Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Forrest
A while later, Daisy escapes toward the back room carrying empty syrup bottles and a stack of napkins like she can outrun herself if her hands are full enough.
Bea follows her.
I should not.
I know that.
I sit for a full minute, coffee cooling in my hand, trying very hard to respect her privacy, boundaries, and the fact that I have already broken enough rules with Daisy Thorn to qualify as a cautionary tale.
Puck looks at me from under the table.
“No,” I tell him.
He rises.
“Sit.”
He walks toward the back.
My dog is an asshole with instincts.
I stand, coffee in hand, and follow far enough to grab him before he becomes another accusation in Daisy’s day.
I stop in the doorway.
Daisy is facing Bea, notebook clutched in one hand. Her cheeks are flushed again, but not from me this time.
From the thing she’s saying.
From caring too much and being mad that no one else has cared with enough structure.
“They’re missing the point,” Daisy says. “And the opportunities. It’s about Evan. And the other kids who can’t afford equipment. And the fact that everyone keeps acting like access is a seasonal fundraiser instead of a program design failure.”
Bea’s arms fold.
Daisy keeps going, faster now, like if she stops, she’ll have to feel instead of solve.
“It’s about the school wanting to put a coach with a name in front of donors as proof that hockey can be inspirational, when what they actually need is transportation, snacks, tutoring, gear, mentors, and someone who knows how to make rich people write checks without making poor kids perform gratitude. ”
Bea’s face softens in a way she probably hates. “So now you’re planning what? Fundraising all year?”
Daisy looks down at the notebook. “Maybe not all year.”
“Daisy.”
“I said maybe.”
“You can’t have a third job.”
“It wouldn’t be a job. It would be . . .” Daisy waves a hand, searching for a word that won’t incriminate her. “A civic intervention with snacks. I doubt anyone would pay me.”
“It would be unpaid labor with a guilt garnish,” Bea says.
“That is a very cynical description of community impact.”
“That is a very nonprofit way to say you’re about to exhaust yourself for children and spreadsheets.”
Puck chooses that moment to step fully into the back room.
Of course he does. His nails click against the floor, and both women turn.
Bea sees him first.
Then me.
Her eyes narrow like she has just found a raccoon in a cardigan.
Daisy follows Bea’s gaze.
The notebook goes straight to her chest.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asks.
“Enough.”
“Specific and terrifying.”
I nod toward the notebook. “Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Bea replies.
Daisy turns on her. “You’re a terrible supporter.”
“I’m effective.” Bea takes the empty syrup bottles from Daisy’s arm. “I have to go prevent a man from using the phrase ‘pre-owned books’ again.”
Daisy blinks. “That sounds fake.”
“Unfortunately, it is real.” Bea pauses beside me and points one finger at my chest. “Don’t be weird.”
“You’re accusing me of being weird?”
She gives me a look. “Both of you. Seriously. It’s getting scary. So what if you broke the rules?”
Daisy’s chin lifts. “Only some of them.”
“Yeah, because a couple were broken before you started this fake thing.”
“They were not,” Daisy protests.
“Which ones?” I ask at the same time Daisy says, “You’re wrong.”
Bea stares at us.
Then she leaves, carrying the bottles and shaking her head as if our emotional incompetence has become a workplace hazard.
Daisy holds the notebook tighter.
“So,” I say. “You thought more about it.”
“Occupational disease.”
“Daisy.”
“What?”
“What’s the plan?”
She looks at me for a second too long.
There is a version of Daisy that makes a joke here.
That version has saved her from a lot. Probably from me too.
But the back room is narrow, and the air smells like coffee syrup, cardboard, and rain-soaked wool from my jacket, and we are too close to what happened last night for either of us to pretend this is only about hockey.
Her grip loosens on the notebook.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not true.”
Her mouth twists. “Fine. I know the shape of it. I don’t know if I’m allowed to want it.”
“You’re allowed,” I tell her.
She laughs once, but it doesn’t carry much humor. “That’s generous, Wolfe. Did you get certified in emotional permissions overnight?”
“No.”
“Shame. I was going to ask if there’s a laminated card.”
I step closer.
Not much.
Enough that she notices.
“You’re allowed to want something that helps kids,” I say. “You’re allowed to want something that uses what you’re good at without letting it eat you alive.”
