Chapter Thirty-Seven Thanksgiving
JULIAN
For the past week, ever since Hadley’s fight with her dad and the girls mobilized extraction to get her into Carson’s old place, I’ve been living in a state of hyper-vigilance.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Waiting for her dad to come back, demanding his daughter pack her bags and fall back into his meticulously designed line.
Hadley hasn't been much better since moving, unfortunately. She’s been throwing herself into what she can control between her job, school, and finding time to skate.
She hasn't really stopped moving. I know that’s just kind of her, but I also know she's trying to distract herself from the biggest fight she's ever had with her dad.
It was Coach who finally defused the bomb. Hadley had called him in a panic, and her grandfather had merely let out a low, gravelly sigh over the receiver.
“I’ll handle it, sweetie,” the old man had rumbled, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve bought you some time. You just focus on your classes. Your father won't be crossing my line.”
Hadley has been so grateful for her grandpa’s intervention. The quiet has given her room to breathe.
But the worst part, the part that feels like a slow-burning acid in my gut every time I look at Hadley, isn't just the fear of her father’s wrath.
It’s the weight of my own silence. I haven't told her. I haven't told a single soul on the team.
She doesn’t know I went to her father for help, or that he agreed to look over the legalities of the Chicago transfer, to dissect the contract.
She doesn’t know I’ve been ignoring emails from the Ironclads confirming a contract signing meeting while I’m in Chicago for Thanksgiving.
I’ve looked through the notes her father sent me, and apart from an image reproduction clause that Liam thought was too limited, he thought it was all pretty solid.
There’s really no reason for me not to sign.
The week before Thanksgiving, after Wednesday practice, I linger in the hallway outside the coach’s office.
Usually, the guys are practically knocking each other over to get out of the arena, their voices echoing off the concrete as they argue about who is hosting Thanksgiving dinner, which turkey-frying method is most likely to burn down a garage, and whose family is bringing the most drama this year.
I had walked with them as far as the lobby, but then I quietly slipped away, doubling back down the quiet corridor of the executive wing.
My focus is locked on the solid oak door of Coach Sullivan’s office, which is cracked open just a few inches.
I lean against the brick wall opposite the door, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my heavy Night Hawks hoodie.
Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I can see Hadley.
She’s standing near the edge of her grandfather’s heavy mahogany desk, looking small in an oversized cream-colored knit sweater.
Her fingers are curled around the leather strap of her backpack, her shoulders hunched as she listens to the low, gravelly rumble of the old man's voice.
I can’t quite make out the words they’re exchanging—just the steady, comforting cadence of Coach’s voice and the occasional quiet, defensive nod from Hadley—but the sheer sight of her is enough to anchor me.
She looks exhausted, the physical toll of her classes and the lingering stress of the fight with her father catching up to her.
As I watch her, my chest tightens with that familiar, fierce protectiveness. No matter what her grandfather is saying to her in there, and no matter what her dad is planning next, I’m going to be right here waiting for her when she walks out that door.
“Maybe you should just take Thanksgiving to breathe for a little while, sweetie,” Coach is saying, his voice carrying a rare, soft tone. “Spend it with friends. Get out of your head. Then, you can think about talking things out with your dad after the holiday weekend is over.”
Hadley shifts her weight, her mouth pulling into a tight, frustrated line. I can see the exhaustion etched into the delicate slope of her shoulders. She wants to be strong. Wants to prove she’s fine on her own. But I know the weight of her dad’s disapproval is eating at her.
“I know,” she murmurs. “It’s just…he won’t even listen to me.”
“He’s stubborn,” Coach sighs, patting her shoulder. “But he’s still your father. Take the weekend. Let the dust settle.”
As Coach turns to walk out of his office, his sharp eyes find me through the crack in the door.
I stare back, frozen, my jaw set. Coach doesn't reprimand me for eavesdropping.
Instead, he gives me a wink before heading out the door connecting to the main hallway, leaving his granddaughter standing alone in the room.
Ten minutes later, Hadley’s in the passenger seat of my truck.
I’m navigating the Denver traffic toward Carson’s old building.
She’s quiet, staring out the window at the gray November sky.
I reach over, grabbing her hand and squeezing.
She doesn't look at me, but her thumb traces the back of my knuckles.
When we get up to the apartment, she drops her bag on the counter and heads into the bedroom to change her clothes.
I hover in the living room, my eyes scanning the space as I tap my hands against my thighs, wishing there was more I could do for her.
I notice the heavy glass window looking out over the city skyline isn’t sitting flush against the frame.
I walk over, my brow furrowing as I inspect the latch.
It’s stripped, the brass lever failing to catch the lock properly.
Anyone with a crowbar or enough leverage could force it open from the outside balcony.
I get on my knees, pulling a small multi-tool I always keep on me from my pocket.
My fingers work with practiced efficiency to realign the striking plate.
“Julian?”
