loved the way the town square became the heart of everything.

Last summer, it was packed with picnic blankets and live music, kids chasing each other around the fountain while parents sipped lemonade from the farmer’s market stands.

In winter, it had transformed—twinkling lights strung between the lampposts, the giant tree in the center decorated by the whole town, carolers bundled in scarves singing off-key but with so much heart it didn’t matter. Rosa had stood there in December, her mittens clamped over her mouth, eyes wide as the mayor flipped the switch and the tree burst into light. “It’s magic, Mama,” she’d breathed, and for the first time in years, I’d let myself believe it might be.

I loved the way the town rallied around the Teal Terrors. Hockey wasn’t just a sport here—it was a community event. The games were sold out weeks in advance, the streets packed with fans in team colors, all wearing turquoise; I’d even bought a winter hat—with the snarling visage of the team’s cobra—to fit in.

The diners and bars had TVs tuned to away games, and when the Terrors won, the whole town celebrated like it was their own victory. I’d only caught bits of games on the café’s TV, but even I’d felt the energy, the way the air buzzed with excitement. Rosa had started asking about it—”Mama, why does everyone love the hockey so much?”—and I’d realized with a pang that I needed to start watching, not just for her, but for us.

To belong.

It had been a long time since I’d felt like we belonged. We’d already been here longer than we’d stayed any other place since running from Texas, but… Well, each time I told myself it was probably time to leave, I talked myself out of it, because I loved it here as much as my daughter did.

I loved the little traditions that made Bramblewood feel like home.

The annual chili cook-off in October, where Maggie entered her famous white chicken chili and always won third place—she swore the judges were rigged. The Fourth of July parade, where the fire trucks blared their sirens and the local high school band played off-key patriotic songs, and Rosa had danced in the street, her face sticky with cotton candy. The library’s summer reading program, where kids got prizes for every book they finished—Rosa had been so proud of her little certificate, clutching it like a treasure—and a discount code from the local pizza parlor.

I loved the way people knew each other here. Not in the way someone had watched my every move when I’d been married to Anthony, but in a way that made me feel…safe, almost?

The way Mrs. Jourdan always had a fresh-baked muffin waiting for Rosa when I dropped her off. The way the guy behind the grocery store deli counter slipped Rosa a lollipop when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way the librarian set aside picture books she thought Rosa would like. It was the kind of place where people watched each other and cared.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Because caring meant staying. Staying meant roots. Roots meant Anthony could find us.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I turned down Second Avenue.

I’d signed the month-to-month lease for a reason. No long-term commitments. No ties that couldn’t be cut. Because I knew how this went. We’d stay a few more months, a year if we were lucky, and then the phone would ring, or a letter would come…and we’d have to leave. Again.