Checking All Her Notes (Meet-Cute Match-Ups #5)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

It’s a regular Thursday afternoon at the Briarwood Community Center, and I’m convinced my beginner piano group is staging a musical revolt.

Seven kids under ten sit crammed around the ancient upright, each one convinced that volume equals talent.

Little Emma pounds middle C like it personally offended her family.

Rusty treats the keys like a whack-a-mole game.

And don’t even get me started on the twins who think playing in unison is a myth invented by adults.

Lily’s in her signature blue shirt today, Kayla in pink. Their mother learned early that color-coding was the only way anyone could tell them apart. Even I still squint sometimes to check which twin is sabotaging the melody.

“Softly,” I remind them for the hundredth time, demonstrating with one finger. “Like you’re telling the piano a secret.”

Emma hits the key harder. Then adds three more notes for good measure.

“That’s not a secret, sweetie. That’s a declaration of war.”

She grins up at me, gap-toothed and proud.

The smell of ice and buttered popcorn seeps through the wall from the rink next door.

I can hear the muffled shouts of players and the sharp blast of a whistle.

Dad’s whistle. Even after all these years, I recognize the particular pitch of Coach Kessler’s disappointment.

Three short bursts means someone’s skating lazy.

One long blast means someone’s getting a talking-to after practice.

Being home in Briarwood feels strange and comfortable at the same time.

Everyone knows I’m Coach Kessler’s daughter, which is both nice and annoying.

Nice because people smile at me in the grocery store and I can get a table at Mario’s without a reservation.

Annoying because they immediately ask if the Bobcats will make playoffs this year.

“Miss Kessler, can we play the loud song again?” Rusty asks, bouncing in his seat.

“There is no loud song, buddy. That’s just you playing everything at maximum decibels.”

The kids giggle. Rusty slides off the bench and does a little spin.

“Back on the bench, buddy. We’re not done yet.”

I’m about to launch into my thousandth explanation of dynamics and why we don’t need to murder Beethoven when something crashes so loudly the floor rattles beneath my feet.

Glass explodes inward from the high window near the ceiling.

I grab Emma by the shoulders and duck, pulling her down with me.

The other kids shriek. Shards rain onto the linoleum like tiny frozen daggers, and a hockey puck rolls across the floor with the casual confidence of a smug little criminal who knows exactly what it just did.

For a second, nobody moves.

The puck rolls to a stop against the piano leg.

“Everyone okay?” I ask, still crouched, doing a quick head count. Blue shirt, pink shirt. Both twins accounted for. Emma, Sarah, Rusty. Seven total. No blood.

“That was awesome!” Rusty breathes.

“That was dangerous,” I correct, but my heart’s hammering and my hands are shaking a little as I stand up.

Then the door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

My dad storms in, whistle still dangling from his neck, face red from yelling or the cold or both.

Following him is a six-foot-something wall of black hockey gear and what I can only describe as concentrated embarrassment.

The man behind my father is enormous. Not just tall but solid, like he was carved from granite.

Shoulder pads make him even broader. His helmet’s off, tucked under one arm, and his dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’s got that post-practice flush, all heat and exertion and the kind of presence that makes my small music room feel even smaller.

“This,” Dad announces, snatching the puck from the floor with the energy of a prosecutor presenting evidence, “belongs to Jude Blockton.”

Oh.

Oh.

I recognize the name instantly. The town’s been buzzing about the new defenseman since he arrived.

The one who never smiles. The one who allegedly made a rookie cry during practice just by looking at him.

The one who plays defense like he’s personally offended by the concept of opponents having the puck.

Jude Blockton looks exactly like the rumors suggested.

Dark hair damp with sweat. Jaw set in stone, probably by a very determined sculptor.

Eyes the color of storm clouds right before everything goes sideways.

There’s a small scar through his left eyebrow that somehow makes him look even more intimidating.

He stares at the broken window, then at me, then at the seven small children currently peeking out from behind the piano like prairie dogs.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters in a voice so low it could shake the piano.

Dad raises and eyebrow as he looks over at his player. “He’ll help you clean this up.”

“Coach, I should get back to—” Jude starts, shifting his weight. His skates are still on. I can hear the blade guards scraping against the linoleum.

“Practice can wait five minutes.” My dad claps him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a normal human. Jude doesn’t move. Doesn’t even sway. “Consider it community service and then you’ll be off the hook.”

“Dad,” I say, using my warning voice.

“Soph.” He winks at me. Actually winks.

Then my father, the man who taught me to ride a bike and tie my shoes, abandons me with the man who nearly took out my treble clef chart and possibly one of my students.

The door clicks shut behind him.

The children stare. I stare. Jude looks like he’s considering whether jumping back through the busted window might be less painful than this conversation.

“So,” I say, brushing glass dust off my cardigan. “Quite an entrance.”

He grunts. Actually grunts.

I cross my arms and tilt my head, studying the damage. “You know, most people bring flowers to make introductions. Maybe a fruit basket. I’ve even heard of people saying something.”

“Puck’s faster,” he says, already moving toward the supply closet where we keep the broom.

His tone is so deadpan I genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking. His expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. I’m starting to think his face might actually be frozen that way. Maybe it’s a hockey thing. Maybe they train the emotion right out of them.

He opens the closet, scans the contents, and retrieves the broom and dustpan. Both look comically small in his hands. He’s still wearing his gloves, the big padded kind that make his hands look like bear paws.

“You might want to take those off,” I suggest. “Unless you’re planning to sweep in full gear.”

