Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Sadie
Blizzards Family Day
By the time Jillie changes her sweater for the third time, I begin to suspect I have made a mistake.
Not a small mistake either.
A large one.
The kind with professional athletes, parking passes, and a six-year-old who has been awake since before sunrise asking whether hockey arenas have dress codes.
"Honey," I say from the bathroom doorway, where I am trying to put on mascara with one hand and locate her missing mitten with the other, "it is Family Day at a hockey practice facility. Nobody is expecting fancy."
Jillie looks down at her second-best sparkly sweater, then back at me.
"But what if the hockey families are fancy?"
"They are hockey families. They probably wear jerseys."
She considers this seriously.
"Do we have jerseys?"
"No."
Her little face falls as if I have failed a national exam.
"We have clean clothes," I add. "That is also a victory."
She does not look convinced.
I barely recognize myself in the mirror. Not because I am dressed differently. Jeans, boots, soft green sweater, hair twisted back because bakery life has made elaborate hairstyles unrealistic. Nothing dramatic.
Still, something about today feels different.
Yesterday at the charity skate, I looked at a photograph and realized I was not the only one who forgot some of the rules.
Today, I am driving to Frostholm with my daughter to spend the afternoon inside Colby Reid's world.
His real world.
Not the bakery.
Not Peterson's Market.
Not a small-town fundraiser where half the people have known me since I wore pigtails and spilled cocoa on my Sunday coat.
His arena.
His team.
His life.
That should make the boundaries clearer. It absolutely does not.
A knock sounds at the apartment door downstairs.
Jillie gasps.
"He's here."
The way she says it makes my heart ache. Bright, eager, trusting. As if Colby arriving is already something normal. Something expected.
I follow her down the stairs, rehearsing sensible thoughts.
This is temporary.
This is for publicity.
This is controlled.
This is fake.
Then I open the door.
Colby stands on the landing in dark jeans, a navy Blizzards hoodie, and a team jacket with his name stitched near the shoulder. Snow dusts his hair. He holds a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
My sensible thoughts scatter like spilled flour.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
His gaze drops to Jillie, who has frozen halfway down the last step.
"You ready?"
"I have questions." Jillie offers.
"I expected nothing less."
"Do hockey arenas have dress codes?"
He glances at me.
I lift both hands. "I already tried."
Colby looks back at Jillie with complete seriousness. "The official dress code is enthusiasm."
She brightens. "I have that."
"I noticed."
Then he hands me one of the coffees.
"Here."
No asking.
No guessing.
Just a cup placed in my hand like he has done it a hundred times.
I glance down.
Vanilla latte. Extra hot. Half sweet.
Exactly right.
My fingers tighten around the cup.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He says it simply, already crouching so Jillie can inspect the paper bag, as if remembering my coffee order is not the sort of thing that can make a woman's chest feel too tight before eight in the morning.
Jillie peers inside the bag.
"Muffins?"
"Backup breakfast."
"For me?"
"For your mom. You looked fed."
Jillie nods wisely. "Mom forgets sometimes."
"I do not forget."
Two faces turn toward me.
One tiny.
One unfairly handsome.
Both unconvinced.
I point toward the door. "We should leave before this becomes a discussion about my personal failings."
Colby's mouth curves.
"Probably wise."
Frostholm is only a couple of hours from Briar Cove, but stepping into the Blizzards practice facility feels like entering a different universe.
Everything is bigger.
The glass.
The logo.
The banners.
The echo of skates cutting ice somewhere beyond the main corridor.
Jillie goes quiet the moment we walk through the doors.
That alone should concern someone.
She stares at the enormous Blizzard crest painted across the lobby floor, then at the framed jerseys on the wall, then at the hallway where people in team jackets move with purposeful speed.
"Oh," she whispers.
Colby smiles.
"Pretty much."
"It's so big."
"Wait until you see the rink."
She reaches for his hand without looking.
He takes it just as automatically.
That is the part that gets me.
Not the arena.
Not the famous hockey team.
Not the fact that my daughter is currently walking into a professional sports facility like she belongs here.
It's the hand.
The ease of it.
The lack of hesitation.
Jillie doesn't ask.
Colby doesn't pause.
They just fit into the movement together.
I am still watching their joined hands when a voice calls from across the lobby.
"Reid."
A tall man approaches with the steady confidence of someone used to being listened to. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Calm expression. Not flashy. Not loud. The exact opposite of the kind of athlete I expected to meet first.
Colby lifts his chin in greeting.
"Jamie."
The man looks at me first, then Jillie, and his expression softens in a way that immediately lowers my guard.
"You must be Sadie."
"I am."
