Chapter 13
Denton
I’m methodically peeling tape off my wrists, the sticky residue clinging stubbornly, a minor annoyance in the familiar post-practice ritual. Across the aisle, Evan Daniels is stuffing his practice jersey into his bag.
“So,” he says, not looking up, his voice dripping with faux casualness. “Tree lighting.”
I grunt, balling up the used tape and tossing it towards the bin. It misses. Of course it does. I leave it there.
“Heard it was… sparkly.” He zips his bag up, finally turning to lean against the locker bank, arms crossed. A knowing smirk plays on his lips. “Tabs looked like she’d mainlined candy canes in the video Mom sent. All wide eyes and big grin.”
“She enjoyed it.” I keep my tone neutral. Objective. Just stating facts. I focus on unlacing my skates so I don’t have to look at him.
“Enjoyed it?” Evan chuckles, the sound echoing slightly in the tiled space.
“Blake, she looked ecstatic. Like, Disney-princess-meets-chocolate cupcakes ecstatic. And you…” He pauses, deliberately, letting the silence hang.
“You didn’t look like you were contemplating homicide by tinsel. Dare I say… almost human?”
I stiffen. My fingers freeze on the skate lace. Almost human. The phrase lands like a cheap shot, low and unexpected. It implies I’m usually something less.
And the worst part? It echoes the unsettling feeling I’d had myself, sitting on that blanket, looking up at the tree, with Holly James’s warmth radiating beside me.
“Shut up, Daniels,” I mutter, finally yanking the lace free. The skate drops to the bench with a dull thud.
I knew this was going to happen. As soon as I saw Evan’s mom at the tree lighting and she asked to take a picture (which apparently was actually a video), I knew I was going to catch shit from him.
He ignores the dismissal. Pushes off the lockers and takes a step closer.
His voice drops, losing the teasing edge, gaining a seriousness that’s so much worse.
“Seriously, man. It’s good. Seeing Tabs that happy?
And you… not actively scowling at festive cheer?
That’s a win. A big one.” He pauses, his eyes searching my face.
I keep mine fixed on my other skate. “So… when do we get to meet her?”
The question hits like a puck to the chest. I look up, finally meeting his gaze. “Meet who?”
Evan rolls his eyes, the smirk returning in full force. “Oh, come on. The architect of this Christmas miracle. The one who somehow got you within fifty feet of a giant, glittering tree and a big crowd of happy people. Holly.”
Holly. Her name in this sterile, sweaty environment feels wrong. Like bringing a gingerbread castle into an operating room.
“Why would you want to meet her? She’s Tabby’s… baking instructor.” The title sounds stupid even to me.
“Baking instructor,” Evan repeats slowly, drawing the words out. He nods, feigning deep thought. “Right.” He leans in conspiratorially. “So, this baking instructor… will she be coming to the team holiday party?”
The air leaves my lungs in a short, sharp exhale.
The party. The annual Blades holiday extravaganza.
A minefield of forced smiles, loud music, teammates’ significant others making small talk, management subtly assessing team cohesion.
A mandatory event disguised as festive fun.
A three-hour penalty box of social obligation.
The thought of navigating it alone, fielding questions about Tabby, about my life, about the persistent, pitying looks that still sometimes follow me… it’s bad enough. But the thought of bringing Holly? Into that?
“Are you out of your mind?” The words come out colder than the ice outside. “Why the hell would I do that?”
Evan shrugs, unfazed by my glare. “Why not? Bringing Holly… it’s a power play. Shuts down the noise about when you’ll start dating again. Shows you’re… moving forward. On your terms, of course.”
Bringing Holly to the team party? It’s not just introducing her to Evan. It’s introducing her to my world. The scrutiny. The gossip. The relentless, fishbowl existence of professional sports. It’s painting a target on her back. And on mine.
“It’s not like that,” I state, my voice tight. “She’s not… a date.” Date implies intention. Romance. Vulnerability. Things I don’t do. Not with the San Francisco offer hanging over me like a suspended blade.
Evan holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are still sharp, knowing.
“Okay, okay. Not a date. Got it. Just… think about it as a strategic alliance. Mutual benefit. She gets free fancy appetizers, you get a buffer against everyone wanting to set you up with someone. Win-win.” He winks.
“Plus, I bet she cleans up nice. Way better than old man Henderson’s niece my mom tried to set you up with last year. ”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and saunters towards the showers, leaving me standing there, clenching my towel.
An image flashes through my mind: Holly beside me at the party. Not clinging, not demanding. Just… there. Her easy warmth deflecting the awkward questions, her genuine smile disarming the pitying looks. A buffer… against the loneliness that always waits in the wings at these things.
I shake my head, hard, as if dislodging water from my ears after a hard check.
Bringing Holly into this world is irresponsible.
Exposing her to the scrutiny, the potential fallout if things go south…
and things always go south. It’s too much risk.
For her. For Tabby. For the precarious control I’ve fought so hard to maintain.
