CHAPTER 30
DEVON
I'm hauling two duffel bags stuffed with supplies—extension cords, duct tape, hand warmers, emergency blankets, and approximately seventeen different kinds of snacks because someone needs to think about blood sugar levels around here.
The snow's falling steadily, fat flakes drifting down like the universe is just warming up for the main event.
The forecast said it would get much worse.
By tonight, this gentle snowfall will transform into a full-blown blizzard that'll make stepping outside feel like a personal attack from Mother Nature herself.
Right now, though? Right now it's almost pretty.
I crunch through the accumulating snow up the driveway, my breath forming clouds in the cold air, and push open the front door without knocking because I've been here before, so I'm practically family, as far as I'm concerned.
Inside is controlled hell, and I mean controlled in the loosest possible sense.
The living room has been transformed into a war room.
Equipment is everywhere—lights, cables, tools, plastic sheeting, hockey gear in various states of assembly.
Groover and Jinx are in the corner having what appears to be a very serious discussion about optimal camera placement, complete with hand gestures and occasional pointing at Becker's laptop, which is displaying some kind of software I don't understand.
Petrov's on the floor doing pushups for no apparent reason, counting in Russian.
Snooze is asleep on the couch despite the noise. Living up to his nickname, I guess.
And standing in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a Wolves hoodie, is Leila.
"Devon!" she shouts over the havoc the second she spots me. "Thank God. I need you on—" She glances at her clipboard. "—beverage station setup. Kayla and Hunter are in the kitchen. Also, Becker broke something in the garage but won't tell me what. Also, your phone's buzzing. Also—"
"Leila. Breathe."
She takes a breath. "Right. Breathing. Good idea."
"I'll handle Becker. You handle—" I gesture vaguely at everything. "—all of this."
She's already moving on to her next crisis, yelling something about extension cords to Wall.
I drop my bags by the door and head toward the kitchen, weaving through the obstacles, nodding at teammates as I pass.
The house smells like coffee and cold air and that specific scent of organized panic.
You know the one. It's the smell of people trying to pull off something impossible on an unreasonable timeline.
The kitchen is huge, with an island that could double as a landing strip, and Kayla and Hunter have taken it over completely.
There are commercial-grade coffee makers lined up like soldiers, boxes of supplies stacked on every available surface, and then there's Frank, standing at the island, organizing what appears to be enough food to feed a small nation.
Which, given the crowd, might not be enough.
"You came," I say, surprised.
Frank looks up, grinning. "You think I'm missing this? I want a front-row seat."
"If we're doing this," Kayla adds, pouring coffee grounds into one of the industrial machines, "we're doing it right."
Hunter holds up a box of paper cups. "I brought twelve hundred cups. Think that's enough?"
"Probably not," I say honestly, "but I appreciate the optimism."
I'm helping them set up the coffee station when I hear…a siren?
Multiple sirens, actually, growing louder.
Everyone freezes.
"Did someone call 911?" Jinx asks nervously from the living room.
"I didn't!" Becker yells from somewhere deeper in the house.
The sirens get closer, then stop, right outside.
We all rush to the windows like we're in a sitcom, crowding around, pressing our faces to the glass, and—
"Wooow," I breathe.
Two fire trucks have pulled up in front of Washington's house. Actual fire trucks, red and gleaming, with Station 42 printed on the sides. And climbing out of them, dressed in their gear like they're responding to an actual emergency, are the firefighters.
Marcus leads the pack, and before anyone can say anything, Becker's flying out the front door without a coat, sprinting through the snow like a golden retriever who just heard the word walk.
He crashes into Marcus, wrapping his arms around the firefighter in a hug that lifts Marcus slightly off the ground.
"Fucking finally!" Becker's voice carries back to us.
Marcus, laughing, pats Becker's back. "Heard you needed some help."
The firefighters unload equipment from the trucks—shovels, more lights, what appears to be some kind of massive heating unit—and I watch in amazement as they immediately get to work.