"Jamie Walker." He extends his hand. "It's good to finally meet you."
Finally.
There's that word again.
Jillie peeks around Colby's arm.
Jamie crouches a little, bringing himself closer to her height without making a production of it.
"And you must be Jillie."
Her eyes widen. "You know me?"
"I've heard a lot."
She looks thrilled and suspicious at the same time.
"Good things?"
Jamie's mouth twitches.
"Mostly sprinkles."
Jillie beams. "I'm very important at the bakery."
"That's what I understand."
Colby mutters, "She's management."
"I can tell."
Jamie stands, and for a second, his gaze moves between Colby, Jillie, and me. Not nosy. Not invasive. Just observant.
Captain energy, I think.
He sees everything and says very little.
Then chaos arrives.
"Jillie!"
A man bursts through a side hallway carrying what looks like three hockey sticks, two helmets, and a stuffed moose wearing a Blizzards scarf.
Jillie squeals.
"Toby!"
She runs. The man drops everything. The moose hits the floor. A helmet rolls beneath a bench.
Nobody seems surprised.
Toby Donovan, I assume.
Golden retriever energy does not begin to cover it.
He scoops up the stuffed moose and presents it to Jillie with a flourish.
"For the newest honorary member of the Blizzard family."
Jillie gasps so dramatically several people turn around.
"For me?"
"Obviously."
Colby clears his throat.
Toby looks at him. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You were going to say something."
"I decided not to."
"Growth," Jamie says.
Toby points at him. "See? Captain appreciates me."
"I didn't say that."
Jillie hugs the moose. "Does he have a name?"
"He does not. That responsibility requires leadership."
Jillie nods gravely. "I'll need time."
"Take all afternoon. This is serious work."
I should be overwhelmed.
I am overwhelmed.
But I am also laughing.
Actually laughing.
Because this entire place, this enormous professional facility filled with famous athletes and team staff and people who probably have schedules managed down to the minute, has somehow made room for my daughter and her stuffed moose.
A man in a perfectly styled jacket approaches next, grin already in place.
"So, you're Sadie?"
I narrow my eyes.
"Should I be concerned you know that?"
His grin widens.
"Nah. You've just replaced hockey in about eighty percent of Colby's conversations."
Silence.
Complete silence.
Colby's eyes close.
"Liam."
"What?"
"Stop talking."
"I'm being welcoming."
Toby, still holding the fallen helmet, points dramatically. "He's not wrong."
"Toby."
"Still not wrong."
Jamie suddenly looks deeply interested in a light fixture overhead.
Coward.
My face turns warm. Not a little warm. A lot warm.
Jillie looks around the group.
"What's the other twenty percent?"
No one answers.
"Is it snacks?"
Toby snaps his fingers. "Definitely snacks."
Liam nods. "And complaining about our power play."
"Mostly snacks," Toby says.
Colby opens his eyes slowly.
"I regret inviting all of you into this conversation."
Liam leans closer to me and lowers his voice just enough to make it worse.
"He doesn't."
Colby gives him a look that would probably terrify a defenseman.
Liam only smiles.
Secret softie, I think suddenly.
Not because he's subtle. He absolutely isn't. But because beneath the teasing, there is something protective in the way he watches Colby.
They are not making fun of him because they don't care.
They are making fun of him because they do.
That matters, more than I expect.
The tour begins after that.
Jillie gets to sit on the bench.
Jillie gets to touch a stick taller than she is.
Jillie gets to wear an oversized helmet that slides down over her eyebrows until only her mouth is visible.
Toby declares it perfect.
Jamie adjusts it so she can see.
Liam takes a photo and promises not to post it without permission, which immediately earns my respect.
Colby stays close through all of it.
Not hovering, not performing, just present.
When Jillie steps from the bench toward the rubber mat, he offers his hand before she asks.
When a group of kids race past too quickly, he shifts slightly between them and her.
When she asks if she can see where he sits during games, he doesn't tell her no or later or maybe.
He points.
"Right there."
"That one?"
"That one."
"It looks cold."
"It is cold."
"Do you get snacks?"
"Not usually."
She frowns. "That seems like poor planning."
"I've said the same thing for years."
Toby appears with a small Blizzards jersey.
"Speaking of planning."
Jillie loses the ability to form words.
She clutches it to her chest, eyes huge.
"Mine?"
"Yours."
"It has Colby's number."
Colby looks at him.
Toby's expression is pure innocence.
"What? She has taste."
Jillie pulls the jersey on over her sweater immediately. It hangs nearly to her knees.
She spins.
"Mom! Look!"
I smile before I can stop myself.
"I see."
"You need one too."
"Absolutely not."
"But we could match."