Chapter 2
two
. . .
My dad takes a sip of coffee, makes a face, adds more sugar.
“We’re doing a Music & Sticks fundraiser,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You’ll run the music part.”
I choke on my toast. Actually choke. Crumbs spray across the kitchen table and I have to grab my orange juice to wash down the chunk lodged in my throat.
“I’m doing what?” I manage once I can breathe again.
He grins, completely unfazed by my near-death experience. “You love kids. You love music. You love chaos.” He ticks each point off on his fingers like he’s presenting an airtight case. “You’ll fit right in.”
“Dad, I already have seven students who think fortissimo is the only dynamic marking that exists. I don’t need—”
“It’s good for the community. Good for the team.” He’s using his coach voice now, the one that’s closed about a thousand locker room speeches. “Plus, it’ll show everyone you’re settling back into Briarwood. Making your mark.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“There’s always a catch with you.”
He takes another sip of his sugar-coffee and delivers the kicker with perfect timing. “Blockton’s in your group. Needs a little off the ice softening.”
I set my toast down very carefully. “Jude Blockton. The man who broke my window three days ago.”
“That’s the one.”
“The defenseman who can only glower and almost not glower.”
“He’s got range,” Dad says, clearly enjoying this. “I like that in a player.”
“And you think music lessons will help?”
“I think you will help.” He stands, rinses his mug in the sink. “Guy’s got walls up higher than the boards. Figure if anyone can crack him, it’s you.”
Perfect. A grumpy defenseman who already broke my window and apparently thinks conversation is a form of torture.
I should say no. I should tell Dad I’m busy. I really am still adjusting to being home. And frankly teaching hockey players about rhythm sounds like the kind of situation even a monster size piece of pie can’t fix.
But there’s a challenge in Dad’s eyes. And if I’m being honest, I’m curious. Curious if Jude’s frown has a setting other than permanent. Curious if there’s more to him than storm cloud eyes and one-word answers.
“Fine,” I say. “But if anyone breaks another window, it’s coming out of the team budget.”
Dad grins. “Deal.”
Which is how I find myself at the community center Thursday afternoon, setting up like I’m preparing for an invasion.
I’m taping labels to folding tables. Triangles, Shakers, and Hand Drums. The smell of popcorn from the rink next door mixes with crayons and that industrial cleaner they use on the floors.
Somewhere down the hall, I can hear kids laughing in the after-school program.
My music room has been transformed into what looks like a percussion store exploded.
The door bangs open and Finn Travers strolls in first, all confidence and charm. He’s got that easy smile that probably gets him out of speeding tickets. He points at the triangles laid out on the table.
“What’s this, a cowbell for toddlers?”
Dax Rogers follows him in, snorting. “You’d still miss the beat, Travers.”
“I have excellent timing,” Finn protests, grabbing one of the triangles and giving it an experimental ding.
“You were offsides three times last game.”
“That’s different. That’s spatial awareness, not rhythm.”
“Pretty sure it’s both,” Jett Monroe chimes in, sauntering over to the shakers. He grabs two and rattles them like maracas, grinning at me. “Hey, Coach’s daughter. Do I get a solo section?”
I lean against the piano, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “Only if you can count to four.”
Zane Hayes, the team captain, laughs as he settles into one of the folding chairs. “We’re doomed.”
More players filter in, looking around the room like they’ve just been dropped in a foreign country. They’re all restless energy, used to moving at high speeds on ice, not sitting still in chairs designed for elementary school assemblies.
And then he arrives.
Jude stands in the doorway like he’s calculating escape routes. Hoodie zipped up, baseball cap worn backward, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His entire posture screams don’t talk to me.
The other guys light up immediately.
“Blockton!” Finn calls, waving him over with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You here to teach us rhythm or frown us into submission?”
Jude moves to the back of the room, silent as a shadow. He drops into a chair in the last row, slumps down, and mutters, “Depends who sits near the triangle.”
A few of the guys laugh. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
Time to take control before this descends into complete chaos.
I clap my hands twice, sharp and clear. “Alright, gentlemen. Welcome to Music & Sticks.” I move to the front of the room, channeling every teaching instinct I’ve got. “I’m Sophie, and before you ask, yes, I’m Coach Kessler’s daughter. And that doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”
“Do we get graded on this?” Jett asks.
“Only by the kids you’ll be performing for.”
That gets their attention. A few of them sit up straighter.
I explain the concept: simple rhythm exercises using basic percussion. Three weeks of practice leading up to a fundraiser performance where they’ll accompany a group of children. Nothing fancy. Just enough to show the community that hockey players have hearts under all that padding.
“We’re keeping it simple,” I say, pacing like Dad does during pregame talks. “You’ll each handle one instrument for the recital. No improvising. No hockey sticks.”
Jett raises his hand like we’re in actual school. “What if we do a power play?”
“Then you sit in the penalty box,” I say sweetly, pointing to a chair in the corner that I’ve labeled with a sticky note that says TIME OUT.
They laugh. Good. If I can keep them entertained, maybe they’ll actually participate.
I start assigning instruments, calling out names and pointing to tables. Finn gets the shakers. Zane gets the hand drum because he’s got decent rhythm when he skates.
Jude stays in the back, slumped in his chair, clearly hoping to be forgotten.
Not a chance.
“Blockton,” I call.
He looks up slowly, wary.
