Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
I don’t pet things with retractable limbs
Logan
The halls smell like disinfectant and pencil shavings, and I swear, every time we pass a classroom with a door open, I hear a new gasp.
A pair of wide eyes peeks around a doorway, then another.
Whispering trails after us, high-pitched and frantic, the kind of noise that means this’ll be all over the playground grapevine before recess tomorrow.
Reid trails a step behind me like he’s headed to his own execution.
“Remind me why I’m here,” he mutters.
“Because you volunteered,” I shoot back.
His flat stare hits the side of my head. “No. Because you panicked about your secret girlfriend’s class finding out that Eli bailed.”“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“My mistake.” His voice doesn’t even falter. “She’s just the sun you recited a sonnet about the other day.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck, but I keep walking. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”
“Get in line.”
We’re close enough now to hear the principal through Lulu’s classroom door, projecting her voice as if she’s announcing a royal decree. “…and unfortunately, Mr. Parnell couldn’t be here today…”
A collective groan rises from the kids, high-pitched and disappointed.
But from the back, where perfume could choke a horse, comes a cluster of lower, sharper sounds. Must be the PTA brigade.
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Shouldn’t make promises to children if you can’t keep them.”
“Couldn’t even give an hour of his time?”
It’s not grief. It’s glee, dressed up as sympathy. And it hits me that these women must have a voice in Lulu’s ear most days, rooting for her to fail before she’s even started.
Reid slows as we approach, as if he’s considering a U-turn. I nudge him forward just as Delacourt finally notices us in the doorway. Her face does a whiplash flip. Gone is the funereal sighing, replaced with a beam so bright it nearly cracks her face.
“However,” she trills, syrupy-sweet, “thanks to some quick thinking, we are so fortunate to have not just one, but two Colorado Storm players with us today. What an upgrade, children, isn’t that marvelous?”
The PTA moms coo as if Delacourt herself has delivered them salvation, not the fact that Lulu has more connections to this team than just her brother. No thanks directed her way, not even a nod.
I grind my molars, forcing my mouth to curl into a polite smile as we enter the room.
The PTA moms sit lined up at the back, dressed as though they’re front row at fashion week instead of crammed into a fifth-grade classroom.
Short skirts, designer heels sinking into school carpet, diamond studs winking under the fluorescent lights. Every inch of them screams I dressed for this.
Not for the kids, not even close.
One leans toward another, stage whisper cutting through the classroom buzz. “He’s even bigger in person.”
The other tilts her chin toward Reid, eyes gleaming. “That one’s the silent, mysterious type.”
I grit my teeth. These women are probably married, their kids are sitting right in front of them, and they’re still acting like it’s open bar at a charity gala.
And Lulu’s told me enough in passing. How they pick apart her outfits, her lesson plans, her laugh. They treat her like she’s disposable, just waiting for the day she cracks.
Beside me, Reid mutters without moving his lips, “If one of them winks at me, I’m out.”
I choke on a laugh, coughing into my fist hard as two kids in the front row elbow each other, clearly excited to be sitting right in front of us.
Principal Delacourt takes her leave, and Lulu claps her hands, pulling the kids’ attention back with ease.
Her teacher voice slides into place. It’s warm, steady, commanding without being sharp.
It’s the kind of voice that makes thirty eleven-year-olds sit up straighter without realizing they’ve done it.
Her gaze sweeps the room, skimming right over the PTA mothers to land on me for half a second, and I catch the sly twinkle there.
“Class,” she says, bright and measured, “today we’re joined by two very special guests—Mr. Miller and Mr. Hutchison of the Colorado Storm.”
The way she leans on mister has my mouth twitching. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Daring me not to smirk.
“Who has a question they’d like to ask?”
For a beat, the room is quiet, thirty pairs of eyes blinking at us like they’re not sure if we’re real.
Then it detonates.
“HOLY CRAP!”
“No way!”
“My dad hates the Storm, but I love them!”
“LOGAN MILLER, YOU’RE HUGE!”
“Can you skate faster than a cheetah?”
“YOU’RE MY FAVORITE GOALIE!”
“Do you have your own jet?”
“Logan, how much can you bench? My dad says he could take you.”
“REID, WILL YOU SIGN MY FOREHEAD?”
The noise ricochets off the walls, kids practically bouncing out of their seats. At the back, the PTA moms purse their lips like excitement is beneath them.
I nearly choke at the kid thrusting a marker in Reid’s direction, head tilted back, ready for it to be scrawled on with permanent marker. As if the man’s about to Sharpie his skull and send him back to math class branded for life.
Reid takes a step away from Sharpie kid and starts calmly answering every question thrown at him.
