5. Jami #2
We pass by his place again and he goes two more blocks, and parks on Main Street. Last night I was too tired to realize how close we were to the center of town. “We could have walked,” I say.
“Not in this cold. Not yet anyway. I have to acclimate you first.”
I sit still for a minute and glance down the stretch of street, unease once again twisting inside me.
He taps a gloved finger on his steering wheel as he kills the ignition. “There’s not much to it.”
“Jaxon filled me in. My expectations are realistic.”
That earns me a laugh, and we exit his truck. “The generation station is a few miles north. That’s for another day.”
We walk, and the town unfolds slowly. A general store with a bell over the door. A café with handwritten specials in the window. Buildings with smoke curling from chimneys. People wave as we pass, a warm welcome in their eyes.
“Everyone knows you,” I say.
“Not me,” he corrects. “Us. By tonight they’ll know your shoe size and whether you take cream in your coffee.”
“Terrifying.”
“You get used to it.”
We walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, our bodies brushing now and then. Every accidental touch sends a little spark straight through me, which is both thrilling and deeply inconvenient.
“This is the rink,” he says, stopping in front of a low, weathered building. “Where I learned to skate. And fell. A lot. But got back up again.”
I smile. “I can picture it.”
“Yeah?” His gaze softens. “You can?”
I nod. “Little Brody. Too big skates. Determined. Competitive.”
He huffs. “I was not little.”
“Relative to now,” I say, eyeing him.
He laughs, then pushes the door open and waves me inside. The air smells like ice and metal and childhood memories. The rink is empty, quiet, the glass ice freshly resurfaced.
“They don’t lock this either.”
“They do. But the parent/toddler skate is going to start soon.” He goes quiet, thoughtful as he looks around. “This place raised me,” he says. “Taught me discipline.”
“You wanted to play for the NHL?”
“I think all boys do growing up, but it wasn’t in the cards for me. I switched dreams. Physiotherapy. Iron man. Pickleball.”
I look at him, really look at him. The man who left. Who came back. Who knows exactly what he wants in life, now. And in that knowing there’s something achingly beautiful. Something steady.
“You’re…good at it, aren’t you?” I ask, my voice softening. Not just the sports, or the discipline. Him. Life. The way he carries himself.
He shrugs, almost bashfully. “I try.”
“Try?” I echo, a smile tugging at my lips. “Modest.”
“You ever wonder,” he says finally, voice low. “If we end up exactly where we’re supposed to be?”
A long beat of silence and then, “I don’t know, Brody.” I never in a million years thought I’d end up here, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad. Silence takes up space between us, both lost in our thoughts. “So,” I say lightly, breaking the quiet. “Where to next on this whirlwind tour?”
We step out of the rink into the fresh air. Snow crunches under our boots, crisp and cold, our breath sending little puffs into the air with every step.
We’re about to cross the street, when out of nowhere—WHAM—a rogue snowball smacks Brody square in the chest.
He yelps, slips on the ice beneath his boots, and goes down hard, sliding a few feet before landing in a heap in the snow.
“Oh my God!” I scream, racing over. “Are you okay?”
He groans, brushing snow from his hair, cheeks pink from cold and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Mostly my pride hurts.” He glances around. “Who the hell threw that?”
I cover my mouth, working to hide a laugh.
“It’s not funny,” he shoots out.
“A man of discipline… and yet, utterly unprepared for a snowball attack.”
He sits up, brushing snow off his coat. “I never trained for a snowball attack.”
A loud laugh bubbles out of my throat, and before I can think, he flicks a handful of snow at me. I yelp and jump back, but my damn boots betray me. I skid on a hidden patch of ice and down I go, straight into a soft snow pile.
I brace for a joke, a teasing remark… but no. He’s right there, kneeling beside me. His gaze races over me for a second, then he gently pulls me toward him, holding me close. The cold snow melts against the warmth of his coat, and my heart skips in that way it always does around him.
“Jami, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” His voice is low, steady, but filled with regret.
I gulp, sure I’m never going to be okay again, but I try for humor. “If I said no, would you feel guilty and feed me pie?”
His shoulders relax. “Yes, I’d feed you pie, and anything else you’d like.”
“If I said yes?”
His eyes darken slightly, his eyes now on my mouth. “I’d still feed you pie, Jami.”
I gulp. “And…anything else I wanted?”
“Of course. What do you want?”
He leans in, his lips a hairbreadth away from mine, as his thumb lightly brushes my cheek. Then—jingle-jingle—the bell above a door chimes, shattering the moment. I exhale, shaking my head with a laugh that sounds shaky, even to my own ears. “Should we…go find whoever threw that snowball?”
He pulls back, and suddenly the warmth between us is replaced with the crisp bite of winter air. “Don’t need to.” His head lifts higher, and he moves quickly, putting distance between us. “He’s coming this way.”