Chapter 3
three
. . .
It’s just after eight and everyone’s gone.
I check my watch again even though I told myself I wouldn’t. The community center has that particular quiet that only comes after hours, when the building settles into itself and the only sounds are the distant echo of someone closing up the rink.
Dad said Jude might not come. “He’s not the social type, Soph,” he’d warned me this morning over breakfast. “Don’t take it personal if he doesn’t show.”
But something tells me he will.
The music room smells like dust and lemon polish. I turned off most of the overhead lights, leaving just the lamp near the piano glowing. It’s cozier this way. Less like a classroom, more like a space where someone might actually relax.
When the door creaks open, I jump.
Jude stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway fluorescents. He’s in jeans and a dark hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, baseball cap backward. No hockey gear. No armor.
He looks different like this. Younger. Human.
He holds up a paper cup. “Peace offering.”
“Coffee?” I ask, standing up from the piano bench.
“Hot chocolate,” he mutters, stepping inside and letting the door close behind him. “Coffee makes me worse.”
I grin. “Impossible.”
“You haven’t seen me on coffee.” He hands me the cup. It’s warm against my palms, and when I take a sip, it’s perfect. Not too sweet. The good kind from the diner down the street, not the watery stuff from the gas station.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything.”
“Figured if I’m making you stay late, least I can do is bring bribery.” He glances around the room, taking in the dim lighting, the triangle already set out on the table. “This feels like a scene from a movie where the piano teacher turns out to be a serial killer.”
I laugh, nearly choking on my hot chocolate. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I watch a lot of bad TV.”
“Between practice and games?”
“Can’t sleep after games. Too much adrenaline.” He shrugs, moving toward the piano bench. The same one that almost collapsed earlier. He tests it carefully before sitting down. “So I watch whatever’s on. Usually true crime documentaries.”
“That explains the serial killer comment.”
“That and your creepy lamp situation.” He nods toward the single lamp casting long shadows across the room.
“It’s ambient lighting,” I protest. “Very conducive to learning.”
“It’s a horror movie waiting to happen.”
I set my hot chocolate on the piano and grab the triangle, holding it out to him. “Less talking, more music.”
“Bossy,” he observes, taking the triangle.
“Focused,” I correct.
He settles the triangle in his palm, picks up the beater. I start the metronome. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He hits the first four beats perfectly.
Then smirks.
“You’re going to say I rushed,” he says before I can open my mouth.
I tilt my head, studying him. “You didn’t. And now I don’t know who I am anymore.”
He almost smiles, and I feel it like sunlight sneaking through clouds. Like that first warm day after a long winter.
We play through a simple rhythm. Just him and me. No audience. No teammates making jokes or giving him a hard time about the triangle. He actually listens. To the beat. To me. When I ask him to slow down on the next measure, he does without argument.
“You’re better when you’re not thinking about everyone watching,” I say quietly.
“I’m better when you’re not watching,” he answers, but his tone is light. Teasing.
“You lie terribly,” I whisper.
“One of my many talents.”
We run through the rhythm again. He’s really getting it now. The timing is natural, almost instinctive. I’m about to tell him so when I realize we’ve somehow ended up closer than we started. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that I can smell his soap. Something clean and woodsy.
I lean against the piano. “You said earlier this is the story of your life. Rushing. What did you mean?”
He sets the triangle down, leans back on the bench. Stretches his legs out in front of him. The air shifts. Quieter. Heavier.
“Everything in hockey’s about speed,” he says finally. “Hit fast. Think fast. Move fast. Mess up, you’re benched.”
He stares at the wall where my old recital posters are tacked up. Kids in bow ties and velvet dresses, frozen mid-performance. His voice goes low. Almost flat. “I used to be a right winger. They moved me to defense. Said it fit my build better. Translation is score less, fight more.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone. Just truth. Raw and unvarnished.
“That bothered you,” I say. Not a question.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I miss scoring. Guess I liked being part of the noise. The crowd going crazy when you light the lamp. Your name on the announcer’s lips.
” He looks down at his hands. They’re scarred across the knuckles, bruised on two fingers.
“Defense is different. You’re the guy nobody notices unless you screw up. ”
The honesty makes my throat ache. Makes me want to say something that matters.
“You still are,” I tell him. “Part of the noise, I mean. You just protect the melody now.”
He glances at me, curious. Waiting.
I fumble for the right words. “Your role as a defenseman is kind of like a protector. And the triangle is the heartbeat of the ensemble. So in a way, defense is your new rhythm. You’re not scoring the goals, but you’re making sure everyone else can.”
He’s still not getting it. I can see it in the slight furrow between his eyebrows.
“That’s a music metaphor,” I add quickly, feeling my face heat. “Not flirting.”
“Shame,” he murmurs.
My face burns. Actually burns. I open my mouth to say something. Anything. But then he grins. Real and wide and absolutely devastating.
I’ve been collecting his almost-smiles like precious coins, but this is different. This is the whole treasure chest.
“You’re trouble,” I manage.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He picks up the triangle again, turning it in his hands. “Want to try another round?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. We play through the rhythm again. Somehow we’ve gotten even closer. His shoulder brushes mine each time he moves to hit the triangle. The warmth between us isn’t accidental. It’s deliberate. Intentional.
He glances down. “You’re staring.”
“I’m teaching.”
“You’re staring.”
He’s right. I am. His eyes catch the lamplight and they’re soft blue now. No storm in them. Just clear sky.
I force a breath. “Hit the triangle.”
He does. Perfectly.
“See?” I whisper. “You can follow the rhythm.”
He leans in, voice rough and low. “Or maybe I just follow you.”
The moment stretches. Too long. Too charged. My heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. If I move an inch, close the space between us, it’s a kiss. And I want to. I really, really want to.
But then the air vent kicks on. Loud and cold and rattling. Breaking the spell like someone smashed it with a hammer.
He clears his throat, sits back. Puts a careful foot of distance between us.
I pretend to fuss with the metronome, turning the volume knob that doesn’t need adjusting. “Good progress tonight.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and careful. “Something like that.”
We run through the rhythm one more time. Perfectly synchronized. But the magic from before is gone, replaced by something more careful. More aware.
When I finally tell him that’s enough for tonight, he stands and grabs his jacket from where he draped it over a chair. He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob.
“You’re good at this,” he says, not looking at me. “With people.”
“I like helping,” I say. “You just make it interesting.”
He laughs under his breath. Soft and surprised. “That’s one word for it.”
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him and I’m alone in the music room with the lingering warmth where his shoulder touched mine.
I sit at the piano bench, my hands still trembling slightly. The room feels different now. Warmer somehow. Like the temperature changed when he walked in and forgot to change back when he left.
I play a few soft notes. Slow and uneven. My fingers fumble on keys I’ve played a thousand times.
For the first time in my life, I don’t mind missing a beat.
Outside, I hear a truck engine start up. His truck, probably. The sound fades as he drives away, leaving me in the quiet community center with my racing heart and the echo of his voice saying maybe I just follow you.
I touch my fingers to my lips even though we didn’t kiss. The moment is gone now, but I really had wanted to kiss him.