The drive home is a blur of brake lights and swirling snowflakes caught in the headlights. The city glows, garish and bright against the winter darkness.
I try to focus on the road, on the familiar route, on the trade offer Thompson laid out. San Francisco. The numbers are solid. The opportunity is real. It’s the logical move. The safe move.
It’s the play that guarantees Tabby’s future, insulated from the volatile whims of Chicago management. I should be thinking about that. Analyzing the pros and cons. Planning the conversation with Thompson.
Instead, all I see is Holly’s face when I’d complimented the tree. That flash of surprised warmth in her eyes. The way her smile had softened something tight in my chest.
And then I think about the Blades Christmas party… the invasive questions, the weight of expectation. The loneliness that it always brings. The thought of facing it alone this year, after the tree lighting, after that moment… it feels heavier.
She’d be doing me a favor.
The thought slips in, quiet but insistent. Evan was right about one thing: showing up solo will invite speculation. Unwanted attention. Bringing someone… it’s expected. If it’s framed that way… as a transaction, a favor… then it’s not a date.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I pull into my building’s underground garage, the tires crunching on the salt-gritted concrete.
I park and stare straight ahead, at the smooth concrete wall. Before the rational part of my brain can mount a full counter-offensive, I grab my phone. It’s almost involuntary. Like reaching for a loose puck in a scramble. My thumb finds her contact info and I hit call.
My heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs. This is insanity. A breakaway with no clear path to the net. So risky.
It rings. Once. Twice. The sound is loud, intrusive in the confined space. Each ring feels like a lifetime. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel again. Hang up. Hang up now. Before—
“Hello?” Her voice comes through the speaker, warm and slightly breathless. There’s a faint clatter in the background – the coffee machine? A mixer? The familiar soundtrack of Sugar Rush. “Denton?”
Hearing her say my name, even through the phone, sends an unwelcome jolt through me. It’s the same jolt I felt when her skin brushed mine.
I clear my throat. “Holly. Yeah. It’s me.”
“Hi!” The warmth in her voice doesn’t fade. If anything, it seems to amplify. “Is everything okay? Tabby isn’t—?”
“Tabby’s fine,” I cut in, too quickly. “She’s… she’s with my mom.” I stare fixedly at the concrete wall. Just get it out. Like ripping off a bandage. “Listen. I… need a favor.”
“A favor?” Curiosity colors her tone. “Sure. What’s up?”
I take a breath, forcing the words out. “It’s… there’s this thing. This event. For the team.” I stumble, hating the awkwardness. “The annual holiday party. It’s… mandatory. Charity angle, photo ops. The whole…” I gesture vaguely, even though she can’t see me. “…spectacle.”
“Ah,” she says, understanding dawning. “The obligatory festive work function. Sounds… fun?” The question mark is audible.
“It’s hell,” I state flatly. “But I have to go. And… showing up alone… makes it even worse.”
There’s a pause on the other end. I can almost hear her processing. “Okay,” she says slowly. “So… you need a buffer?” Her tone is light, but there’s an edge of something else.
“Essentially,” I confirm, clinging to the transactional language. “You’d be doing me a solid. Getting me through the night without having to fake small talk with the owner’s wife for an hour.”
I’m over-explaining. Digging the hole deeper. “It’s black-tie. Fancy hotel downtown. Open bar. Decent food.” I add the last part as an afterthought, a pathetic attempt at enticement. As if fancy canapés could possibly appeal to a woman who creates magic with sugar and flour.
Another pause. Longer this time. This was a mistake.
A colossal miscalculation. She’s going to say no.
Politely, kindly, but firmly. And why wouldn’t she?
After my initial hostility, my grumpy resistance, my clear emotional unavailability…
why would she agree to be my pity date at some stuffy team event?
The thought of her refusal sends a surprising pang through me. Sharp. Disappointing.
Then, her voice comes through, clear and warm. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. I’ll be your buffer. Your anti-small-talk shield. Your… date-for-hire?” She laughs softly, the sound like bells tinkling. “When is it?”
Relief floods me, instantaneous and overwhelming, followed immediately by a fresh wave of terror. She said yes. She actually said yes. “Saturday,” I manage to say. “Seven o’clock. I can pick you up. At the bakery? Or your house?”
“Saturday at seven works,” she confirms. “Pick me up at Sugar Rush. The bakery and my home are one in the same.”
“Sounds good,” I say, the words coming out with more certainty than I feel. “Thanks, Holly. Really. I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replies, her voice still warm. “Consider it payback for coming to the tree lighting.” There’s a beat. “See you Saturday, Denton.”
“Saturday,” I echo.
Holy shit. She said yes.
A strange mix of emotions churns inside me. The terror is real, visceral – the fear of exposure, of vulnerability, of dragging her into the complicated mess of my life and career. The fear of what this step means, what doors it might pry open.
But beneath the terror, surging up like a breakaway goal against the odds, is something else. Something warm and fierce and terrifyingly unfamiliar.