Her eyes search mine.
“That last part feels ambitious.”
“Then we build it so it doesn’t.”
“We?”
Puck huffs near my leg, like even he knows we’ve walked into something without checking for exits.
Daisy lowers the notebook, then opens it.
The page is full. Too full. Arrows, lists, half-formed titles, a few angry underlines. It looks like her mind when she stops pretending she isn’t brilliant.
I read what I can.
Equipment fund. Confidential request form. Sponsor tiers. Former player network. Transportation pool. Study hall before practice. Snack partnership. Mentorship. Donor dinner conversion plan.
At the bottom, written harder than the rest:
We need infrastructure.
I look up.
Daisy is watching me like she expects me to laugh.
I don’t.
“This is good.”
Her face changes so fast I almost miss it.
Relief.
Then fear of the relief.
Then the joke, arriving late.
“Well, yes, obviously. I’m very competent when spiraling. It’s practically a boutique service.”
“Day.”
Her name stops her.
“I saw Evan’s shoes,” she murmurs. “And the way he shrugged when I asked about homework support. I know that shrug. I work with that shrug every week. It means, ‘I need help, but I’ve learned asking makes everyone uncomfortable.’”
Her fingers press into the edge of the notebook.
“I hate that the adults don’t know what they need,” she whispers.
“They keep thinking about the season. The numbers. The event. Like the goal is getting kids through a few months of hockey until their parents can afford it, or until they’re in college, or until someone else becomes responsible for them. ”
I feel that hit.
Not like an idea.
Like a memory.
A kid standing in a locker room pretending worn gear is fine. A boy learning not to ask because asking gives people a chance to say no. A team built around talent but not the life surrounding it.
“They need adults who don’t make access feel temporary,” I say.
Daisy’s eyes lift.
I keep going, because now I can see it too. Not fully. Enough.
“They need someone who plans like they’ll still matter after the fundraiser ends. Gear that fits. Food before practice. Rides home. Tutoring that isn’t a punishment. People who notice before the kid has to beg.”
Daisy looks at me like I have reached into the notebook and found the part she was afraid to name.
“I want that too,” I say.
I take the notebook from her slowly, giving her time to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I look over the list again.
“I know former players,” I say. “Some with money. Some with guilt. Both spend if you aim them right.”
Her mouth parts.
“Snack partnership,” I continue. “Talk to the diner. Grocery store. Bakery. Anonymous donor covers the gap if businesses won’t.”
“You have an anonymous donor?”
“I might.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is it you?”
“No.”
“Wolfe.”
“I said ‘might.’”
“That means it’s you.”
“It means continue.”
Her face does that thing again, softening before she can weaponize sarcasm.
“You can’t just throw money at my notebook.”
“I’m not throwing money. I’m respecting infrastructure.”
The corner of her mouth lifts despite herself.
“That was almost hot.”
“Almost?”
“Don’t get greedy. We’re in a storage room.”
“It didn’t stop you from saying Wolfe.”
Her cheeks warm.
She glances toward the café door, then back at me. “We’re at work.”
“You’re on break.”
“That is a very generous interpretation of hiding in a back room with empty syrup bottles and a fake boyfriend who thinks funding models are foreplay.”
I step closer. “Day.”
“No,” she says quickly.
I stop.
Everything in me stops.
“No?” I ask.
“No, as in don’t say my name like that unless you plan to do something about it, because I am a tired woman with limited defenses and a dangerous appreciation for competence.”
The words come out funny.
The look on her face doesn’t.
That’s what gets me.
Not the joke.
The permission under it.
The wanting she’s trying to make ridiculous before it can ask for too much.
I set the notebook on the shelf beside us.
Slowly.
Her eyes follow the movement.
Then mine.
“You want me to do something about it?” I ask.
Her swallow is small. Visible.
“I think I said that with excellent sentence structure.”
I reach for her.
Not fast. Not grabbing. My hand comes to her jaw the way it did this morning before Puck started filing hallway complaints, and Daisy’s eyes shut for half a second like she hates how much she wants the touch.
That almost ruins me.
I’ve wanted to kiss her since she woke up beside me with panic in her eyes and my hand on her stomach. I lower my mouth to hers.
The kiss is not careful enough.
I mean it to be.
