Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ismelled the coffee before I even opened my eyes.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Everything felt still in a way that took me a second to place. Dani was usually quiet in the mornings, but never like this.
I pushed myself up onto one elbow, the sheets shifting around my waist. I glanced toward the kitchen—the space was spotless, but there were signs she had been there. A ceramic mug sat on the counter. Next to it was a folded piece of paper.
Had to get to the arena early for meetings. Coffee’s in the machine. Don’t skip breakfast. I’ll see you soon.
There was no signature. There didn’t need to be.
I stood at the kitchen counter for a moment longer, the note in my hand. I reread the last line: I’ll see you soon. It shouldn’t have meant anything beyond logistics. It was a game day. Of course I would see her soon.
Still, the sentiment lingered.
I set the note back down and poured myself a cup of coffee.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the residual heat seep into my palms. It felt strange, how quickly this had started to feel normal.
Waking up in her space. Finding small, understated evidence that she had thought about me before she left.
I took a sip of coffee and then reached for my phone, already mentally shifting into work mode.
There would be player updates to check, notes to review, a dozen small things that needed my attention before I stepped rinkside.
But even as I sifted through it, a part of me stayed anchored in the condo, in the quiet that she had left behind.
By the time I left for the game, I had folded the note and tucked it into my workbag without a second thought.
Game days always carried a certain kind of energy, something that built gradually until it filled every hallway, every corner of the building.
Equipment managers moved with purpose, players drifted in and out of rooms, and the low hum of conversation layered over the sharper sounds of skates against concrete and sticks tapping absently against walls.
I checked in with Mara in the production truck and exchanged a few words with Sam about our setup for the night.
I should have headed to my designated spot down in the lower bowl after my visit to hair and makeup.
Instead, I found myself glancing down the hallway that led to the home team’s locker room more often than necessary.
I told myself it was because I needed to confirm a few things with the coaching staff before puck drop. That was technically true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
I spotted her before she saw me.
Dani was standing just outside the entrance to the locker room, dressed down to her base layers, her shoulder pads in place over her undershirt. She was in conversation with one of the assistant coaches, nodding along to something being said.
For a moment, I just watched her.
It took her a second to notice me, but when she did, the shift was immediate. She said something to the coach and then stepped away, quickly closing the distance between us.
“You made it,” she said, her voice lighter now.
“It’s kind of my job,” I quipped.
Her mouth curved slightly. She took another step closer, her focus settling solely on me.
“Have you checked in with your mom today?” she asked.
“How much is she paying you?” I teased.
Dani held up her hands. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep both Marlowe women happy with me.”
“I called her on the way here,” I confirmed. “She’s good. She’s already decided she hates the walker the hospital gave her, so that’s going to be fun.”
Dani chuckled fondly. “Your poor dad.”
“She’s also completely taken over the first floor apartment,” I added, “which means I am officially displaced.”
Dani’s expression shifted to something more attentive. “You’re still planning on staying with me, right?”
I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to stay with her, but because I wanted to make sure I said it the right way.
“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about,” I said. “I didn’t want to just assume. I want to make sure you’re actually okay with it.”
She frowned slightly, like my words didn’t make sense to her. “Reese.”
“I’m serious,” I emphasized. “You’ve got your own routine, your own space. I don’t want to disrupt that if—”
“You’re not disrupting anything,” she said, cutting in. “I asked you to stay.”
“I know. I just …” I exhaled, trying to articulate my concerns without overcomplicating it. “I don’t want this to turn into something where we’re just defaulting into being roommates because I’m temporarily unhoused.”
Something flickered across her face. “Is that what you think this is?”
“No,” I said immediately. “That’s exactly why I’m asking. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
Dani shifted a little closer. She lowered her voice just enough so passersby were in no risk of overhearing us.
“I like you being there,” she said. “Not because it’s convenient. I like it because it’s you.”
The simplicity caught me off guard.
She held my gaze. “I like waking up and knowing you’re there. I like coming home to you.”
