Chapter 7
seven
. . .
I can handle rejection.
I lived and worked in New York City. I survived subway saxophonists who played the same three notes for entire commutes. I once taught a six-year-old who bit me mid-’Mary Had a Little Lamb’ because he thought it was too peppy.
This? This is fine. It’s nothing like New York. And I’m okay.
I’m arranging chairs in neat rows, setting up music stands, checking instrument positions for the hundredth time. The Music & Sticks fundraiser starts in an hour and everything needs to be perfect. The kids have been practicing. The Bobcats players have been practicing. Well, most of them.
One very important player hasn’t shown up to practice in three days.
I check my phone again. Nothing.
No texts beyond that one message the night of the auction. It’s just an auction date. Don’t worry about it.
Like I could stop worrying. Like my brain isn’t a loop of worst-case scenarios and hurt feelings.
“Stop checking,” I mutter to myself. “He’s made his choice.”
Parents are starting to arrive, claiming the best seats. Dad’s setting up the donation table near the entrance, chatting with anyone who’ll listen about the new youth rink equipment they’re raising money for.
Emma runs past me, blue dress flying. “Miss Kessler! I’m so nervous!”
“You’ll be amazing,” I tell her, adjusting her music stand.
Rusty’s practicing his drum hits in the corner. Too loud, as always. Lily and Kayla are comparing their matching dresses, which their mother somehow color-coded even for the performance. Sarah’s bossing around the other kids like a tiny stage manager.
Everything is chaos. Beautiful, musical chaos.
Except for the Jude-shaped hole in the middle of it.
Finn arrives with the other players, all dressed in matching Bobcats polo shirts. They look nervous and proud and slightly ridiculous holding their assigned instruments.
“He’s not coming, is he?” I ask Finn quietly.
Finn shifts his weight, uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Sophie. He’s been in his own head since the auction.”
“Did something happen?”
“He won’t talk about it. Just keeps saying he doesn’t want to mess things up for the team.” Finn shrugs. “Whatever that means.”
My chest tightens. Because I know exactly what it means.
Coach’s daughter. Team dynamics. Favoritism.
All the things Jude’s afraid of becoming.
“But Blockton’s full of surprises,” Finn adds. “Don’t count him out yet.”
I want to believe him. Want to hold onto that hope.
But as the seats fill up and showtime approaches, I have to accept reality.
Jude’s not coming.
I clap my hands, gathering the kids and players together for a final pep talk. “Okay, everyone. This is it. Remember what we practiced. Listen to each other. Stay on beat. And most importantly, have fun.”
“What if we mess up?” Emma asks, eyes wide.
“Then we mess up together,” I tell her. “That’s what makes it beautiful.”
The lights dim. The crowd settles. Dad introduces the program with his coach voice, thanking everyone for coming and supporting the youth rink fund.
And then it’s time.
The kids file out first, taking their positions. Emma on xylophone. Rusty on drums. The twins on bells. Sarah on woodblock, looking very serious about her role.
The Bobcats players follow, looking far less confident. Each one with a bell or a hand drum.
No Jude. No triangle.
My heart sinks but I force a smile. The show must go on.
I count them in. “One, two, three, four.”
They start playing. It’s not perfect. Emma rushes the first measure. Rusty hits too hard on the third beat. One of the twins drops a bell and it rolls across the stage.
But the crowd loves it. They’re clapping along, parents recording on their phones, smiles everywhere.
We’re halfway through the second verse when I hear it.
A single, perfect ding.
Clear and bright and exactly on beat four.
I freeze.
The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers.
I turn slowly, not quite believing what I’m hearing.
And there he is standing at the back of the stage in jeans and a Bobcats tee shirt, holding that ridiculous triangle with the most self-satisfied smirk I’ve ever seen on his face.
He walks forward with that controlled defenseman stride. Calm. Deliberate. It’s almost like he planned this entrance down to the second.
He takes his spot among the kids, who are staring at him with wide eyes and huge grins.
“Blockton showed up!” Rusty stage-whispers.
“Shh,” I hiss, but I’m fighting back a smile.
Jude hits the triangle again. Perfectly on beat. And again. And again.
The audience is howling with laughter and applause. Someone whistles. I’m pretty sure it’s my dad.
We finish the song. The final notes hang in the air for a moment before the crowd explodes with applause.
The kids take their bows. The players follow. Jude stands there looking mildly uncomfortable with the attention but staying put.
When the applause finally dies down, Jude walks over to the MC and takes the microphone.
Oh no.
“Sorry for crashing the program,” he says, his voice carrying through the sound system. He glances at me. “But I figured I owed Miss Kessler a duet.”
