Chapter 11 #2
“Seriously, Rowan. If you really don’t want to talk about it, fine, I respect that.
But it does make me curious. It’s something I think about a lot.
It’s something that comes up with Jason all the time.
When he talks about what’s going on with his business and his clients, planning for the future is inevitable.
” I pause, then add, a bit more gently, “Surely it’s something that’s crossed your mind. ”
His expression hardens. “Are you saying it’s time for me to hang up my skates?”
I crack up. “I am not critiquing your hockey skills. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re one of the top defenders in the league, aren’t you? You’ll play forever.”
“That’s the goal. Or at least forever in hockey years.”
“Let’s say you play until you’re forty, which is what—fifteen years away?”
His gaze cuts to me, and he’s clearly unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m twenty-five with a nine-year-old.”
I laugh. “Okay, fine. But really—is there life after hockey for you?” My voice softens, a little more vulnerable. I want him to know I appreciate that this isn’t an easy thing to discuss. “Is it hard for you to think about?”
He exhales. “Yeah. Honestly, it kind of is.”
I stay quiet, letting him speak.
“I mean, you dedicate your whole life to this,” he continues against the backdrop of endless trees, a thin blanket of white, and all this stillness.
“You put on skates when you’re three or four.
You start learning how to skate backward, how to shoot, how to pass.
” He mimes swinging a stick. “Then you spend the next fifteen years perfecting it—through juniors, through college. And if you’re lucky—if you’re good, if you’re elite—you get to play in the NHL.
And you hope it’s not just for a game. You hope it’s for a season. Then another one. And then another.”
He pauses, and I think this is the highest number of words he’s ever strung together in front of me.
But it’s not just the words.
It’s the passion behind them.
This is the Rowan who talks about his daughter, about his dog, about his friends—the things he loves deeply. His career is no exception.
“That makes sense,” I say, nodding for him to keep going, since I’m spellbound.
His green eyes flicker with a brand-new intensity.
“And every year, when the season ends, you hope for the next one. That’s the thing about playing at a high level—hell, doing anything at a high level.
It’s not just talent and skill. You have to have hope.
And you have to be willing to dip back into that well of hope every single year, every single game, every single season. ”
“You do,” I say, since I want him to know I agree. I hear him.
“Some days, it’s hard to have that hope.” His voice drops slightly. “But I still have it. I have hope for next season. I have hope for this season. I have hope for many more. That kind of hope? It doesn’t seem to ever die.”
I’m actually deeply touched. More than I’d expected to be. My chest feels a little light, floaty in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “I like that,” I say quietly. “I believe that. I think we have to have hope, especially in a world where things feel uncertain every day.”
“Same,” he says. Then, after a beat, his lips curve slightly. “But if you really want to know…”
His tone is playful, like he’s dangling the last bite of dessert in front of me.
And I want that bite. I really want it. I want to do right by him in the romance department.
I’m desperate to find him the kind of love even a grump deserves.
And, of course, I want to prove, too, that love matters. “I do want to know,” I say.
He licks his lips, then holds my gaze, his eyes softening with vulnerability once more. “I’d like to coach.”
My heart swells from the admission. Rowan really shared with me. No jokes. No posturing. Just real honesty. And I’m over the moon about it. “I can picture that perfectly,” I say, then try on the title for size. “Coach Bishop.”
“You can?”
“I can,” I say, meaning it completely.
He stares at me, seeming a little amazed. “I would’ve figured this was a prime opportunity for you to rip me apart.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
He scrubs a hand over his beard, his brow furrowing, but his tone curious as he asks, “Why do you say you can picture it?”
“Because of what you just said. I don’t think I could’ve pictured it before—you as a coach. I’ve always thought of you as just kind of a grump.”
His face remains stern, like he has to reinforce the tough-guy image he’s cultivated so well. An image he relishes? Or just an outfit he wears every day because it fits him—like a well-worn hoodie? I’m not sure why he wears it again and again. I just know he does. But he stripped it off.
“Now though?” I continue. “I see a different side of you. I can see you giving speeches to young hockey players. Motivating them.” The world around us is quiet, containing only a dusting of snow, the chirp of birds in the trees, the distant sound of wind through the firs.
I imagine a version of Rowan beyond playing hockey.