I mean to keep it small, because Bea is in the café and Puck is by my leg and Daisy is at work, and last night still lives under both our skin.
But Daisy makes a sound against my mouth.
Soft.
Relieved.
A little angry at herself for being relieved.
And careful becomes impossible.
Her hand comes to my shirt, fingers curling in the fabric, while the other stays trapped between us, still holding the edge of her notebook like she can keep one hand on the plan and one hand on me.
I kiss her deeper.
She rises into it.
Not shy. Not uncertain. Daisy Thorn does nothing halfway once she stops pretending she isn’t going to do it. Her mouth opens under mine, and for a few seconds there is no café, no contract, no pilot program, no fake anything.
Still trying to control the shape of a kiss she already surrendered to.
I pull back first because one of us has to remember doors exist.
Her eyes open slowly.
Her mouth is soft from mine, and the look she gives me is offended, dazed, and dangerously close to happy.
“Well,” she says, breathless. “That was . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I have notes.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m a woman of standards.”
“You kissed me back.”
“That will be reflected in the minutes.”
I almost smile.
Her mouth is still soft from mine. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is holding the notebook between us like a shield, which is ridiculous because I had my hands on her less than a minute ago and still know exactly how she sounds when she stops pretending.
I want to kiss her again.
Instead, I say, “We can go back to my place after your shift.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“. . . for the notes,” I add.
Her mouth twitches. “Ah. Very professional.”
“Extremely.”
“You often invite women home for administrative feedback?”
“Only the difficult ones.”
“That’s a small and elite group, I assume.”
“One member.”
Her smile falters by a fraction.
Outside the back room, Bea calls, “Daisy, if you’re done making deeply questionable professional choices, the pre-owned books man is back.”
Daisy closes her eyes. “I hate that he’s real.”
I pick up the notebook and hand it to her.
Her fingers brush mine.
This time, neither of us pretends not to notice.
The contact holds for one second too long.
Not enough for Bea to storm back here and accuse us of creating a hostile emotional environment.
Enough for Daisy’s breath to change.
“So,” I say, and I hate that I don’t sound sure of myself. I’m usually a decisive kind of guy. Hit the ice, read the play, make the move. “Maybe later tonight we can discuss the plan?”
Her gaze stays on our hands.
“The plan,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“Just the plan?”
“No.”
Fuck, I should’ve said just yes, but here we are.
“I want to see you after your shift,” I say. “Not for optics. Not because someone needs us to look believable. Because I want to.”
She blinks, and Daisy returns with a little too much brightness in her eyes. “That was a very bold use of honesty in a storage room.”
“I’m branching out.”
“Dangerous. People might start expecting emotional range.”
“Let them be disappointed.”
She laughs softly, then looks toward the café, where life is waiting and the work hasn’t stopped needing her.
“Where tonight?” she asks, swallowing hard.
I shrug, because if I make this too serious, she’ll run or make a joke big enough to shelter both of us. “Your place. Mine. Your choice.”
Her gaze comes back to mine.
“And Puck?”
“Comes with me.”
“Of course he does. Emotional support bear-dog with separation issues.”
“He likes you.”
“He has excellent taste and questionable boundaries.”
Then Bea calls again, louder. “Daisy.”
Daisy exhales and clutches the notebook to her chest. “We’ll see, Wolfie.”
Wolfie.
Not Wolfe.
Wolfie.
She says it like a joke. Like a little poke. Like she hasn’t just put her hand somewhere soft and pressed.
I stare at her.
Her smile gets nervous around the edges.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
“You called me Wolfie.”
“I did. It felt less emotionally naked than Wolfe.”
I step closer.
Just enough.
Her breath catches, then she tries to cover it by lifting the notebook between us again.
Bad shield.
Useful tells.
“Day.”
“No.” She points at me with the notebook. “Don’t ‘Day’ me when I have to go handle the man disrespecting used books.”
“Pre-owned books.”
Her face tightens with immediate outrage. “I hate that more.”
“I know.”
She studies me for half a second, mouth soft, eyes bright, trying to decide whether to run, kiss me again, or make a joke about workplace safety.
The joke wins.
Barely.
“This conversation is adjourned,” she says.
“For now.”
“For now,” she agrees, and the words feel like a door left open.
Then she slips past me into the café, close enough that her shoulder brushes my chest.