Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Sadie
This Feels Dangerous
“Can you stay tonight?”
The words settle softly into the snowy dark between us.
Colby stills completely, and so do I.
Jillie remains curled against his chest half asleep, one mitten dangling from her hand. The porch light spills gold across the snow while cold air swirls around us in soft white clouds.
For one impossible second, the world feels suspended, like everything is waiting on the answer. My pulse stumbles hard. Because this right here? This is exactly what I was afraid of.
Not paparazzi.
Not gossip.
Not fake dating headlines.
This… a sleepy little girl asking a man to stay because somewhere inside her heart, she has already started imagining what permanence might feel like.
Colby looks down at Jillie carefully.
Then his gaze lifts to mine.
And thank God for him, because he understands immediately.
I can see it happen.
The awareness.
The caution.
The quiet heartbreak.
He shifts Jillie gently higher in his arms before answering softly, “Not tonight, Bug.”
No hesitation. No awkwardness. No false promises. Just gentle honesty.
Jillie makes a sleepy sound against his coat. “Okay.”
My lungs finally start working again, but then Colby adds quietly, “I can stay long enough for hot chocolate though.”
And somehow that feels even more dangerous.
Because he keeps finding these careful middle spaces between leaving and staying.
He instinctively understands exactly how fragile this is becoming.
I unlock the front door with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Warmth spills over us immediately.
The house smells faintly like cinnamon, laundry soap, and the vanilla candle Jillie insisted made the living room smell “emotionally cozy.”
Snow taps softly against the windows while Colby carries Jillie inside like he belongs there.
That thought arrives fast and sharp enough to make me uneasy. Because he does look like he belongs there, too much.
He bends automatically so Jillie doesn’t bump her head on the doorway. Kicks snow off his boots without being asked. Lowers his voice instinctively the second we step inside.
Small things. Domestic things. Dangerous things.
“I can walk,” Jillie mumbles sleepily.
“You’re asleep standing up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You called the mailbox a penguin five minutes ago.”
“That was private.”
His mouth twitches.
Mine almost does too.
I hang up coats while Colby carries her toward the hallway.
The soft glow from the kitchen light follows them across the hardwood floors, and something inside my chest twists painfully at the sight…
a man carrying my daughter to bed, a normal thing, an ordinary thing.
And more importantly, a thing I stopped expecting my life to include a long time ago.
I follow them quietly.
Jillie’s room glows softly with string lights around the headboard and glow-in-the-dark snowflakes stuck crookedly to the ceiling. Colby kneels beside the bed carefully while I pull off her fancy shoes and she curls sleepily beneath her blankets.
“You came to my concert,” she murmurs to Colby. “I said I would.”
“You clap loud.”
“I’m very supportive.”
Her eyes drift mostly closed.
Then: “Can you come to school again sometime?”
My heart squeezes hard enough to hurt. Colby glances at me briefly before answering. “If your mom says it’s okay.”
Always that. Always giving me room to breathe.
Jillie nods sleepily like that answer satisfies her completely.
A minute later she’s asleep.
Colby stands quietly, then automatically reaches down to pull the blanket higher over her shoulder where it slipped loose.
I freeze, because he does it absentmindedly, naturally. It’s like taking care of people is wired into him somewhere beneath the hockey fame and public reputation.
He notices me watching.
For one second, neither of us says anything.
Then he steps back carefully from the bed.
We move into the hallway together in silence.
And suddenly the house feels too quiet.
Too warm.
Too intimate.
“I should probably go,” he says softly.
Relief flickers briefly. Then disappointment arrives right behind it. Wonderful.
“You promised hot chocolate,” I remind him.
Something shifts in his expression, softens. “Right.”
The kitchen light glows warmly around us while snow falls harder outside the windows. Briar Cove disappears beneath white drifts and soft gold streetlights until the whole world feels distant and hushed.
Safe.
That feeling should not involve Colby Reid standing barefoot in my kitchen because he thought to take off his wet boots.
And yet.