They start clearing the backyard, working in teams, shoveling in synchronized patterns that probably have names I don't know. It's like watching a very cold, very practical ballet.
I head outside, grabbing my coat on the way, and the cold hits me like a slap. The temperature's dropped significantly in just the last hour, and the wind is picking up, turning the gentle snowfall into something more aggressive.
Washington's backyard is easily big enough for a regulation-sized rink if you're not picky about exact dimensions, but it's currently covered in about six inches of snow and growing, which is where the firefighters come in.
I watch them work for a moment, before I remember I have about seventeen things I'm supposed to be coordinating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find 87 unread messages in the group chat.
I can't deal with that right now.
I open my task management app instead, scrolling through the list that's been growing all day:
? Confirm streaming equipment (Becker)
? Secure generators (Jinx)
? Test backup power (IN PROGRESS)
? Set up adoption station (Mama Paws + Leila)
? Flood rink (WAITING ON SNOW CLEARING)
? Coordinate food/beverage (Kayla + Hunter)
? Social media campaign (???)
Right. Social media. I was supposed to handle that hours ago.
I head back inside, shaking snow off my coat, and find a quiet corner in what I assume to be Leila's home office. I pull up my laptop, connect to the Wi-Fi, and dial Philip's mom.
She answers on the second ring, her face filling the screen. She's in her sixties, wearing reading glasses on a chain, sitting in what looks like a very cozy living room. “Hey, Mrs. Parks.”
"Devon, honey! How's the chaos?"
"Chaotic. I need your extraordinary brain."
"Flattery will get you everywhere. What do you need?"
I catch her up on the situation—the storm, the last-minute pivot, the livestream, the need to get as many eyes on this as possible.
She listens, nodding, occasionally jotting notes on a pad of paper, and when I'm done, she adjusts her glasses and says, "Okay. Here's what you're going to do."
For the next twenty minutes, she walks me through social media strategy like she's a marketing professor and I'm a student who showed up to class unprepared.
Hashtags: #BlizzardBowl #PucksForPaws #ChicagoStrong #HockeyForGood
Posting schedule: Start teasing now, ramp up as game time approaches, go live with behind-the-scenes content
Platforms: Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, Facebook—hit 'em all.
Engagement: Respond to comments, repost user content, make it interactive
She's in the middle of explaining optimal posting times when Leila walks in, holding a sandwich like it's a weapon.
"Devon."
I hold up a finger. "One second, I'm—"
"Devon." She walks over, physically places the sandwich in my hand, and crosses her arms. "Eat."
"I don't have time to—"
"Eat or I'm telling Ace you're not taking care of yourself."
I stare at her. "That's a low blow."
"I know." She's not even slightly sorry. "Eat."
I take a bite of the sandwich—turkey and Swiss, actually pretty good—while Mrs. Parks laughs on the screen.
"Your friend is right, you know," she says in her mom-voice. "Can't save the world on an empty stomach."
"Fine. I'm eating. Happy?"
"Delirious," Leila says, then leaves, apparently satisfied that I won't die of malnutrition in the next ten minutes.
By the time I finish the call and the sandwich, it's after 6 PM.
The storm has intensified significantly. I can hear the wind howling outside, rattling the windows, and when I look out, I can barely see the firefighters still working in the backyard. The snow is coming down sideways now, visibility reduced to almost nothing.
But through the white mess, I can see lights.
Industrial work lights, strung up around the perimeter of what will be the rink, creating this almost magical glow through the falling snow. It looks like something out of a winter movie, the kind where everything works out in the end and everyone learns a valuable lesson about teamwork.
I just hope life imitates art.
I head back outside, bundled in every layer I own, and survey the progress.
The rink is taking shape. The snow's been cleared, the ground leveled as much as possible. They're flooding it now, multiple hoses going at once, water spreading across the cleared area and immediately starting to freeze in the brutal cold.
Becker's set up his streaming equipment under a covered area designed for summer barbecues. He's got multiple cameras positioned at different angles, a laptop running diagnostics, and enough cables to connect half of Chicago.