“You’re on triangle.”
Silence. Complete, total silence.
Then Finn whistles, long and low. “Triangle MVP!”
Dax apparently can’t stop laughing. “The mighty Jude Blockton. Defender of the blue line. Master of the tiny metal ding-dong thing.”
Jude’s expression could melt the ice next door. He stares at the triangle sitting on the table in front of me like it personally offended his entire family lineage.
“You’re kidding,” he says flatly.
“Nope.” I pick up the triangle and the little beater stick, walking it over to him. “It’s the heartbeat of the ensemble.”
He takes the instrument like I’ve just handed him a live grenade. “It’s a piece of bent metal.”
“It’s a musical piece of bent metal.” I place the beater in his other hand. “You hit it once every four beats. That’s it. Simple.”
He stares at me. Then at the triangle. Then back at me.
“Four what?”
“Four beats. The metronome will tell you when.”
“Great,” he mutters, so quietly I almost miss it. “I love when robots judge me.”
It’s not actually a robot. You’ll appreciate it when you see how it will help you keep time. I set the metronome on the piano and the ticking fills the room, steady and relentless.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Okay, we’re going to start simple,” I announce. “Shakers on one and three. Triangle on four. Just listen and feel the beat.”
I demonstrate, tapping the rhythm on the table. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.”
Finn shakes on the wrong beat immediately.
Dax hits the drum somewhere between two and three.
Jett’s just rattling whenever inspiration strikes.
And Jude sits there, staring at his triangle.
“Let’s try again,” I say, keeping my voice patient and encouraging. “Listen first. Don’t rush. Just... feel it.”
We try again.
This time Finn’s closer. Dax is actually pretty good. Jett’s started paying attention.
Jude hits his triangle on two.
I walk over, crouch down beside his chair so I’m at eye level. “That was truly confident.”
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw tight. “I was early.”
“Or optimistic,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood. “Try again.”
He tries again. Misses again. Hits on three this time.
The guys are watching now, fascinated by the sight of their stone-faced defenseman struggling with a children’s instrument.
“Blockton, buddy,” Dax calls out, drumming a playful beat on the table. “Stay in your lane.”
Jude’s scowl could freeze fire. “I am the lane.”
I bite back a laugh and tap my fingers on his table, exaggerating the count so he can see it, feel it, internalize it. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Don’t chase the beat. Let it come to you.”
He watches my hands, his eyes tracking the movement. Focusing.
The next ding lands perfectly on four.
For a second, the room actually erupts. Finn starts whooping. Dax drums a victory roll. Zane gives him a solid thumbs up from across the room.
“Atta boy!” Finn yells. “That’s our guy!”
Jude rolls his eyes, but there’s color on his cheeks. The faintest hint of pink creeping up from his collar.
I pretend not to notice the flutter in my stomach. The way my pulse jumped when he finally got it right.
After about twenty minutes of practice, I call for a short break. “Five minutes. Stretch your legs. Don’t break anything.”
Most of the guys head for the water fountain in the hall. Jude stays put, but he shifts over to the piano bench when Finn vacates it.
The bench groans. Loudly.
Everyone stops.
Finn pauses in the doorway. Dax looks over from the water fountain. Even Zane glances up.
“Careful,” Zane says, grinning. “That thing’s seen better decades.”
Jude lifts his hands like he’s been accused of a crime. “If it breaks, it’s not my fault.”
I keep my face perfectly straight. “We’ll just call it modern art. Very avant-garde.”
He actually laughs. It’s low and rough, barely more than a breath, but it’s there.
It feels like victory.
We’re halfway through the second round of practice when Dad walks in. Perfect timing. As always.
“Blockton!” he calls cheerfully. “You look downright musical!”
Jude stiffens instantly, his shoulders going rigid. “Trying, Coach.”
Dad grins at me with way too much meaning in his eyes. “Told you my daughter could handle tough cases.”
Jude’s jaw ticks. His hands tighten on the triangle beater.
I shoot Dad a glare that very clearly says please stop talking right now.
He just winks and disappears back into the hallway.
As soon as the door closes, I clap my hands. “Break’s over! Let’s channel that defensive energy into joy.”
“Joy,” Jude mutters, picking up his triangle with the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. “Right.”
“It’s character development,” I tell him brightly.
“That’s what people say when they’re torturing you.”
“Funny. That’s exactly what my students say about scales.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
By the end of the session, they’ve managed one complete rhythm without anyone getting off beat. It’s a minor miracle.
As everyone filters out, laughing and shoving each other, Jude lingers. He’s still at his table, tapping the triangle absently with the beater. Not playing a rhythm, just... tapping.
I walk over, start collecting the other instruments. “You’re better than you think. You just rush.”
“Story of my life,” he says quietly, still tapping.
I bite back a smile. “If you want, we can practice after hours. No audience. No Finn making commentary.”
He looks up, something unreadable crossing his face. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion.
“Why?”
“Because you’re trying,” I tell him honestly. “And it’s for the kids. Plus...” I shrug. “I think you might actually get good at this.”
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile, but close. “Fine. But no triangle jokes.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Completely.”
He nods once, stands, and walks out without another word.
The triangle still hums faintly from where he set it down, the sound lingering in the air.
I gather the leftover instruments, still smiling. The Bobcats were an unruly mess, exactly as expected. But Jude Blockton was a whole different kind of chaos.