I pull mugs from the cabinet while he leans against the counter watching me, not in a heavy way, just present, attentive, like he notices everything.
Which unfortunately means that he notices when I nearly drop the marshmallows because his sleeves are pushed up and forearm muscles should honestly not look like that while holding a mug.
Rude.
“Long night?” he asks quietly.
“Briar Cove Elementary winter concerts are emotionally violent.”
“That tiny chair nearly ended my career.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. His eyes lift instantly at the sound. Every single time I laugh, he looks startled by it. Like he collects the sound and stores it somewhere. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a deeply unhelpful way.
I hand him a mug quickly. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
Our fingers brush briefly. Heat flashes through me instantly. Ridiculous. It’s just a hand touch. Unfortunately, my nervous system reacts like we shared state secrets. I busy myself with whipped cream to avoid looking at him.
Your ex is a jerk,” Colby says after a moment.
Direct.
Simple.
The truth.
I exhale slowly. “That’s the scientific term, yes.”
“He upset Jillie.”
Something dark flickers quietly underneath the words. Not possessive, but protective.
“He used to be good with her,” I admit quietly. The confession hurts more than I expect. Because it’s true.
Darren wasn’t terrible all the time. That’s what made losing him complicated for Jillie.
“He taught her how to make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs,” I say softly. “He used to read the same bedtime story in ridiculous voices until she laughed.”
Colby listens silently. No interruption. No judgment.
“He just…” I swallow hard. “Stopped showing up eventually.”
The kitchen grows very still.
Outside, snow slides softly down the windows. “She waited for him,” I whisper. “For months.”
There it is…the real wound underneath everything.
Not my heartbreak. Hers.
“She used to ask me if maybe traffic was bad. Or if maybe he forgot what day it was.” My throat tightens painfully. “Once she sat by the window for an hour because she thought she heard his truck.”
Colby closes his eyes briefly.
And when he opens them again, there’s something devastatingly gentle there. “No kid should have to wonder if they matter enough for somebody to stay.”
The words land so deep inside me I almost physically flinch. Because that’s exactly it. Exactly.
I wrap both hands around my mug just to steady myself.
“This is why I keep trying to set rules,” I admit. “Because Jillie attaches herself completely. And once she loves someone…” I shake my head slightly. “That’s it. She’s all in.”
Silence settles softly between us.
Then Colby says very quietly: “So are you.”
My breath catches. I look up too quickly.
He’s watching me steadily now. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. Honest.
And suddenly the air between us changes.
Becomes heavier.
Closer.
Dangerous.
I look away first. Because he’s right. And because I don’t know what to do with the realization that maybe I’ve already started attaching too. To the way he remembers things, to how carefully he treats Jillie, to how calm the house feels when he’s in it.
That thought should terrify me more than it does.
“You ever get tired?” I ask quietly instead.
The question surprises him.
Then something in his face shifts. The careful public version of himself loosens slightly. “All the time,” he admits.
I lean back against the counter. “Even hockey?”
A humorless laugh leaves him. “Especially hockey.”
That answer catches me off guard.
“You love hockey.”
“I used to.”
The honesty in his voice startles me. He stares down into his mug for a moment before continuing.
“Somewhere along the line it stopped feeling like a game and started feeling like a machine.” He shrugs one shoulder slightly. “Everything became performance. Interviews. Sponsorships. Public image. Winning. Losing. Recovering fast enough to do it all again.”
The loneliness underneath the words wraps around the kitchen quietly.
“I used to wake up excited to skate,” he says softly. “Now half the time I wake up tired before my feet hit the floor.” Something inside me aches unexpectedly hard. Because people look at Colby Reid and see money, fame, headlines, and arena lights.
Not exhaustion. Not loneliness. Not a man standing in my kitchen admitting he barely recognizes his own life anymore.
“I thought coming back to Briar Cove would help,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t realize why.”
Our eyes meet. And suddenly the room feels too small. Too warm. Too intimate.
So naturally Jillie’s vanilla candle chooses that exact moment to flicker dramatically like a romance movie accomplice.
