Chapter 9 #3
She stood near the edge of the pond, a few feet from the tree line.
Her puffy jacket was a deep navy blue, zipped up to her chin, and her blonde hair peeked out from beneath a grey knit toque in soft, tousled strands.
The cold had painted her cheeks with a delicate flush, and she had that quiet stillness about her–watchful, cautious.
For a moment, I locked eyes with her, maybe for a second too long.
My blade caught an edge, and I stumbled, barely catching myself before I could faceplant in front of her. Connor didn’t notice–he was already chasing the puck down, laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world. But I caught Harper’s subtle smile, the way one brow lifted as if she’d seen it all.
I cleared my throat and skated back into the game.
We played for another fifteen minutes, Connor calling plays and weaving circles around me.
I let him score a few–just enough to keep his ego inflated–but snuck in a cheeky deke or two of my own.
Every once in a while, I’d glance toward the edge of the pond.
Where Harper had shifted her stance slightly, watching with quiet focus.
Eventually, Connor called it. “I’m going in! I wanna finish my LEGO tower before dinner.”
“Good game, bud,” I called as he skated toward the bench, pulling off his gloves.
I stayed back, catching my breath, then slowly glided over to where Harper stood.
She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked out over the ice, her breath fogging softly in the air.
“He loves that pond, eh?” I said.
Her eyes flicked to mine. “I know, he’s so happy here,” she murmured. “It terrifies me.”
I frowned, unsure what she meant.
She shook her head. “Never mind. That was a weird thing to say.”
I leaned on my stick. “No, it’s not. It just…”
“Thanks for playing with him,” she said, clearly not wanting to finish this conversation. “And for earlier. I really appreciate it.” Her mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “It’s no big deal. I’m happy to help.”
Her green eyes caught mine, and I felt that familiar pull again, the one that made my heart stumble, like gravity was tugging me closer to her.
She fidgeted with the edge of her toque, her lips pressed together, jaw tight.
Her arms were crossed at first, then she let one drop, her fingers curling around her opposite wrist. She rolled it gently, almost absentmindedly, the motion small but telling.
A strand of hair slipped from beneath her toque, falling across her cheek.
Without thinking, I reached toward her, my fingers moving to tuck it behind her ear.
She flinched.
It was subtle, but I felt it–the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her head jerked slightly, her eyes flashing wide like I’d startled her.
I froze, my hand hovering awkwardly in the space between us.
“Sorry,” I muttered, pulling back and letting it drop to my side.
Her gaze dropped to the ground, her jaw tightening further. “I should–” she started, her voice low and rough. “I should go check on Connor.”
Before I could say anything else, she stood and turned away. Her footsteps crunched over the snow as she walked back toward the house, head down, shoulders stiff.
And just like that, the air around me felt colder.
The pub was already half-full when I pushed through the door, the familiar scent of fried food and spilled beer wrapping around me.
A soft haze hung in the air lit by the warm glow of mismatched string lights draped haphazardly across the beams. The floors creaked underfoot, worn smooth from years of boots and barstools, and the wooden tables bore the scars of countless elbows, rings from forgotten coasters, and the occasional carved initial.
The low hum of conversation mingled with the clink of pint glasses and the twang of old country tunes filtering from a dusty jukebox in the corner.
Shane was already at our usual table tucked in the back, nursing a pint and watching a Vancouver Mustangs game flicker across the small wall-mounted screen above the bar. He barely glanced up as I approached, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he owned the place.
“Took you long enough,” he said as I slid into the booth across from him.
“Had to mentally prepare to deal with you,” I said. “Takes longer some days.”
Shane raised his pint. “And yet here you are, gracing me with your tortured presence. Must be my lucky night.” He raised a brow, “you free to talk strategy now? Or are you too busy fixing plumbing and winning over blondes in puffy coats?”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the beer he’d ordered for me. “It’s a sink, Shane.”
He smirked. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
I shook my head but didn’t argue.
The game flickered across the screen, the room humming with low conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The Mustangs were down by one, and the crowd inside the pub had started leaning in closer to their drinks, hoping the third period would bring something worth shouting about.
Shane took a sip of his beer and started to say something, but the sound of whistles blaring through the speakers made the whole bar groan.
“Ah, come on,” someone at the bar yelled. “What a cheap shot!”
A replay flashed across the screen–number sixty-eight from the opposing team leveled a guy with a dirty elbow to the jaw, dropping him like a sack of bricks. The name on the back of the jersey made my stomach twist.
Shane squinted up at the screen, then barked away. “No way. Is that Bennett? Of course it is, that fucking asshole.”
A chorus of boos echoed through the bar as the penalty was announced. A few guys near the pool table shouted insults at the TV, one even tossing a handful of peanuts in Bennett’s direction like the guy could feel it through the screen.
“I swear, he’s made a career out of cheap shots,” Shane muttered, shaking his head. “God, remember that game in Sudbury? When you fought him after he slashed Matty behind the play?”
I didn’t answer.
Shane grinned, nudging his pint in my direction. “Place went nuts. You were like a damn freight train. I think the bench cleared just to keep you from killing him. I still don’t know how you didn’t get fined for that.”
My jaw tightened.
“That wasn’t even your worst fight. Man, you lived in the sin bin,” Shane went on fondly.
“Didn’t matter if it was a shove, a chirp, or someone looking at you sideways–you’d just drop the gloves before the refs even knew what was happening.
And nine times out of ten, you didn’t just win the fight. You ended it.”
I gave a tight smile, keeping my eyes on the screen as Bennett skated to the penalty box like he owned it. The crowd continued to jeer, yet all I heard was the blood pounding in my ears.
“I can’t believe Bennet’s still out there,” Shane said, his tone shifting from amused to serious. “You could still be out there, too. If it wasn’t for…” He trailed off, letting the sentence hang. We both knew how it ended, and neither of us said it out loud.
My jaw flexed. “Yeah. Well. I’m not.”
He studied me for a second, like he was debating whether to push then thought better of it.
The truth was, I didn’t need him to say it. I saw it every time I thought about it–about the split-second that changed everything.
And maybe that was the real reason I walked away. Not just because of Kyle. But because the part of me that thrived on the fight–the part that wanted the blood, the roar, the chaos–was never going to quit until it broke someone else… or me.
I took a long drink of my beer, hoping it would dull the edge clawing up my chest.
That version of me–the one who threw punches just to feel something–was someone I tried hard to leave behind. Every now and then, though, especially in places like this, it clawed its way back up like it had teeth.