Chapter 22 #2
Lulu doesn’t miss a beat. She crouches beside the boy’s desk, warm and calm. “Everyone sucks at first, buddy. Did you know Logan fell on his butt in his first pro game?”
My head snaps to her. “Lu—”
Thirty pairs of eyes swing to me.
I clear my throat and nod, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “She’s not wrong.”
For a second, there’s silence, and then it breaks simultaneously.
“I fell over in my first game, too!” a girl blurts.
“I still skate like a baby giraffe!” another adds.
“I missed an empty net once and cried for two hours!”
“I puked in my helmet!”
The room turns into a chorus of failures, shouted like badges of honor.
Confessions, failures stacked on failures, every kid trying to top the last. And the boy who’d slumped in his chair looks around wide-eyed, until he can’t help it—he grins.
Shoulders straighter and face brighter, not because I saved him, but because Lulu cracked the door open and every kid rushed in behind her.
This wasn’t how I was raised. I grew up in a house where mistakes were hidden, not shared.
Where failing meant shame, not practice.
My parents drilled perfection into me, demanded it until the idea of slipping up felt like a death sentence.
Even now—an NHL star with my name on the back of a jersey—they’ve never once told me it’s okay to fall on my ass.
That everyone does. That failing is how you learn.
I’m rooted to the spot, floored. She took one small mutter, one chance for him to disappear, and spun it into belonging. My embarrassment, her story, his spark. She made failure safe.
It’s fucking magic to witness.
We’re still in the afterglow of confessions when a kid in the back shoots his hand up. “If you guys have pets, you should meet Yurtle!”
Reid’s head tips with slow suspicion. “Who’s Yurtle?”
“Our class pet!” another pipes up. “A turtle!”
Immediately, the chant starts. Yurtle! Yurtle! Yurtle! Thirty voices pounding in rhythm against the desks.
Reid stiffens beside me. “Uhhh. No. No, thank you.”
But it’s too late. A girl is already hurrying to the tank in the corner, lifting out a lump of shell and claws with both hands. She carries it forward, raising him high in the air to present him, before placing him on Lulu’s desk.
Reid doesn’t even try to hide the way he sharply takes a step back. “What the hell is that?”
The class shrieks with delight.
“It’s just Yurtle!”
“He’s friendly!”
“He likes lettuce!”
The turtle moves approximately half an inch, its wrinkled neck extending just enough to blink at him.
Reid freezes. “That thing’s looking at me.”
“It’s a turtle,” I wheeze, doubling over. “It barely has eyelids.”
“Don’t talk about its eyelids, Miller, unless you don’t want any either.”
He shifts another step back, as if Yurtle might launch across the room at warp speed.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hutchison,” Lulu says sweetly, eyes glittering, though her voice stays professional, “Yurtle only bites sometimes.”
That tips the kids straight into hysteria, one boy slapping his desk. “He’s scared of a turtle!”
“Yurtle just wants to be friends!” another girl croons.
Even the PTA, who’ve barely cracked a smile all day, are giggling into their manicures.
Reid continues standing stock still, staring at Yurtle as if he’s facing down a live grenade.
“Tell me it goes back in the tank now,” he mutters.
“Not until you pet him!” someone dares.
His glare could shatter glass. “I don’t pet things with retractable limbs.”
I’m useless, tears streaming down my face, gripping the edge of Lulu’s desk for balance. “You’ve survived slapshots to the mask, but a turtle’s”—I lift it up gently and hold him out toward Hutchy—“your breaking point.”
Yurtle blinks again, ancient and unbothered, and Reid actually lets out a high-pitched shriek and takes another wide step back toward the door.
Lulu manages to compose herself long enough to clap her hands, warm as ever. “Alright class, let’s put Yurtle back before Mr. Hutchison retires early.”
The room detonates with laughter as the little girl picks the turtle back up gently. Reid’s eyes track her every move as she walks past him and back toward the tank.
Best day of my fucking life.
The final minutes tick down, and the kids are restless in their seats. Lulu, ever the professional, claps her hands once. “Alright, class. Before the bell, what do we say to our guests?”
“Thank you, Mr. Hutchison! Thank you, Mr. Miller!” they chorus, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Reid, now fully recovered from his turtle trauma, inclines his head like a monarch acknowledging his subjects. I give the kids a wide grin and a wink.
The bell chimes then, and the room erupts. Chairs scrape, backpacks zip, sneakers squeak. Half the kids are already talking about how they’re going to see us out front for pictures and autographs.
Lulu keeps her smile warm, waving them out in neat lines, but I can see the flicker of mischief in her eyes. She knows exactly what kind of circus we’re walking into out front.
Right on cue, the PTA brigade swoops.
“Mr. Hutchison, my son would simply adore an autograph!”
“Mr. Hutchison, could we trouble you for a picture? For the PTA newsletter, of course.”
“We’re so sorry about the turtle, Mr. Hutchison. Ms. Parnell shouldn’t have let the children bring him out.”
“Please don’t rush off—you’ve got the whole school waiting for you in the front entry.”
They close in around Reid like pigeons on dropped fries. He looks cornered, expression flat, but eyes promising me violence later as they corral him out the door.
Pamela, who appears to be the mom queen bee, sweeps in on me, her lashes batting.
“And you, Mr. Miller—no need to bother yourself tidying up. Ms. Parnell will handle all that. It’s her job, after all.
” She places a gentle hand on my back, guiding me out the classroom door and into the corridor.
“Why don’t you come join us out front? The whole school’s waiting. ”
Her tone makes it clear she thinks she’s doing me a favor, sparing me from the menial tidy-up tasks meant for Lulu.
“I’ll be right out,” I say, forcing my mouth into something that looks like a smile. “Just need to get one thing from the classroom.”
Reid’s glare toward me could peel paint. He’s trapped under a cloud of perfume, betrayed and abandoned, being pushed down the corridor with his own mom entourage that he never asked for. If looks could kill, I’d be in the ground.
“Don’t take too long,” Pamela trills, already guiding him away.
“Yeah, Miller,” Reid growls. “Two minutes.”
I bite back a grin, then turn back into the classroom, letting the door click shut behind me.
For a second, I just stand there, leaning on the frame, watching her. The quiet hum of her movements after the chaos, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she shuffles papers, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
I push off the door and step closer. “You’re fucking incredible at this, Lu.”
She shakes her head, eyes still on the papers. “It’s just my job.”
“No.” I close the space, needing her to hear me. “You make it look easy.”
Her hands still on the papers. “Wrangling thirty eleven-year-olds and a turtle?”
“Making them believe they belong,” I correct softly.
The edge of her lip curves as she shrugs a shoulder. “Everyone should feel like they belong.”
“You lit them up today,” I murmur, reaching out and twirling a strand of her hair between my fingers. “Hell, you lit me up.”
Color blooms in her cheeks as her eyes finally lift to meet mine, and before she can argue, I dip in. The kiss is quick but reverent, like pressing my mouth to the sun and knowing I’d burn for it every time.
I keep my mouth close to hers. “Missed you in my bed this morning.”
Someone calls my name from down the hall, muffled through the door, and I reluctantly pull back.
“See you tonight, Ms. Parnell.”
She nods, and as I step away, I know I’d rather be in this room with her than anywhere else in the world.