The crowd loses it. Laughing and clapping and probably taking a thousand pictures.
I want to disappear. Want to melt into the stage floor.
But I can’t look away from him.
“I’ve been thinking a lot the past few days,” Jude continues, his voice steadier now. “About what it means to be part of a team. About not wanting to mess things up.”
The crowd quiets. Listening.
“I got in my head about dating the coach’s daughter.” He looks at my dad, who’s standing near the donation table looking surprised. “Worried people would think there was favoritism. Worried I’d mess up the team dynamic.”
My dad starts to say something but Jude holds up a hand.
“But then I realized something,” Jude says, looking back at me. “I’ve been so worried about being the guy who wrecks things that I almost wrecked the best thing that’s happened to me.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“Sophie taught me that rhythm isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up. Listening. Being willing to try even when you’re scared you’ll mess it up.” He sets the microphone down on the stand and walks toward me. “So I’m here. Showing up. Hoping I didn’t miss my chance.”
The crowd is silent now. Waiting.
I can’t find words. Can’t think past the rushing in my ears.
“You didn’t,” I finally whisper.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough. Uncertain.
“Yeah.”
The crowd explodes again. Cheering and clapping.
People start dispersing eventually, lingering to chat and congratulate the kids. Parents taking photos. Dad collecting donations with a huge grin on his face.
I’m backstage gathering instruments when Jude finds me.
“You’re mad,” he says.
I don’t look up from the box of bells I’m organizing. “You hijacked a children’s concert.”
“You’re still mad.”
“You disappeared for three days!”
“I know.” He moves closer. “I’m sorry.”
I finally look at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, but there’s no smugness now. Just honest regret.
“You could have talked to me,” I say quietly. “Instead of deciding for both of us that this was too complicated.”
“I know,” he says again. “I got scared. Heard those guys talking about team dynamics and your dad making jokes and I just...” He runs a hand through his hair. “I convinced myself I was protecting you. Protecting the team.”
“By pushing me away?”
“By being an idiot.” He walks over. Stands close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “I wasn’t running from you. I was running from the fear that I’m not good enough. That I’d mess this up and lose you anyway.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m done running.” His voice is low. Serious. “If people want to talk, let them talk. If your dad wants to bench me for dating his daughter, I’ll deal with it. I just don’t want to lose you because I’m too scared to try.”
My throat is tight. “You played the triangle.”
He laughs. Soft and surprised. “Perfectly.”
“You did.” I set down the box of bells. “You really did.”
He cups my face, thumb brushing across my cheek. Gentle. Careful. Like I’m something precious.
“Still calling me Bruiser?” he asks.
“Always.”
“Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Longer and deeper than before. Familiar but brand new.
I hear giggles from behind the curtain. Small voices whispering.
“They’re kissing!”
“I told you he liked her!”
Then Ivy’s voice carries from somewhere in the wings. “Get a room!”
Hadley’s laugh follows. “They already have one!”
I laugh against his mouth. “Small town.”
“Wouldn’t trade it,” he murmurs, pulling me closer.
We stay like that for a moment. Just breathing. Just being.
“So about that auction date,” I say quietly.
“What about it?”
“You still owe me dinner. Publicly.”
He grins. “Guess I do.”
“Friday?”
“Friday,” he agrees. Then, softer, “And Saturday. And Sunday. And every day after that if you’ll have me.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Something that feels like music finding its rhythm.
“Deal.”
Later that night, after the community center empties and Dad locks up, Jude and I walk through the parking lot toward our cars. The rink lights are still glowing through the windows. A few kids are on the ice, practicing with their parents.
Jude taps the glass twice as we pass. Habit.
“You know,” I say, tucking my hand into his, “you’re still terrible at piano.”
“Good thing I’m great at defense.”
“And kissing.”
“That too.” He squeezes my hand. “And apparently the triangle.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
Snow starts falling again. Soft and gentle. The kind that makes everything look clean and new.
We stop beside my car. He pulls me close, one arm around my waist, the other still holding my hand.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on the grumpy defenseman who broke your window.”
I smile against his chest. “Thank you for showing up when it mattered.”
“Always will,” he promises. “Even if it means playing ridiculous tiny instruments in front of the entire town.”
“Especially then.”
He laughs. Kisses the top of my head. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Never.”
We stand there in the falling snow, his heartbeat steady under my ear, my pulse finally matching his rhythm.
Somewhere between his bruises and my melodies, between broken windows and charity auctions, between pushing away and showing up, we found our own beat.
And it sounds perfect.