24. Bethany
Chapter twenty-four
Bethany
The folder of rink invoices digs into my hip as I trudge toward the outdoor rink, and I clock a stranger near the boards.
She has a notebook out, pen moving, eyes tracking the fence line.
Expensive coat. Serious notebook. Boots built for more than walking to the mailbox.
I cross the snow toward her.
"Can I help you with something?" I ask.
She lowers the notebook an inch, and says she's "just checking in."
"Are you with the team?" I ask carefully.
She doesn't answer. Instead she asks, "did you know this property is currently under dispute?"
I suddenly know who I am talking to. "You must be Jessie."
"Oh, you've heard of me?"
She glances at the gate, then back at me. "Who's been handling the project repairs?"
"Me," I say.
She tilts her head.
"This is more thorough than I expected," she admits. "My grandfather would have liked that."
That's when Shane comes out with a shovel, like he's about to bury a body or clear a driveway. Hard to say which.
He sees Jessie and goes very still, the shovel still in his hand.
"Everything okay out here?" he asks.
The temperature of the conversation drops several degrees.
Jessie's spine straightens, professional mask sliding back so fast I nearly miss the seam.
"Should I have asked permission to look at the rink?" her voice is icy now. "It's outside. It's not like you're hiding it."
"Yes, you need permission to be on our property," Shane says. "It's not an exhibit."
I step between them, hand half-raised.
And in the middle of it I notice the eye contact between.
Shane looks away first.
Jessie steps back. She mentions, almost as an afterthought, where an original site plan might still be filed if I wanted to go looking.
She turns to leave, glancing once toward Shane.
***
Two hours later, I sit across from Grant’s desk at the Outlaws’ administrative offices, the folder clutched in my lap.
His office is all clean lines, dark wood, and framed team photographs. Nothing in here looks as though it has ever been set down without permission.
Morning light cuts through the windows behind him, catching on his pristine shirt.
My coat is still half-on, one sleeve trapped under my own hip. I press the folder flatter against my knees.
Grant folds his hands on the desk, unhurried, and I brace for a meeting that is, technically, just two people and an employment proposal.
The second hand on the wall clock moves with quiet confidence.
I wish I felt half as certain.
"You've been efficient," Grant says.
He slides a paper across the table. Clean columns. No room in the margins for feelings.
"Once the rink passes inspection, your daily hours end," he says, calm as a weather report.
My stomach dips before he has even finished the sentence.
“We’ll go back to the original agreement,” he adds. “Unless you want to discuss something new.”
The original arrangement was perfectly reasonable when I signed it.
Now it feels like being asked to shrink myself back into a space I have already outgrown.
My thumb finds the edge of the timeline page. I resist the urge to smooth it.
Twice a week.
I repeat it once in my head, testing the shape of my old schedule now that it no longer feels familiar.
I nod while my brain begins rearranging clients, supply runs, and everything else that has filled the spaces around this project.
“Does the twice-weekly arrangement still work for you?” Grant asks.
“It still works,” I say. “I can keep the same two days unless the team schedule changes.”
My voice comes out brisk and practical.
Exactly how I want it.
Grant studies me for another second, then reaches for the second paper.
“And have you given any more thought to the larger role?”
There it is.
The proposal with the official title, the expanded properties, and enough hours to turn my carefully built business into something I do on weekends.
He slides the page toward me.
The offer is objectively good. It comes with more responsibility. Better pay. And proof that someone sees what I can do.
“What would the position require?” I ask.
Grant outlines the properties, the hours, and the reporting structure.
The moment he says I would work directly under him, something in me locks.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, “but I’m going to decline.”
Grant’s expression changes by a fraction.
“You’re declining?”
“I’ve worked too hard to build my own business to become someone else’s employee.” I straighten the folder on my knees. “I have clients who depend on me, and I’m not ready to give up control of my schedule.”
The explanation sounds polished because I have been rehearsing versions of it since he first mentioned the position.
I do not mention that working for Grant would mean letting him see every mistake I make.
I do not mention my mother.
Mom and Grant are building something together, and I cannot bear the thought that he offered me a job because I came attached to the relationship.
I definitely do not mention Timothy.
At the lodge, I know what my place is.
Accepting Grant’s offer feels like trading that certainty for something much larger and much less familiar.
Timothy crosses my mind. If I accept a position that takes me across three towns and half a dozen properties, will he be impressed?
Or will he hear that I am leaving?
I turn my attention back to Grant before the question can show on my face.
Grant leans back slightly.
“I don’t think we’re discussing the same arrangement.”
The words send my spine straighter.
“I understand the offer.”
“Bethany—”
“And I am grateful for it. Truly. But my answer is no.”
Grant watches me for a long moment.
I can almost see the explanation waiting behind his expression.
Then he lets it go.
“All right,” he says. “The twice-weekly lodge arrangement remains in place.”
Grant’s expression softens. “I really am grateful for everything you’ve done here.”
He walks me to the office door and tells me to drive carefully.
Polite. Respectful. Final.
I should feel proud.
I protected my business. My clients. My independence.
All the things I worked hard to build before Hockey House became the center of my week.
By the time I pull into Hockey House, I have repeated every sensible reason for declining at least twice.
My business. My clients. My independence.
All true.
I carry the folder inside and step into the boot room.
I hear laughter from somewhere upstairs. A cupboard closes in the kitchen. Someone complains about the coffee.
Familiar sounds.
Mine, at least twice a week.
I tighten my grip on the folder.
I said no because I did not want to give up the life I built.
That is true.
It is also true that every version of the offer seemed to take me farther from this place.
From Timothy.
I am not ready to examine how much that influenced my answer.