Chapter 11
Colt
The blade on my skate kisses ice for the first time in a month, and I nearly burst into tears like a goddamn rookie at his first open skate.
I push off slow, the rink stretching out beneath me in a sheet of glass-smooth perfection. The hum of the cooling system, the scrape of steel, the cold air biting at my cheeks… all of it floods back in like a song I forgot I knew the words to.
I'm home.
"OH MY GOD, BOYS, LOOK!" Cade comes flying across the ice toward me at warp speed, his stick clutched like a sword. "It's an antique! A relic! A genuine museum piece, fresh out of retirement!"
My eyes roll back. "Fuck off, Jensen."
"Careful, fellas, don't startle him. He's brittle." Cade skates a circle around me, hands on his hips like a tour guide. "If you look closely, you can see the cobwebs forming around his joints."
"I will end you."
"With what? Your walker?"
I lunge at him, but he's too quick, cackling as he carves a tight turn at the far blue line. I go to give chase, but Willa skates over from the boards, her iPad in hand and an expression dialed to don't even think about it.
"We're starting out slow, remember." She raises an eyebrow. "Twenty more laps at an easy pace. If I see one stride that looks like aggression, I'm pulling you."
"Yes, ma'am."
I push off, gliding past the bench where Samuel's lacing up. He doesn't say anything when I pass… just gives me a nod that feels like a welcome back.
Gabe's at the far end, working through some defensive drills with Theo, but when he spots me, he straightens up and skates toward the boards.
"Hey, man." He stops a respectable distance away, like he's still not entirely sure I've forgiven him. "Good to see you back."
"Thanks, big guy."
"If you, uh… need anything today... Water. A break. Whatever." He shrugs, dodging my eyes. "Yell out. Yeah?"
I grin. "Devereaux. You keep being this nice to me, people are gonna talk."
That achieves an eyeroll and a collectable Gabe grunt. Success.
"Forget I said anything."
He grunts and skates off, but there's a smile on his face as he goes. Fuck, this is what I missed. The casual cruelty wrapped in genuine affection. The chirping that really means I'm glad you're here.
Willa sends me on my way, and I push into my laps, settling into a rhythm that feels almost like my old pace.
And then, somewhere around lap twelve, my brain wanders to exactly the place I shouldn't let it.
Zoey.
The locker room. The way she cried in my arms and somehow made me feel more needed than any goal I've ever scored.
I've never had that. Never had someone fall apart against my chest and trust me to hold the pieces.
Hell, I've had women come undone for me a thousand different ways, but not like that. The handjob-weeping combo has been playing on a loop ever since she went home that night.
"It's been so long, Colt."
Unfortunately, she's been so busy that I haven't seen her since.
But I shake it off and force my legs to keep moving, because I finally get to see her later this afternoon.
I'm rounding the goal line when Delaney appears at the boards, leaning over the glass in a black coat with her hand wrapped around a Frost Café cup.
"Morning, Lane."
"Evans."
"How's the return going?"
"Like an angel choir descended from heaven," I say, winking through a smile.
"Um, okay." She sips her coffee. "How's the other situation going?"
I glide to a stop, leaning my forearms on the boards. "If you mean the ambassador role, everything's progressing nicely. I'll swing by Butter Batch right after this."
Her lips curve into a knowing smile, those icy blue eyes seeing right through me.
"I'm sure you will, Lane."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I have eyes." She taps her temple with one nail. "And I have ears. I also have a brain that connects very obvious dots you keep leaving around in the events room."
Oh shit.
"Del—"
"It's fine, Colt. The launch party is shaping up beautifully." She smiles into her coffee. "All those additional contributions you're making… they're nice touches. Just give me a heads up if there's anything I can do to help you further… woo… our girl."
My gut sinks and I cut her a piercing stare.
My plans. The things I've been quietly, carefully nudging into motion behind Zoey's back whenever I get a spare moment. I need everything to go perfectly at the launch event, for her. For Zoey to finally see her dreams aren't as far away as she thinks.
"Delaney. You can't tell Zoey," I hiss.
"Oh, relax. Your secret's safe with me." She winks and pushes off the boards. "For now. Skate well, ambassador."
She strides off, heels clicking against the rubber matting, and I watch her go with my heart in my throat.
"LANE!" Willa's voice cuts across the rink. "Stop loitering! You've still got five more laps!"
I push off the boards and finish strong.
The bell above Butter Batch's door chimes as I push through, and the smell is…
It's wrong.
