Chapter 15 Colt #2
The three of us, in a sun-drenched kitchen on a Sunday morning, batter everywhere, cards on the floor, the TV playing cartoons that no one is watching in the background.
It feels so real I just want to snap a photo and send it to my parents.
This is what parenting should look like.
"Time for pancakes," Morgan announces, sliding off her stool and apparently completely abandoning her card trick.
“So, Morgs,” I ask, loading blueberry pancake onto Zoey’s plate. “What was the best part of last night? The brownies? The tarts?”
Morgan, mouth full of chocolate chip pancake already, holds up a syrup-dripping finger.
“Did you see Cade Jensen with the chocolate fountain? He kept trying to get a strawberry on the stick and it kept falling in. He did it, like, six times. Aunt Paige was filming the whole thing and laughing so hard she almost dropped her phone in the chocolate.”
Zoey leans against the counter beside me, so close I could kiss her. “I heard he ended up with chocolate on his suit.”
“It was everywhere,” Morgan corrects, eyes wide. “And then he tried to blame the stick, but we all saw. It was a skill issue.”
I laugh, handing Zoey her coffee. “Sounds like Jensen needs some hand-eye coordination drills. I’ll mention it to Coach.”
We eat like that, the three of us crowded around the island, Zoey and I standing, Morgan sitting across from us.
Zoey moans around a bite of blueberry pancake, and the sound takes me all the way back to this morning. Morgan tells us about how she convinced Isla that the cardamom twists were 'magic cinnamon' and that eating one would make you better at math.
I listen, I laugh, I pour more syrup.
And the whole time, this warm, terrifying feeling spreads through my chest.
This is the messy, sticky, perfect Sunday morning I never knew I wanted.
Zoey catches me staring while Morgan’s distracted drawing a syrup portrait of Prowl the mascot on her plate. She sets her coffee down and brushes a kiss to the top of Morgan's head.
"Go get dressed, kiddo. We're meeting your uncles for lunch at The Leopard Lounge at noon."
"Oh yes! Uncle Declan said he'd teach me how to arm-wrestle!" Morgan declares, racing out of the kitchen. "Don't worry Colt, I'll get payback on Gabe Devereaux for you!"
Zoey comes to stand beside me at the stove, laughing as her daughter's taunt echoes through the entire upstairs level. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." I lay my knife and fork down, completely stuffed. "You looked like you needed the sleep."
"I did." She leans her head against my shoulder for a second, and the simple gesture makes my chest ache. "Thank you. For last night. For… everything."
"Anytime, Morrison."
I dip down and kiss her, slow and deep, tasting blueberries and maple syrup on her lips. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, holding me there like she doesn't want to let go either.
When we break apart, my forehead rests against hers, and I open my mouth, ready to ask about us, about whether we need to tell Morgan what's going on, about whatever the hell this is becoming—
But then Zoey kisses me one last time, and before I can say anything, she says, "I'm gonna grab a shower."
"Right. Yeah." I clear my throat. "I'll do the cleanup. Then I better get down to The Den. Willa hates it when I'm late."
She disappears and I distract myself with the clean up.
The thing is…
I know what I want.
I want to show Zoey the world. Give her the damn empire she sketched out in that notebook. I want to watch her stand in a commercial kitchen ten times this size, wearing a chef’s coat and smiling like she knows she’s built it all herself.
I want to be the one Morgan runs to with her card tricks and her weird dolphin theories.
The problem is…
Now the worst of my injury is behind me, I’m not going to be just… here… all day every day. Hanging out, testing pastry recipes, dreaming up the next way to make her smile.
My life is about to kick back into gear.
Full throttle. Hockey 24/7.
Skating drills. Team meetings. Media prep. Game schedules. Away trips that’ll have me sleeping in hotel rooms in different cities for days at a time.
Not to mention the exhaustion that comes with it.
Soon, I won’t be the guy in her kitchen every morning. I’ll be the guy checking in via text from an airport lounge, missing pancake breakfasts and hoping I haven’t missed too much.
I stand there for so long, thinking about that life, that the soapy water turns lukewarm in the sink.
The back door swings open, and Morgan skips into the kitchen, her Snow Leopards jersey already on over a bright pink t-shirt, her hair in two messy braids.
“Buddy! Are you doing dishes?" She covers the cute giggle sound she makes. "You know, we have a dishwasher, right? It’s that big silver box under the counter.”
Then, she turns quiet for a moment, her small face unusually serious.
"I was just thinking… are you going to be here forever, or is it just for the partnership thing?"
I freeze, dish towel in hand, my entire body going still as I look at her.
Her big, hazel eyes are fixed on me, waiting.
And she’s not joking around.
"I'm not going anywhere, Morgs," I say, and for now, in this moment, it's the truest thing I know.
Zoey calls from the bedroom that they need to leave in five minutes. Morgan stays silent, watching me for another second, processing what I just said before she scrambles off to find her shoes without another word.
Fuck.
I finish drying the last plate, my mind racing. The question echoes in the quiet kitchen, mixing with the scent of maple syrup and the memory of Zoey's body warm against mine this morning.
My gaze lands on the kitchen counter.
There, half-hidden under a syrup-smeared plate, is a piece of paper. I lift the plate and see it's a drawing of three stick figures, lopsided and crooked, drawn in bright crayon.
There's a tall figure with yellow hair and a purple shirt—me. A medium figure with brown hair and a green apron—Zoey. And a small figure with wild hair and a unicorn horn on her head—Morgan.
The three of us are holding hands. And in the top right corner, a wonky love heart is colored in with so much red crayon it's nearly torn through the paper.
My heart almost explodes inside my damn chest.
I look around and find a Butter Batch Bakery magnet on the fridge. I lift the drawing and press the magnet over it, securing it front and center on the stainless steel door.
It looks like it belongs there.
Like we belong here.
Zoey appears in the hallway, pulling on a jacket. Morgan is hopping on one foot still trying to get her shoe on.
"Ready?" Zoey asks, her eyes finding the drawing on the fridge. She pauses, her expression softening for a split second. "We're running late. Declan will lecture me about punctuality for an hour."
"I'll try swing by after the recovery session at The Den," I say, wiping my hands on the dish towel.
"Oh. It's okay." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "My brothers can be… a lot. Especially all together. If you don't make it, don't stress. You've done enough just getting them here."
She ushers Morgan toward the door, and I follow them out, locking up behind me as Zoey’s words hang in the cold morning air long after they disappear down Main Street.
My SUV door clicks shut, sealing me in sudden, deafening quiet.
You’ve done enough.
A month ago, I would’ve taken that as a polite dismissal. The golden hockey boy being told to go home by a satisfied puck bunny.
But not now. Not after I fought through concussion fog just to be cleared. Not after I memorized every damn dream in her notebook, just to prove I could be more than a PR stunt.
I start the engine, but for the first time, the thought of The Den’s icy arena doesn’t spark that desperate hunger that got me here.
Because my dream isn’t on the ice anymore.
It’s walking down Main Street, holding the hand of a kid who draws stick-figure me into her family.
I’m not giving up.