Chapter 8
eight
. . .
I’m going to die in a snowbank with a man who owns more flannel than cutlery.
This is my fate. This is how I go.
I’m standing in my driveway wearing a sweater dress, tights, and my nicest boots.
The ones with the little heel that make my legs look good but offer absolutely zero traction on ice.
Jude said “wear something warm but nice,” so naturally I imagined a candlelit restaurant.
Maybe that Italian place in the next town over. Or the steakhouse with the fireplace.
Instead, his truck pulls up with a hockey stick visible in the back and a mischievous grin on his face.
“You said warm, not formal!” I call out as he gets out of the truck.
“I said warm and nice. You look nice.” His eyes travel down and back up. “Really nice.”
My face heats despite the cold. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” He opens the passenger door for me. Actual gentleman moves. “Trust me.”
“Those are famous last words.”
He just grins wider.
The truck smells like his cologne and old coffee. The heater’s blasting but making a concerning rattling sound. There’s a duffel bag in the backseat and what looks suspiciously like a picnic basket.
“Jude.”
“Sophie.”
“Why is there a picnic basket?”
“Because I’m taking you on a picnic.”
I look out the window at the snow-covered landscape. “It’s twenty degrees outside.”
“Hence the ‘wear something warm’ instruction.”
“You’re insane.”
“You bought me at an auction. Who’s really the insane one here?”
He’s got a point.
We drive through town, past the restaurants I imagined, past the movie theater, straight to the rink. He parks near the side entrance and kills the engine.
“We’re at your work,” I say flatly.
“Technically it’s our work. You teach here too.”
“Jude Blockton, if you’re making me sit in the bleachers while you practice—”
“Would you relax?” He’s already getting out, grabbing the duffel and basket from the back. “Come on.”
I follow him inside, my boots click-clacking on the concrete floor. The rink is empty. Completely empty. The lights are low except for the ice, which is lit up like a stage. Music plays softly through the speakers. Something acoustic and sweet.
And at one end of the rink, on the ice itself, there’s a plaid blanket spread out with thermoses and what looks like fairy lights strung along the boards.
I stop walking.
“You made me a rink picnic.”
“I made you a rink picnic,” he confirms, looking suddenly nervous. “Is that okay? I know it’s not fancy but I thought—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupt, my throat tight. “It’s absolutely perfect.”
His shoulders relax. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I look down at my boots. “Though I should mention these were not designed for ice.”
“I noticed.” He sets down the basket and holds out his hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.”
He does. He guides me carefully onto the ice, one hand firm on my waist, the other holding mine. I slip immediately. He catches me. We both laugh.
“You’re terrible at standing,” he says.
“You’re terrible at warning people about surprise skating dates!”
“It’s not skating. It’s sitting. With ambiance.”
“Nothing says romance like Zamboni fumes.”
“You love the smell of my work.” He’s guiding me toward the blanket, moving backward on the ice like it’s nothing.
“I love central heating.”
“Liar.”
We make it to the blanket and I sink down gratefully, tucking my legs under me. He sits beside me and starts unpacking. Hot cocoa in thermoses. Sandwiches wrapped in foil. Cookies that look homemade.
“Did you make these?” I ask, holding up a slightly lopsided chocolate chip cookie.
“Finn’s girlfriend made them. I provided moral support.”
“You watched her bake.”
“I was very supportive.”
I bite into the cookie. It’s delicious. “Tell Ivy she’s a genius.”
“Tell her yourself. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.” He pours cocoa into two cups and hands me one. “So. First official date.”
“Technically the second if you count the after-hours triangle practice.”
“That was rehearsal, not a date.”
“You brought me hot chocolate.”
“Fine. Second date.” He taps his cup against mine. “To not screwing this up.”
“To showing up when it matters,” I counter.
We drink. The cocoa is perfect. Hot and rich and exactly what I need.
“This is really nice,” I say quietly. “Weird, but nice.”
“That’s my brand.”
We sit for a while, drinking cocoa and eating sandwiches.
He tells me about practice earlier, about Finn trying to convince everyone to do a Halloween theme for the next game.
I tell him about my student Rusty, who’s decided he wants to play drums professionally and has been practicing on every surface in his house.
“His mom called me begging for help,” I say. “Apparently he’s been drumming on the dining table during dinner.”
“Kid’s committed.”
“Kid’s going to get his drums taken away.”
Jude laughs. That real, unguarded laugh I’m collecting like precious treasure.
