Chapter 6
Denton
The sharp tang of sweat and disinfectant hits me the second I push through the door into the Blades’ locker room. It’s a familiar assault, a scent as ingrained in me as the feel of my skates.
After a grueling two-hour practice focused on defensive zone breakouts, my muscles are humming with fatigue, a pleasant burn that usually clears my head. Today feels different though.
I shrug off my practice jersey, the damp fabric sticking to my skin, and toss it into the overflowing laundry bin.
The movement sends a waft of air past me, and that’s when I catch it again.
Faint, buried under layers of sweat and rink smell but undeniably present: cookies. Sugar cookies, specifically.
Damn it. I rub a hand over my face, rough stubble scraping my palm. It’s been eighteen hours since I escaped the flour-bombed craziness of Sugar Rush. But the scent of Holly James’s bakery persists, an unwelcome, sugary ghost haunting my personal space.
“Yo, Blakey. Rough session? Or did someone steal your favorite spot in the crease?” Evan Daniels’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter, laced with his usual easygoing humor.
He’s already showered, dressed in jeans and a Blades hoodie, leaning against his stall opposite mine, arms crossed. His sharp eyes miss nothing.
I grunt, avoiding his gaze as I yank open my own stall door. “Coach wanted blood today.” My voice is rougher than the ice after a third-period scrap. I focus on peeling off my sweat-soaked base layer, the fabric resisting.
“Uh-huh.” Evan pushes off the stall and takes a step closer.
The locker room is emptying out, guys heading for the showers or the parking lot, leaving pockets of relative quiet.
“Looked like more than that from where I was standing. You were playing like a man possessed. Or,” he pauses, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face, “like a man who spent his evening covered in sprinkles.”
My hands freeze on the waistband of my compression shorts. Shit. I keep my back to him, staring at the neat rows of clean practice jerseys hanging in my stall. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie feels thick on my tongue.
Evan chuckles, low and amused. “C’mon, Den.
The whole team heard Tabby chattering this morning about her ‘magic cookie lady.’ Something about a Daddy Snowflake?
” He moves around so he’s in my periphery, leaning against the stall divider.
His grin is pure trouble. “Were you baking cookies? In an apron? Details, man.”
Heat prickles the back of my neck. I straighten up slowly, turning to face him. Evan’s my best friend. My brother on the ice. The only one who knows the full, ugly weight of the last three years, the only one who gets away with pushing.
“It was for Tabby,” I state flatly, meeting his gaze. “She wouldn’t stop asking.”
Evan raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no judgment from me. Sounds… sweet. Literally. Tabby mentioned Sugar Rush. Holly James is the owner, right?” He drags out the word right, infusing it with a teasing lilt that makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides.
“Yep.” I think about the defiant spark in her warm brown eyes, the way she’d laughed at my suggestion of a teaspoon dispenser. Embrace the mess. Her words echo in my head. “She’s competent. With the baking.” I sound like I’m giving a scouting report on a minor league player.
“Competent,” Evan repeats. He tilts his head, studying me. “Just competent? Because the way Tabby talked this morning, she made it sound like it was the most fun she ever had.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, though the nearest guys are well out of earshot. “And you? In an apron? Man, I’d pay good money for a picture. Did you at least attempt a smile? Or was it the full Blake glare the entire time?”
“I was friendly,” I snap, the defensiveness sharpening my tone. I grab a towel from my stall, needing something to do with my hands. “Just like I always am.”
“Friendly,” Evan echoes again, that infuriating grin still firmly in place.
He pushes off the divider, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Den, my man, you are many things. A brick wall on skates. A pain in the ass for opposing forwards. But friendly to people you don’t really know? I don’t think so.”
I turn away again, tossing the towel over my shoulder and grabbing my shower kit. The plastic handle feels cool and solid in my grip. “Whatever. It was for Tabby and she enjoyed it.”
That part is undeniable. The image flashes unbidden: Tabby’s beaming face, smeared with icing and dusted with gold glitter, beaming up at Holly like she’d hung the moon. The memory hits me square in the chest.
“She enjoyed it,” Evan says, the teasing edge gone from his voice. “That’s the important part, yeah? Seeing her that happy?”
“It was crazy,” I mutter, the objection weak even to my own ears. “Crazy. Chaotic.” Everything I avoid. “But… yes. Tabby loved it.”