Wall's constructing makeshift boards using plywood and sheer determination. They're not regulation height, obviously, and they're definitely not going to a player crashing into them at full speed, but they'll define the playing area and that's good enough.
Petrov's showing a group of firefighters his technique for smoothing ice by hand—something about weight distribution and using your body heat strategically. I don't understand it, but they're all nodding like it makes perfect sense.
Coach Martin arrives at some point, and he's not alone. He's brought two referees in full gear—actual professional refs who apparently owe him favors—and a guy in his fifties wearing a heavy coat and carrying what looks like professional broadcasting equipment.
"Devon, this is Steve," Coach says. "He's an announcer. He's going to call the game."
Steve offers his hand, and I shake it.
The garage has been transformed into the Adoption Station.
Portable heaters blast warm air, making it actually comfortable.
Mama Paws and Leila have set up photos of all the animals, printed information cards with names and personality descriptions, and a laptop connected to the shelter's website for virtual meet-and-greets.
Mama Paws is crying, happy tears this time, as she arranges photos of Candy, making sure she's front and center.
"She's going to get so many applications," she says, wiping her eyes. "They all are."
Papa Paws arrives with tools and lumber and immediately starts building a small platform near the rink for the announcer.
I'm running between locations—backyard, garage, kitchen, back to backyard—coordinating, troubleshooting, putting out small fires (metaphorical ones, thankfully, because we don't need to distract our firefighters right now).
My phone keeps dying from the cold. I've started keeping it tucked inside my coat, against my body, just to keep the battery alive.
At one point, I'm hauling another box of supplies toward the garage when I pass Ace coming from the opposite direction, arms full of lighting equipment.
We stop and look at each other, and he smiles. "Hey."
"Hey yourself."
We stand there for maybe five seconds, just looking at each other, grinning like idiots, before we both remember we have jobs to do and keep moving.
But I'm smiling for the next twenty minutes.
By 10 PM, everyone's exhausted. We've been going for eight hours straight, working in increasingly brutal conditions, and we're all running on caffeine and fumes.
Washington gathers everyone in the backyard, and we huddle together against the cold and wind, a small army of freezing, determined people.
"The stream goes live at noon tomorrow," he says, voice carrying over the wind. "We've got fourteen hours to make this perfect."
"The storm's supposed to peak right around game time," Jinx adds, looking at his phone.
"So we'll be playing hockey in a blizzard," Groover says.
Becker throws his arms up. "Like a bunch of absolute legends!"
Everyone cheers, the sound swallowed by the wind but no less genuine for it.
I slip away from the group, needing a moment to myself, and to just breathe. I end up behind the garage, in a small sheltered area where the wind isn't quite as brutal. I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and try to remember the last time I felt this alive.
I can't.
"There you are."
I open my eyes.
Ace is there, snow caught in his dark hair, cheeks flushed from the cold, looking at me with those impossibly intense eyes.
He moves closer, into the small sheltered space, and we're standing maybe a foot apart. I can see my breath in the cold air, then his, mingling together in the space between us.
"You know this is insane, right?" he says.
"Completely."
"And it might not work."
"It'll work."
"How do you know?"
I step closer, closing the gap, feeling the warmth radiating off him despite the cold. "Because you're here. The team's here. Everyone who matters is here. How could it not work?"
He cups the back of my neck, his hand warm, and pulls me in.
The kiss is soft and slow and perfect, snowflakes falling around us, and for just a moment, the chaos and stress and uncertainty all fade away.
When we pull back, I'm grinning. "We should get back."
"One more minute," he says, and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me.
I lean into his solid warmth, pressing my face against his chest, and just…stay.
When did I become the kind of person who wants moments like this? When did I become the one who wants to stay?
I don't have an answer.
But standing here in the snow, in Ace's arms, with a ridiculous charity hockey game happening in less than fourteen hours, I think maybe I don't need one.