I look up over my shoulder. Hadley is standing in the hallway, wearing soft grey sweatpants and a tight white tank top. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun. She takes in the tool in my hand and the disassembled latch. She just shakes her head, a soft, amused smile touching her lips.
“You’re ridiculous,” she chuckles, walking over to stand right above me. “Do you inspect every room you walk into for structural integrity?”
“Just noticed it was broken,” I mumble, tightening the screw with a twist of my wrist. I stand up, brushing the dust off my jeans. I look down into her wide eyes, and before I fully realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out of my mouth. “Come to Chicago with me.”
Hadley blinks, her breath catching. “What?”
“For Thanksgiving,” I clarify. My heart does a strange, violent thud against my ribs. “Come home with me. I want you to meet Mrs. Clay.”
I brace for the refusal I’m sure will come, but she stuns me by smiling brightly.
“Yes!” she exclaims, eyes shining. “I’d love to, Julian. I’ll go to Chicago with you.”
The trip to Chicago is long, but the moment we pull up to the modest, brick row house on the south side, the tight coil in my stomach relaxes just a fraction.
As we make our way up the front steps to the porch, the front door flies open. Mrs. Clay steps out onto the porch, her silver hair pulled back into a bun, her apron already tied around her waist. No doubt she’s been up since well before sunrise preparing food.
“Julian!” she calls out with a wide smile.
“Hey, Grams!” I reply, opening my arms for the hug I’m anticipating.
She totally bypasses me, her eyes locked on Hadley. With a delighted laugh, she wraps her thin arms around Hadley’s waist, pulling her into a tight, welcoming hug.
“Oh, look at you,” Mrs. Clay breathes, pulling back to cup Hadley’s face with her hands. “He told me you were beautiful, but he didn’t tell me you looked like an angel. Come inside, sweetie. Leave muscles here to carry the bags.”
Hadley laughs, a bright, clear sound that echoes through the cold Chicago air, and she lets Mrs. Clay lead her straight into the house by the hand.
By afternoon, the kitchen is a battlefield, and I am the undisputed commander.
I take Thanksgiving seriously. Very seriously.
I have a precise, calculated schedule for the turkey, the stuffing, and the homemade cranberry sauce.
I move around the kitchen with the same aggressive discipline I use on the ice.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Clay makes it her personal mission to dismantle my authority.
“Look at him, Hadley,” Mrs. Clay teases, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea while I mash potatoes with enough force to dent the metal pot. “He gets that little crease between his eyebrows when he’s really concentrating. He’s been doing that since he was sixteen.”
“I’m just keeping a schedule,” I mutter, my cheeks tightening as I stir the pot. “If the turkey dries out, the whole meal is compromised. I had to step in and fix the disaster of a meal in January for Friendsmas. Those idiots tried putting it on a grill, I swear to God.”
Hadley giggles, sitting at the small kitchen table. Her eyes track my every move with a soft, captivated warmth. “Rylee told me Gizmo tried to steal the turkey, and nearly destroyed the tree.”
I snort and nod. “That little Gremlin did all that and more.”
Grinning, Hadley turns to Mrs. Clay. “Does he always cook like this?”
“Oh, always,” Mrs. Clay nods, winking at her. “You should see him at Christmas. Tell her about that, Julian.”
I exhale a breath through my nose, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “Beef Wellington is a complicated dish. It takes a lot of focus.”
“He pretends he hates it,” Mrs. Clay tells Hadley, her voice softening with affection. “But he’s always so proud of himself when he succeeds.”
I keep my back turned, locking my eyes on the stove, but my mind is hyper-focused on the subtle details of the room. Without even realizing I’m doing it, my eyes track Mrs. Clay’s movements. Every time she reaches for a cabinet, every time her breath hitches slightly, I’m looking.
“You okay, Gram?” I ask, my voice dropping as I notice her lean a little too heavily against the counter. “You need to sit down? I can finish the rest of this.”
“Oh, stop your hovering, Julian,” Mrs. Clay brushes me off, waving a hand at me, even if her face looks a fraction paler than it did this morning. “I’m fine. Just a little tired from the holiday rush. Stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”
She smiles, but there’s a tightness in her jaw, a subtle splinting of her posture that she’s trying to hide from me. I want to press her on it, but she turns back to Hadley.
“He’s always been like this,” Mrs. Clay sighs, her eyes drifting toward the window. “Even when he was just a boy, sneaking through the backyard with bruises he couldn't explain. He’d still ask if I needed help carrying the groceries…”
“Mrs. Clay,” I interrupt. “Potato masher is clean. Where do you want the serving bowls?”
The reminder of my childhood hangs like a cold draft in the warm kitchen. Mrs. Clay looks at me. I see a flash of deep, sorrowful regret in her eyes, but she respects the boundary. She nods once. “They’re in the top cabinet, Julian. Like they always have.”
Hadley is watching me, her brow furrowed, but she doesn’t say anything. I focus back on the potatoes, willing my heart to stop hammering against my ribs.