“Do you make, like, a million dollars?”
“No.”
“Do you live in a MANSION?”
“No.”
“Why are your ears so pink?”
“Genetics.”
“Are you dating Taylor Swift?”
“No.”
Each reply is flat as stone, and the kids go feral for it, shrieking like he’s just delivered the funniest punchline of the year.
That’s when Lulu claps once, sharp enough to cut the noise but bright enough to feel like part of the fun. “Okay, okay, slow down, one at a time! And unless one of you is secretly TMZ, let’s keep questions to hockey, okay?”
The kids all laugh. She’s got them eating out of her hand, not by silencing them, but by joining in—redirecting without shutting them down.
“Hands up if you have a hockey question,” she adds, arching an eyebrow. A forest of hands shoots into the air. “That’s better. You might even get more than a one-word answer out of Reid that way.”
More laughter, but the PTA brigade frown harder.
“Alright then,” she says, pointing to a boy nearly falling out of his chair.
“What’s it like to block a slapshot?”
“Depends on the shot,” Reid says.
Another hand rockets up. “Does it hurt when you get hit in the nuts?”
The room breaks into giggles, and Lulu shakes her head, fighting a grin. “I don’t think Mr. Hutchison is going to answer that one, Daniel.”
“Yes,” Reid says, completely straight-faced as the kids collapse into hysterics. “A lot.”
A girl blurts, “Why are you so serious all the time?”
Reid’s eyes swivel until they land on her. “I’m smiling on the inside.”
The desks rattle as the kids all chuckle harder, and Lulu presses her lips together, eyes shining as she glances my way.
All I can do is watch her—how she takes what should be bedlam and spins it into something alive. She doesn’t crush their chaos; she channels it and makes them feel part of the magic.
I’ve seen coaches lose their shit trying to wrangle twenty grown men. She’s got thirty kids worshipping her with nothing but sass and a smile.
Another hand shoots up, arm flapping. “Do you have any pets?”
Before Reid or I can answer, another blurts, “Miss Parnell has Miso!”
The room erupts with delighted agreement.
“Miso’s the best!”
“She wore a little pink sweater!”
“She gave me kisses on the nose!”
I almost choke. Lulu actually brought that demon dog in here, and apparently, it didn’t terrorize the children. She played dress-up and handed out kisses like some furry saint. The same dog that tries to shred my skin every time she sees me.
Lulu just laughs, easy and warm. “Technically, Miso belongs to my brother and his wife, but yes, she’s visited before.”
“Miso should come back!”
“Miso’s the nicest dog in the world!”
Nicest. Right. Tell that to the scars on my sneakers.
Another kid blurts, “Logan has a dog too!” and suddenly thirty pairs of eyes swivel my way. “I saw him on the TV!”
“His name’s Dusty,” Lulu supplies sweetly. “He’s a giant floofball of fun.”
“They should get married!”
“Dog wedding!”
“Miso’s the bride!”
“Dusty can be the groom!”
I drag a hand down my face. “Miso’s a little psycho,” I mutter, low but not low enough. The front row hears me, and they fall against their desks in wheezing laughter.
“She hates me,” I add darkly, and the laughter only gets louder.
Behind them, the PTA mothers exchange looks sharp enough to cut glass. One leans in, whispering just loud enough to carry. “Inappropriate she brought a dog in here at all.”
Another tsks. “If the animal has tendencies, what kind of example is that for the children?”
My jaw tightens. They’re not talking about Miso, they’re talking about Lulu. Twisting her warmth into recklessness, clearly waiting for an opening.
Lulu laughs, ignoring the moms entirely and clapping her hands once to reel the class back in.
“Okay, okay, no dog weddings in my classroom, thank you very much.”
“Can we at least have a dog reception?” a boy hollers from the back.
“Sure, but Dusty’s allergic to cake, so you’ll all be eating broccoli instead,” she shoots back without missing a beat and grins over at me. “Is broccoli an approved meal, Mr. Miller?”
“Only if it’s served with chicken and rice,” I deadpan.
Once the laughter dies down, Reid leans a shoulder against the whiteboard, arms folded. “So, what’s your favorite part of hockey? Who wants to be a goalie? Defenseman? Center or wing?”
Hands shoot up everywhere, kids shouting over each other.
“Goalie!”
“Forward!”
“Fighting!”
“Skating fast!”
It’s chaos again, but the fun kind, until a boy near the middle keeps his hand down. He slouches lower in his chair, muttering, “I suck at everything.”
The noise dips for a second, kids around him twisting to look. From the back, the moms exchange knowing glances, one of them shaking her head and rolling her eyes. The kid is clearly known to them.