Chapter 32 Small Gestures
Small Gestures
Cole
I arrive at the rink Monday morning in what I’m calling a stubbornly neutral mood.
Not angry, not sad, just flat. Like someone’s turned down the volume on everything until the world feels muffled and distant.
I’ve decided the best way to deal with the Harper situation is to keep my head down, focus on hockey, and let time do whatever it’s supposed to do to make this feel less like a constant ache in my chest.
The guys can feel the shift in atmosphere. Even Sirus, who usually greets me with some joke or a story about whatever romantic thing he did with Maddie, just nods and goes back to taping his stick. The locker room feels heavier today, like everyone’s walking on eggshells around me and Liam.
Speaking of Liam—he’s at his stall when I arrive, going through his pre-practice routine. He doesn’t look my way, and I don’t look his. We’re like two magnets with the same polarity, naturally repelling each other without any conscious effort.
I tell myself that’s fine. Space is better. Whatever friendship we had before Harper came between us needs time to reset, assuming it can reset at all.
The silence between us feels like an unspoken agreement neither of us is ready to break.
On the ice, I bury myself in drills with the kind of single-minded focus that usually comes right before playoffs. Passes, shots, sprints, defensive positioning—anything to fill the space in my head where Harper’s voice usually sneaks in when I’m not paying attention.
Coach runs us through a particularly brutal conditioning set that leaves half the team gasping for air, but I push harder, skating until my vision goes slightly fuzzy around the edges. Physical exhaustion is easier to deal with than the alternative.
After practice, I head out to the parking lot with my gear bag slung over my shoulder, looking forward to the drive home and maybe an hour or two of mindless Netflix. But when I reach my truck, there’s something… again.
This time it’s a small paper bag on the hood, brown and simple, like it came from the café near the arena. I look around the parking lot, half-expecting to see Harper lurking behind some car, but the lot is nearly empty except for a few other players heading to their vehicles.
I pick up the bag and peer inside. It’s a breakfast croissant with extra chocolate. This isn’t funny. I blink a few times at it. This isn’t funny one bit. There’s no note this time, but I know exactly who it’s from.
I sigh under my breath, though I’m not entirely sure if I’m annoyed or relieved she’s being persistent.
My phone pings before I can start the engine.
Harper: Under the croissant is a bacon egg sandwich.
I stare at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Part of me wants to ignore it completely, to let her wonder if her little peace offering even registered.
Another part wants to tell her exactly what I think about her attempt to buy forgiveness with chocolate croissants and breakfast sandwiches.
Instead, I send back a single thumbs-up emoji. Not encouragement, not forgiveness, just acknowledgment. I don’t want to give her more than that.
Halfway home, hunger wins out and I dig for the sandwich in the bag at a red light.
One bite in and I have to mutter a curse under my breath—it’s perfect.
Still warm, exactly the right ratio of ingredients, the kind of comfort food that hits all the right spots when you’ve just spent two hours getting your ass kicked at practice.
Which pisses me off, because now Harper’s going to think her plan is working.
At home, I dump my gear bag by the front door and head straight for the laundry room.
My practice clothes are still damp with sweat, so I hang everything up to dry, deliberately avoiding looking at my phone where it sits on the kitchen counter.
I’m not giving Harper the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to me, even if she kind of is.
Rex greets me with his usual enthusiasm, tail wagging so hard his entire back-end wiggles with the effort. At least someone in my life is uncomplicated.
“Just you and me, boy,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “No drama, no lies, just simple loyalty.”
He barks once in agreement, or maybe he’s just hoping for treats. Either way, I appreciate the straightforward nature of our relationship.
Late afternoon, I’m working on homework at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings. Rex immediately goes into guard dog mode, barking and racing toward the front door like we’re under siege. But when I look through the peephole, there’s no one there.
I open the door cautiously and find a small brown paper bag sitting on the mat. No delivery truck in sight, no Harper visible anywhere on the street. Just the bag and whatever’s inside it.
I bring it inside and peer into the bag.
A six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s root beer—the obscure brand I always order at when I’m out with the guys because it reminds me of something my grandfather used to drink.
Most people don’t even know they carry it, and half the time I have to remind the bartender where to find it.
On one of the bottles, written in black Sharpie in Harper’s familiar handwriting.
Thought you might need this. – H
I set the bag on the kitchen counter and just stare at it for a moment.
This isn’t just random thoughtfulness—she had to remember a specific detail about my drink preferences, track down where to buy it, and coordinate the delivery without me seeing her.
It’s the kind of gesture that requires actual effort and attention to detail.
I unscrew one of the caps and take a swig.
It’s ice-cold, perfectly fizzy, and somehow manages to hit exactly the spot I didn’t know needed hitting.
There’s something about the familiar taste that reminds me of weekend barbecues with my family, of simpler times when the biggest drama in my life was whether my little sister would steal the last burger off the grill.
It’s a small thing, but she noticed. She remembered. And it bothers me more than I want to admit that she still knows exactly how to slip under my defenses.
I know she’s doing this because she wants me back.
It’s obviously part of whatever strategy she and Maddie cooked up after the disaster at the restaurant.
But it’s also... Harper. She doesn’t half-ass anything when she wants something, and the fact that she’s putting this much thought into making amends means something, doesn’t it?
I find myself wondering if maybe I should at least hear her out. Let her explain what really happened, why she made the choices she made. It’s possible there’s more to the story than what I saw on that sidewalk.
But the second the thought forms, I shut it down hard. I’m not ready to give her that kind of power over me again. Not when the wounds are still this fresh.
I tuck the rest of the root beer into the fridge, but I push the Sharpie-marked bottle to the back where I won’t have to see Harper’s handwriting every time I want a drink. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away, but I’m not ready to display it like some kind of shrine either.
“Shit.” I close the refrigerator door with more force than necessary.
Rex tilts his head at me, probably wondering why his human is talking to kitchen appliances, but he doesn’t judge. That’s what I appreciate about dogs—they accept your weirdness without requiring explanations.
But as I head to shower, I can’t shake the image of Harper tracking down that specific root beer, writing on the bottle in her careful handwriting, finding a way to get it to my doorstep without being seen. It’s the kind of thoughtful persistence that made me fall for her in the first place.
And deep down, in a place I’m not ready to acknowledge yet, I know I’m already thinking about what she’d say if I did let her explain.
Which is exactly the problem.