Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Clark
The rink parking lot is nearly empty when I pull in. Frost glitters on the pavement like someone dumped a snowglobe under the floodlights. Even for December, the air feels colder than usual—the kind that seeps into your bones and takes me back to skating on frozen ponds as a kid.
I’ve always loved the crisp air on my face and the fog of my breath.
Grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, I hum a tune as I sling it over my shoulder.
Christmas songs are stuck in my head on repeat.
Every day at the family tree farm, holiday music pipes out over the speakers, worming its way into my brain—even though I’m not in the holiday mood.
I head straight for the coffee truck, which serves the best brew in town from a converted school bus.
“Morning, Clark,” Jenny says, poking her head out the window. “Usual?”
She slides a steaming cup across the counter like she’s been waiting for me. A smirk tugs at her mouth, and she’s looking at me funny.
I pat my damp hair. “What?”
“Nothing.” She snickers. “Didn’t think you’d be back to your old ways so soon.”
I take a cautious sip. “My old ways?”
“Don’t play dumb. Whole town’s talking about it.”
I nearly choke. “Talking about what?”
“You and the mystery woman.”
I blink. Twice. “I don’t—”
She winks. “Yeah, sure you don’t. Enjoy practice, Ice Prince.”
My ears ring with the old nickname. The tabloids used to call me that—back when I had a different woman after every game and our pictures always landed on gossip sites.
By the time I get inside the rink, my cheeks burn hotter than the coffee. If Jenny knows about the kiss, who else does? And who’s to blame—Ingrid? Laura?
I may have ruined my reputation for a woman who didn’t even call me back.
Shedding my coat, I avoid eye contact with the parents in the bleachers, wondering if they know too.
A handful of kids are already skating in circles, helmets bobbing, sticks clattering in chaotic rhythm.
Mike skates toward me, whistle bouncing against his chest. He doesn’t look thrilled.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Two minutes,” I protest, holding up my coffee like proof.
“Two minutes is two minutes.” His tone has that fatherly edge that makes me feel fifteen again.
“Relax. It’s practice. The kids barely noticed.”
“They noticed.” He folds his arms. “Everything you do, Clark—they notice. You’re not just some guy anymore. You’re a role model.”
The word lands heavy. “I know. I take this seriously.”
“Do you?” His eyes narrow.
I lace up my skates. “What are you talking about?”
Mike pulls out his phone and shoves it under my nose. The kiss cam photo—with Jess.
I yank my laces tighter. “That’s none of your business.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a girlfriend. If that’s true, fine. But don’t ruin your reputation just when it’s getting back on track. We need coaches who are steady. Reliable.”
Heat crawls up my neck—equal parts embarrassment and irritation. No point telling him how much I wish Jess was my girlfriend. She ghosted me weeks ago.
“I’m saying this because I care,” Mike adds. “Be careful. You’ve worked too hard to be a regular guy again.”
I nod stiffly. “A regular guy? What does that mean?”
“A guy we can trust here in Starlight Bay. Not the kind who disappears tomorrow.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I call after him, but he’s already skating away.
Needing to sweat out my frustration, I hit the ice with the kids. We sprint, skate, and laugh until the tension in my chest starts to ease. Watching them enjoy the game takes me back to when hockey was pure fun. The empty space inside me fills with satisfaction.
This is why I came home—not just to help at the farm or be there for Ingrid and her baby, but to be Coach Clark for the next generation.
“Oof.” Mike clutches his back and winces as he skates by.
“What happened?” I call.
“Forty years of coaching happened.” He parks himself on the bench and tosses me his whistle. “Take over?”
I loop the whistle over my neck with a reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts. He’s never handed it to me before. For a moment, I’m on top of the world—until Landon trips Trevor and Maggie calls Scott a “Turtalincus.” Whatever a Turtalincus is, Scott doesn’t approve.
“Line up!” I blow the whistle for the first time. “Superman Drill!”
The kids cheer and race to the goal line, eager to be the first to dive like superheroes.
By the end of practice, everyone’s flushed and sweaty. I gather the stray pucks, lungs burning in the best way, and head to check on Mike in the office.
“You gonna make it, old man?”
“Back’s gone,” he mutters.
I grimace. “Sorry, Coach.”
He groans and gets to his feet. “I need your help.”
“Uh, maybe you need a chiropractor?”
“Not that kind of help.” He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a red velvet bag. “I need you to be Santa.”
I stare at it like it’s radioactive. “Not Santa.”
“Yes,” Mike says flatly. “Skating Santa, to be precise.”
“Absolutely not.”
He tosses the bag at my feet. “Suit up. Make sure it fits.”
“Suit up?” I echo. “Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.”
“As a lump of coal in your nephew’s stocking.”
A fake white beard tumbles out. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be Santa.”
“The kids have been looking forward to this since July,” Mike says, guilt thick in his voice.
“So find a volunteer. A mall Santa. Literally anyone else.”
He smirks. “You’re perfect for the role. Grumpy exterior, soft heart buried deep inside. Just like Santa.”
“Santa’s supposed to be jolly, not—whatever this is.”
“Clark.” His tone drops into that no-nonsense coach voice I know too well. “It’s for the kids. Don’t make me beg.”
I groan, drag a hand down my face, and grab the bag like it wronged me personally. “Fine. But I’m not ho-ho-ho-ing. Don’t even ask.”
“Try it on,” Mike says, grinning.
“What? Right now?”
“Right now.”
Five minutes later, I’m glaring at my reflection. The pants are two sizes too small, seams straining around my thighs, hems three inches short. I look like the Hulk mid-transformation.
The coat smells like mothballs. The beard’s elastic strap snaps against my head like it’s trying to take me out.
Mike’s doubled over laughing, clutching his bad back.
“Perfect,” he wheezes. “Santa’s been hitting the weight room.”
“Santa looks like he lost a bet,” I mutter, tugging the beard, which snaps back to bite my chin.
The hat slides over one eye. I shove it back up.
Mike slaps my thigh, still howling, then wincing.
I close my eyes, resigned to humiliation. “I hate you, Mike.”
“Ho-ho-ho.”