I see it. Most of all, I believe it. “You’re going to be a great coach someday. ”
Something flickers in his expression. A rare hint of a smile breaks through his usual scowl. “Thanks,” he says, his voice quieter than normal. “I appreciate that.”
It’s said without ribbing. Without sarcasm. Just…sincerity.
And for the first time, I feel like I’ve really broken through with him. Like I’m getting somewhere at last. It gives me hope, this moment. It makes me believe that I can deliver on the Christmas miracle of finding him a match, stat.
“You’re going to use this against me, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Of course I am,” I say breezily. Then I point to the tree I’ve been eyeing. “Now, get sawing, Coach Bishop.”
“I will. But under one condition.”
Uh-oh. “What’s that?” I ask warily.
“Why don’t you do your podcast anymore?”
It’s a little out of the blue, but not entirely since we’re talking about our careers, and Love Unscripted was a big part of mine.
“I swear. It’s exactly what I told you at the auction—I wanted to focus on this.
On matchmaking. I also believe that to do this job well, you have to put your whole heart and soul into it.
I didn’t want to be pulled in two directions, serving the goddess of subscribers and downloads, and trying to get great sound bites on social media to grow the advertisers, all while devoting time to finding love matches.
I did it for a while when I was working for another matchmaking company, but once I went out on my own, I knew I needed to do one thing really well—find great matches for my clients at Cupid’s Confidante. ”
Rowan seems to give that some real thought, then nods. “I hear you—you want to give it your best.”
“Romance deserves my best. I’m sure you feel the same about hockey.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re always trying to read me.”
I smile. “Of course I am. Like I said, it’s my job.” I take a beat, blow out a breath and let the vulnerable moment pass. “And now, will you pretty please finally cut down the tree?”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He hands me his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and kneels beside the tree I’ve chosen. His forearms flex, the veins in them standing out as he grips the saw.
Oh. That’s real nice.
And right now what I want more than anything is what I have—this view.
“Pull the tree gently from the cutting side,” he tells me.
This definitely isn’t his first Christmas tree rodeo. I grasp some branches while watching him work.
He sets the blade against the trunk and cuts with clean, efficient strokes—no wasted effort, no hesitation. The rhythm is steady, precise. Muscle memory from years of handling tools and fixing things when needed, I presume.
He looks strong as he cuts. Like he could toss that tree over his shoulder with practiced ease.
The scent of fresh-cut pine rises, sharp in the cold air. And if I didn’t have lumberjack fantasies before? I do now.
The back-and-forth movement, the steady rhythm, the relentless pace…it’s a metaphor all right. Lumberjack porn is my new kink unlocked.
When he’s done, the tree topples into my arms. He sets down the saw, grabs the tree from me, and hoists it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Yes, sir.
“This why you tricked me into coming? My tree-carrying services?”
“And I’m so glad I did,” I say, licking my lips and momentarily forgetting why it’s a bad idea to flirt with clients.
I swear he lifts it a little higher. Like he’s showboating for me. Letting me enjoy the view once more.
I carry his coat and the saw as we march back along the path toward the farm. “If the coaching thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future as a lumberjack. You’d look great in flannel,” I say, returning to the safer territory of teasing him.
He snorts. “That’s your takeaway from this whole thing?”
“I’m just saying—I could match you at least thirty percent more if you were a lumberjack.”
“Tempting.”
Yes. He’s very, very tempting. “Oh, trust me, it is tempting,” I say, then quickly add, since I have to stop myself, “it’s tempting to put that in your bio.”
He tosses me a look—sexy, sly, those green eyes twinkling with amusement. “And is that how you’re going to pitch me for all these matches you’re setting up before I’m out of commission? ‘Looks good as a lumberjack?’”
Evidently, that would do it for me. “You’re getting the hang of things.”
“In your dreams, Isla. In your dreams.”
I jerk my gaze away.
Because oddly enough, he did star in my dreams the other night. But I refuse to put any stock in that. Dreams are just your brain sorting through the detritus of the day. For whatever reason, the detritus of my day featured Rowan in candy cane boxers, decorating a Christmas tree.
Dreams are such silly things.
Best to dismiss them fast when reality hits as the day dawns.
But when we’re emerging from the tranquil woods, reality must hit Rowan since he catches a glimpse of his watch, then mutters, “Oh shit.”