He looks down at his gloves like he forgot he was wearing them. Then he tucks the broom under his arm, yanks off the gloves one at a time with his teeth, and shoves them into his helmet.

It’s oddly practical and somehow more attractive than it has any right to be.

Focus, Sophie.

“Kids,” I say, turning to my students who are watching this unfold like it’s better than TV. “Why don’t you practice your scales? Quietly.”

As I help Jude sweep, the kids whisper behind the piano. Not even subtle whispers. The loud kind where they’re clearly hoping we hear them.

“He’s really big,” Emma stage-whispers.

“Like giant big,” Lily adds. At least I think it’s Lily. The blue shirt’s partially hidden behind the piano bench.

“Do you think he could pick up Miss Kessler with one hand?” Rusty asks, far too loudly.

My face heats. “Scales, people. Now.”

A cacophony of notes fills the room, none of them remotely in unison.

Jude glances at the children like they’re wild animals he hasn’t been trained to handle. His jaw tightens. I notice he’s got a good jaw. Strong. The kind that probably looks great in profile on hockey cards.

Stop it, Sophie.

“So you’re the new guy,” I say, crouching down to hold the dustpan steady while he sweeps.

He nods once, precise and economical with his movement. “Unfortunately.”

“Everyone says you’re grumpy.”

“I’m consistent,” he replies without missing a beat.

That startles a laugh out of me. A real one. The kind that catches me off guard and makes my shoulders shake. “Consistently grumpy is still grumpy.”

“Consistently realistic,” he corrects, sweeping a pile of glass toward the dustpan.

“That’s what grumpy people say when they don’t want to admit they’re grumpy.”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. Like maybe somewhere under all that stone, there’s a human who remembers how to smile but hasn’t practiced in a while.

We work in silence for a moment. Well, relative silence. The kids are banging through their scales with the subtlety of a marching band. Kayla hits a spectacularly wrong note and Lily immediately copies her. I make a mental note to separate them next week.

“You teach all of them at once?” he asks, eyeing the chaos.

“Yep. Group lessons are more fun. And louder. So much louder.”

“You have patience.”

“I have also have ear plugs for the particularly loud days.”

Another twitch of his mouth.

He sweeps the glass into a pile with surprising efficiency. When he’s done, he reaches for the dustpan at the same moment I do. Our fingers brush.

My pulse jumps.

His doesn’t seem to, but his jaw flexes. Just once. And he pulls back like the dustpan suddenly got hot.

“I’ve got it,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel.

He holds the dustpan while I sweep the last bits in. His hands are big and scarred across the knuckles. Hockey hands. There’s a fresh bruise blooming across two of his fingers.

“Does that hurt?” I ask, nodding toward the bruise.

He glances down. “Nah. Blocked a shot yesterday. It’s nothing.”

“That’s nothing?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Did you punch him?”

“Didn’t have to.” He almost smiles. “I just looked at him.”

I laugh again, and this time he definitely reacts. His shoulders relax a fraction. The storm in his eyes clears just a little.

I’m still staring at the broken window, mentally calculating how long it’ll take to fix it, when Jude says, “You should move your piano farther from the window.”

I glance over, raising an eyebrow. “You should aim better.”

His eyes cut toward me, and for a second there’s genuine amusement in them. A flicker, gone too fast, like someone changed the channel. “Can’t promise that.”

“So I should just expect regular window replacements?”

“Builds character,” he says, deadpan.

“For me or the window?”

“Both.”

I bite my lip to keep from grinning. “You’re funnier than people say.”

“People talk about me?”

“Small town. People talk about everyone.” I stand up, brushing off my knees. “You’re the mysterious new player who never smiles. Very intriguing.”

“I smile.”

“When?”

“In my sleep. Maybe.”

Now I’m full-on grinning. “You’re not sure?”

“No witnesses.”

Before I can respond, the door swings open again. Dad reappears with Jerry from maintenance, who’s carrying a tape measure and looking far too amused by this situation.

Jude straightens instantly, somehow becoming even more solid. His entire demeanor shifts.

Dad claps him on the shoulder again. I’m starting to think this is his primary form of communication with players. “Good cleanup work, Blockton. Real team player.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Jude mutters, already edging toward the door like it might lock if he doesn’t move fast enough.

“See you at film review,” Dad calls after him.

Jude nods, then glances back at me. Just once. Quick. But his eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he’s gone, taking his storm cloud eyes and his almost-smiles with him.

Jerry, the maintenance man, whistles low as he measures the window frame. “That’s gonna be a fun repair.”

“Can you have it done by tomorrow?” I ask.

“I think so.” He grins. “First time one of the boys broke something on this side of the building. Usually they keep the destruction to the ice.”

When the room finally clears and Jerry heads off to get supplies, Emma tugs on my sleeve.

“Miss Kessler,” she whispers, her eyes too knowing for a seven-year-old. “That hockey guy likes you.”

“Oh, I think he’s just being nice. As nice as he can be, anyway.” I smile and tilt my head.

“He smiled at you,” Sarah says, matter-of-fact. “I saw it.”

“That wasn’t a smile. That was a twitch or something.”

“Looked like a smile to me,” Rusty chimes in.

“Let’s get back to our lesson.” I wave my arm to get them over to the piano.

But I can’t stop thinking about how his eyes looked when he said puck’s faster. That was unexpectedly funny. Maybe he has a sense of humor under there somewhere.

Outside the window, I can hear the sounds of practice resuming. Skates on ice. Pucks hitting boards. My dad’s whistle.

And somewhere in that chaos is Jude Blockton, the grumpy defenseman who might have just made my very boring Thursday a whole lot more interesting.