Traitorous candle.
“You want to watch a movie?” I blurt.
Smooth, Sadie, very smooth.
Colby’s mouth twitches slightly.
“Sure.”
Ten minutes later we end up on opposite ends of my couch pretending the space between us is enormous.
It is not enormous.
It is approximately one decorative pillow wide.
The movie plays quietly in the background. Some overly cheerful holiday romance where two attractive strangers renovate an inn while snow falls artistically around them.
Neither of us is paying attention. Not really.
I become painfully aware of everything instead. The heat from his shoulder near mine. The way he relaxes deeper into the couch slowly. The fact that he automatically reaches down to straighten the folded blanket Jillie left behind earlier.
That one almost destroys me.
Because he does it absentmindedly, like caring for this house already feels natural.
Halfway through the movie, our hands brush reaching for popcorn at the same time.
Everything stops.
Not physically.
The movie continues.
Snow falls outside.
The heater hums softly.
But inside me? Everything stops.
His fingers remain lightly against mine for one suspended second too long.
I look up.
Big mistake.
Colby is already looking at me.
And suddenly the emotional tension between us becomes almost unbearable.
No jokes. No teasing. No headlines.
Just two exhausted people sitting too close together while something dangerous quietly unfolds between them.
My pulse pounds hard enough that I’m sure he can hear it. Neither of us moves. Not closer. Not away.
The air itself feels tight. Then the movie couple kiss dramatically onscreen. And both of us immediately look away.
I stand so quickly I nearly trip over the blanket. “I should check on Jillie.”
Coward. Complete coward.
“Yeah,” Colby says quietly.
His voice sounds wrecked too. That somehow makes it worse. Jillie sleeps peacefully when I peek into her room, one hand curled beneath her cheek. Her stuffed penguin lies upside down near the pillows.
For a moment I just stand there watching her breathe.
And panic finally hits full force.
Not because of me. Because of her.
Because this is exactly how it starts. The comfort. The routines. The attachment.
A man showing up enough times that a child starts expecting him to stay.
My stomach twists painfully. I still remember every question Jillie asked after Darren left.
When is he coming back?
Did he forget me?
Did I do something wrong?
The worst part wasn’t answering. It was watching her slowly stop asking.
That quiet acceptance hurt more than the crying ever did.
And now here I am letting another man into our lives because somehow Colby Reid keeps feeling safe.
Famous men leave. Athletes leave. Temporary things leave. I press my fingers hard against my forehead.
This is fake.
Fake dating.
Fake relationship.
Fake future.
So why does it feel terrifyingly real when he’s sitting in my living room folding my daughter’s blanket like he belongs here?
I return to the living room a few minutes later. Colby stands near the window now, looking out at the snow-covered street.
He turns when I enter. Something unreadable moves across his face. “I should go,” he says softly.
Relief and disappointment collide painfully inside me again. “I’ll walk you out.”
We stand awkwardly near the front door for half a second too long while he pulls on his boots and coat.
The house suddenly feels colder already.
That realization alarms me enough to immediately shut it down emotionally.
Nope. Absolutely not.
This is exactly why boundaries exist.
Colby reaches for the doorknob, then pauses. “I don’t really want to leave Briar Cove.”
The quiet confession lands directly in the center of my chest.
Not hockey.
Not Frostholm.
Briar Cove.
This place. This town. This life. Us.
He opens the door before I can respond. Cold air rushes inside. He pulls his coat tighter and jingles his keys lightly in his hand, already preparing to walk the few blocks back toward the school parking lot where he left his car earlier.
Snow swirls beneath the porch light.
“Goodnight, Sadie.”
His voice drops quieter when he says my name.
“Goodnight.”
And standing there watching him disappear into falling snow, I finally realize something awful.
I’m not trying to protect myself anymore.
I’m trying to protect Jillie.
Because if Colby Reid leaves someday…
I already know exactly how badly it will break her heart.
And I’m starting to fear what it might do to mine too.