Then he stands up and walks over to where he left the duffel bag. He pulls out two hockey sticks and a puck.
Oh no.
“Penalty shot contest,” he announces. “Loser does dishes for a week.”
“You don’t even own dishes.”
“Then you’d better win.” He holds out a stick.
I stare at it. “I’m in a dress.”
“You’re in tights under the dress. Same thing as athletic wear.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Scared?”
“Of humiliating myself? Absolutely.”
He grins. “Come on, Kessler. Show me what you’ve got.”
I take the stick. “This is a terrible idea.”
“The best ideas usually are.”
He sets up at the goal, showing me how to hold the stick properly. His hands cover mine, adjusting my grip. I’m very aware of how close he’s standing. How his breath fogs in the cold air. How his voice goes soft when he’s teaching.
“Just tap it. Don’t overthink.”
I tap it. The puck slides about three feet and stops.
“Pathetic,” he declares.
“I’m a piano teacher, not a hockey player!”
“Try again.”
I try again. This time I actually make contact but the puck veers off to the left, nowhere near the goal.
“Better,” he lies.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Fine. That was also pathetic.”
I try five more times. Each attempt is worse than the last. I’m slipping on the ice. My stick keeps hitting the ice instead of the puck. At one point I lose my balance completely and Jude has to catch me before I face-plant.
“This is humiliating,” I gasp, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
“This is the best entertainment I’ve had all week.”
“Glad I could perform for you.”
“One more shot,” he says. “For real this time. I’ll give you tips.”
He positions himself behind me, arms around me, hands over mine on the stick. We’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. I can feel his heartbeat against my back.
“See the goal?” he murmurs near my ear.
“Yes.”
“Don’t look at the puck. Look where you want it to go.”
“That’s very Zen of you.”
“I have layers.”
We shoot together. The puck slides straight and true, right past where he would’ve been if he were actually defending, into the net.
I jump up, screaming. “I scored! Did you see that? I scored!”
He’s applauding, slow and dramatic. “Ladies and gentlemen, Sophie Kessler, future NHL star.”
“I’m accepting my trophy now.”
“Your trophy is not doing my dishes.”
“Best trophy ever.”
He skates over to take his shot. Lines up perfectly. Then completely whiffs it. The puck barely moves.
I narrow my eyes. “You threw that.”
“Can’t prove it.”
“You let me win.”
“Maybe I just wanted to see you smile.” He skates closer. “Did it work?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You let me kiss you?”
“Not yet.”
We’re grinning at each other. The moment stretches. Perfect and impossible and exactly right.
“Now?” he asks.
“Maybe.”
He closes the distance. Kisses me soft and sweet. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright.
“Worth losing for,” he murmurs.
We make our way back to the blanket, settling in with fresh cocoa. My cheeks are red from cold and laughing. His hair is a mess from his hat. We’re both slightly breathless.
“I was terrified,” he says suddenly.
I look at him. “Of what?”
“That I’d mess this up before we even got started. That I’d go back to shutting everyone out and you’d give up on me.”
My chest tightens. “I wouldn’t have.”
“I know that now.” He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “You’re good for me. You make the noise stop.”
“The noise?”
“In my head. All the doubts and fears and things I think I’m not good enough for.” He looks at me. “With you, it’s just quiet. Good quiet.”
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “You’re good for me too. You make the quiet feel full.”
“That’s very poetic.”
“I have my moments.”
We sit like that for a while. Just breathing. Just being.
Then I add, “Also, you’re nice to look at.”
He laughs. “You too, Bruiser.”
I lift my head. “Excuse me?”
“What? Can’t I have a nickname for you?”
“That’s my nickname for you!”
“Sharing is caring.”
“That doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for me.”
“You’re tough. You bruised my ego multiple times.”
I’m laughing again. Can’t help it. “That’s never going away, is it?”
“Not a chance.”
He stands suddenly, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“On ice?”
“Trust me.”
I take his hand. Let him pull me up. He slides one arm around my waist, the other holding my hand. We move in slow circles under the string lights, shuffling more than dancing, but it doesn’t matter.
The music shifts to something slower. More romantic.
“For someone who swore he had no rhythm,” I whisper, “you found mine perfectly.”
“Had a good teacher.”
He kisses me again. Longer this time. Sure and steady and full of promise.
When we finally leave, the fairy lights still twinkling behind us, my hand is warm in his. The truck heater rattles the whole drive back but I don’t mind.
Because for the first time since moving home, everything feels exactly right.