The usual punch of melted butter and vanilla has been replaced by the unmistakable stench of something that's been burning.
I pinch my nose, and look around while my eyes water from the smell.
Jesus. The bakery is a mess.
The display case sits half-empty, glass smudged with fingerprints. Crumbs are scattered all across the floor in a trail from the counter to the back kitchen, and the trash cans are overflowing in every corner.
"What the f—"
"Oh, Colt. Thank God you're finally here." Morgan's at the window table, hunched over her homework. Her voice is quiet as her eyes dart to the back kitchen. "Mom's having a day."
"Yeah?" I drop my sports bag by the door. "How bad?"
Morgan glances toward the kitchen, then back at me, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"Well, maybe you should see for yourself."
I nod and go out back, but fuck me. The kitchen is a disaster too.
Three trays sit on the counter, each one holding a charred tragedy. Tray one has pastries that look like they got stuck in a deflation device. Tray two looks like the oven turned on them halfway through cooking. Tray three… I'm not even sure what tray three was supposed to be.
And in the middle of it all is Zoey.
She's got her hair scraped back into a knot that's losing the battle on three sides. There's something on her cheek, a smear of something else on her apron, and from where I'm standing, I'm pretty sure she has actual food chunks in her hair.
Her hands are braced on the counter, head down. She's not crying. But she's close.
"Zo."
She doesn't look up. "Colt, please. Not now. I can't—"
I just cross the kitchen, pull her gently away from the counter, and wrap her up in my arms.
She makes a sound. A small, broken little sound that goes straight through my chest and lodges itself somewhere it's not coming out of anytime soon. Her forehead drops to my collarbone and her body just gives way, all the tension she's been holding melting against me in one long exhale.
I hold her tighter, squeezing her between my arms.
"I've got you."
"I can't get it right." Her voice is muffled into my sweater.
"I've tried it four different ways and none of them taste right.
I can't find my fucking notebook, and I have a supplier meeting in—" She lifts her head and squints at the clock.
"Fifty-three minutes. The front is a mess, and Morgan needs help—"
"Hey. Hey." I hold her face in my hands, thumbs sweeping her cheekbones as I consider telling her I have her notebook. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe for one second."
Her eyes meet mine and she breathes deep.
It's shaky, but it's a breath.
"There you go." I tilt her chin up. "Why don't you head down the street and grab a coffee before the supplier meeting?
Get out of here for a few minutes, breathe some air that doesn't taste like a house fire, and order Harold's triple shot special.
I'm telling you, that thing could broker world peace and you'll feel better. Promise."
"Colt—"
"Go. I've got everything else. Morgs and I will clean the front. Right, kid?" I call over my shoulder.
Morgan's now standing in the kitchen doorway, watching us with the unimpressed expression of a child who has been observing questionable adult behavior for far too long.
"I guess." She slumps her shoulders dramatically. "But I'm missing valuable cartoon time, so just know that."
"Noted." I look back at Zoey. "Go. Change your shirt, fix that—" I gently pluck the chunk of pastry out of her hair, "—situation, and crush that meeting."
She stares at the pastry chunk in my hand like she didn't even know it was there.
"How long has that been—"
"I have no idea."
She laughs. It's wet and tired but it's a laugh, and she leans up on her toes to press a quick kiss to my cheek.
"Thank you."
She squeezes Morgan's shoulder on her way out, mutters something about being back in an hour to 'find that damn notebook,' and disappears upstairs to make herself look less like a woman who lost a fight with a flour bag.
The bakery falls quiet and Morgan stares up at me.
"So, Superman. What's the plan?"
I roll up my sleeves and plant my fists on my hips. "First, we clean up the front like our lives depend on it. Then we get the hell out of here before your mom comes back and finds something else to stress about."
"Get out of here and go where?"
I shrug. "I dunno. You know everything… where do you want to go?"
Her eyes go wide. "The playground?!"
"Done."
I cross to the speaker behind the counter, plug in my phone, and crank the music to some old-school hip-hop.
Morgan's eyebrows climb to her hairline.
"This is your cleaning music?"
"This is everyone's cleaning music." I grab a broom and start sweeping, doing a little spin move with the handle that almost takes out a display stand. "Rule one. You don't clean efficiently if you're not dancing. Rule two. The broom is your partner. Treat her with respect."
Morgan does a full belly laugh. "You're so weird."
I dip the broom like I'm leading it through a waltz, then pop it up and rest it across my shoulders. "You love it."
Morgan is laughing so hard she has to sit on the floor.