Evan claps a hand on my shoulder. “That’s great.” He squeezes gently. “And what about you, Captain Control? Any sparks fly? Holly James is smoking hot.”
I shrug his hand off. “I didn’t notice.” I grab my soap and shampoo, heading for the showers, needing the hot water and steam to scour away the lingering sugar scent and the unwelcome thoughts about Holly James. “We’ve got one more session. Then it’s done.”
Evan falls into step beside me as we walk towards the shower area, the sound of running water and echoing voices growing louder.
“Den… it’s okay, you know. To enjoy something. Something that isn’t just hockey or being a dad or… existing.” He pauses, letting the words hang. “Three years is a long time to live like that, man. Maybe it’s time to consider… taking a shot.”
I stop walking, turning to face him fully. He meets my gaze, his usual humor replaced by a deep, unwavering concern. He’s the only one who dares to say it. The only one who knows how tightly the walls are built, how deliberately empty the space inside them feels most days.
But letting someone in, letting that kind of warmth and disorder near Tabby… near me… feels like the ultimate defensive breakdown.
“It was baking, Evan,” I say, my voice tight, the words a shield. “That’s it.”
I turn and push through the swinging door into the steamy shower room, the humid air hitting my face like a wall. “Now, if you’re done psychoanalyzing me, I need to wash the stink of this practice off.”
Evan doesn’t follow me in. He just calls after me, his voice carrying over the rush of water and the shouts of other guys, “Just think about it, Blakey! What’s the worst that could happen? You get covered in sprinkles? Oh, wait…” His laugh fades as the door swings shut behind me.
I stand under the hottest spray I can tolerate, letting the water pound against my shoulders, my neck, my face. I scrub methodically, the sharp scent of pine soap making me feel better.
But the steam seems to conjure up images.
Not just Tabby’s joy this time. Holly’s face, smudged with icing, laughing.
The way her eyes had crinkled at the corners, warm and bright despite the obvious exhaustion I’d glimpsed when we first arrived.
The startling jolt when our fingers brushed over the piping bag.
The absurdity of me, Denton Blake, star defenseman, fumbling with apron strings.
Embrace the mess.
Her voice, teasing and warm, echoes in the tiled room, mixing with the drumming water. It’s ridiculous. Insane. Everything about that bakery, that woman, is the antithesis of my ordered world. It’s messy, unpredictable, emotionally risky terrain.
I shut off the water and wrap a towel around my waist. The locker room is quieter now, only a couple of stragglers packing their bags.
I dress quickly: boxers, jeans, a plain black thermal shirt, my peacoat. I shove my practice gear into my bag, the zipper closing with a decisive rasp.
Walking out into the players’ parking garage, the cold Chicago air hits me smack in the face. I unlock my SUV with a chirp, the interior lights blinking on.
I pull out of the garage, merging into the slow crawl of downtown traffic heading out towards the suburbs, towards home, towards the quiet, predictable sanctuary I’ve built for Tabby and myself.
The city lights blur past the windshield, streaks of red and white against the deepening twilight. I focus on the road, as a light drizzle begins to fall.
One more session. For Tabby.
That’s the plan. Get through the next baking lesson, fulfill Tabby’s wish for a ‘castle’, maintain a polite, distant civility with Holly James, and then close that particular chapter.
Return to the safe, predictable rhythms of hockey, training, and the quiet, measured existence that keeps the emptiness at bay.
But as I navigate the familiar turns towards home, a treacherous thought enters my mind.
It’s not just the memory of Tabby’s radiant smile that surfaces.
It’s the way Holly had looked at me, just for that split second at the end, after Tabby hugged my legs.
That fleeting, unguarded moment when her warm brown eyes had held something…
soft. Understanding, maybe? And then, that tiny, almost-smile I’d let slip. Why had that happened?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening.
Wednesday. The next lesson. Operation Gingerbread Castle.
I tell myself firmly, rehearsing the internal playbook, that I’m only looking forward to it for Tabby. To see that light in her eyes again. That’s the only objective.
But deep down, beneath the layers of control and carefully constructed distance, a traitorous part of me – the part that remembers what warmth feels like – whispers something else.
It whispers that maybe, just maybe, I’m also looking forward to stepping back into that warm, chaotic kitchen.
To seeing the woman who stands in the center of the storm, unfazed and smiling, covered in flour and magic dust. And that thought, that quiet, dangerous admission, is a distraction I can’t seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.