I let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I just needed to hear that.”
She nodded once, like that made sense to her.
“And for the record,” she added, “we’re definitely more than roommates.”
The corner of my mouth lifted before I could stop it. “Good. That would have been a really confusing development.”
“I try to keep things clear,” she winked.
“That’s not how I would describe you.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, but before she could respond, a small voice cut into our conversation.
“Dani!”
We both turned.
Charlotte stood a few feet away, practically vibrating with excitement. She wore a Boston home jersey that was at least two sizes too big. I had a sneaky suspicion that Dani’s name and jersey number were probably on the back.
She clutched a handmade sign in both hands. The words on the poster board were a little crooked, the letters uneven but bold: CALLAHAN = THE GOAT. Glitter had been applied aggressively and without restraint.
Behind her, her parents hovered close by, both smiling in that careful, hopeful way I’d come to recognize.
Dani’s entire face lit up.
“Hey, superstar!” she greeted, crouching down slightly as Charlotte rushed forward.
“I made this,” Charlotte announced, thrusting the sign toward her.
“I can see that,” Dani said, taking the homemade sign carefully like it was something fragile and important. “This is incredible. Did you use all the glitter in the state of Massachusetts?”
Charlotte beamed. “Most of it.”
“You did a great job.”
Charlotte leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing classified information. “You have to win now.”
Dani nodded solemnly. “Well, yeah. Obviously. The pressure’s on.”
I stepped back slightly to give them space, but Dani reached out without looking and caught my hand. It was only for a brief moment, but her fingers lightly squeezed mine before she let go.
The volume picked up inside the locker room, and Dani glanced over her shoulder.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, handing the sign back carefully. “You’re sitting where you can hold this up the whole game, right?”
Charlotte nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“Good,” Dani said, still smiling. “I’ll be looking for it.”
She straightened, her attention shifting back to me for one last moment. There was something in her expression that felt like a continuation of the conversation we hadn’t quite finished.
“Rinkside?” she asked.
“Where else would I be?” I rhetorically replied.
She held my gaze for a second longer, nodded once and turned, disappearing through the locker room doors.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder and shifted back to the version of myself that belonged on the other side of the glass.
The game was about to start.
It was harder than usual to focus on players not named Dani Callahan.
I kept my attention where it needed to be, delivering updates to the broadcast booth between whistles, feeding stats to Sam, and listening to Mara in my ear, but my gaze found Dani more often than I wanted to admit.
At the first intermission, I moved efficiently through my segment, summarizing the period’s action while delivering a quick interview with one of Boston’s assistant coaches.
I’d spotted Charlotte a few rows up from the glass, her sign lifted high every time Dani came within her line of sight.
Even from where I stood, I could see the green and blue glitter catching the arena lights.
Dani noticed it, too. I saw it in the brief flicker of her attention toward the stands during a stoppage, the small lift at the corner of her mouth before she reset for a faceoff.
Normal. Everything felt normal.
The second period started the same way.
The game tightened as the period wore on, every pass contested, every loose puck a battle. I shifted along the boards to stay clear of the play, my eyes tracking the puck as it cycled through the neutral zone.
Dani jumped over the boards for a line change, her skates cutting into the ice as she accelerated into the play. I noted it automatically, mentally constructing the sentence I would use if the shift turned into something worth mentioning.
She stepped up to intercept a clearing pass near the blue line, keeping the puck in the zone with a controlled flip that redirected the puck along the boards. It was the kind of small, smart play that kept a possession alive.
The puck slid towards the boards behind Ottawa’s goalie. Dani skated hard to chase it down.
One of Ottawa’s defensive players converged on the puck from the opposite side. I saw her at the same time Dani did, their paths narrowing, the angle tightening in a way that made something in my chest tense before I fully understood why.
It happened fast.
One second, Dani was driving toward the puck, her body angled forward, weight shifting on her skates to cut behind the opponent’s net.
In the next, the hit came.