Chapter 9
HARD CYCLE BEHIND THE NET: PHYSICAL PUCK PROTECTION BELOW THE GOAL LINE
Idon’t look back when I walk away from him. Instead, I check in with all of my students before walking out of the store with my spine straight and my head held high. Though my pace is unhurried, my pulse is careening fast enough to make my smart watch believe I’m working out.
Jumbled together, some of my students are still soliciting donations. Others are debating about the merits of leaving Malik to bag if he’s “going to continue to put potatoes on top of donuts.” They’re all murmuring excitedly about seeing “the Brennan McCallister” and his departure from pro hockey.
“The hit was totally illegal,” Autumn insists.
“It was a game,” Josh counters.
“That doesn’t make it legal!”
“We’re done litigating on behalf of bad refs and tragic hockey crimes for today. You’re both supposed to be fundraising if you want to travel to OKC for states.”
They aim guilty looks in my direction before high-fiving one another. Even as they get back to directing their energy towards fundraising, I do a quick headcount out of habit.
That’s when I feel a familiar arm drape over my shoulders.
I relax when I realize it’s Grayson Cedar—friend from high school, third generation grocery store owner, and a guy I entertained in my life romantically.
After years of seeing pictures of Brennan in the news with models and actresses, I finally said yes to a date.
I realized my life hadn’t ended just because he stopped believing in me — even if, for a long time, it felt like I’d never feel whole again.
Gray was always a good guy; he’s just not for me. Then again, as cautious as I am to avoid being hurt, I’m certain I’ll never feel the way I did when I was with Brennan.
He declares, “This was a great idea. The customers love the idea of the kids earning their way that doesn’t require them adding on a dental trip.”
“You mean selling another box of chocolate bars doesn’t appeal to our little community?”
“Not when yours would have been the fourth club to do it.” Grayson rolls his eyes before continuing, “Made scheduling a bit complex.”
I interject, “Complexity is not a bad thing.”
He scans the area to ensure none of my students are listening before lowering his voice and murmuring, “Years ago, there were complex positions on our second date…”
I shove him away before reminding him, “You should try those positions with your fiancee.”
Unsurprisingly, that’s when Brennan exits the market. As if he senses my presence, his head whips in my direction. His steps falter when he sees the ease with which I’m comfortable with another man. A flash of something crosses his face before he pivots away.
Still, I’m at the store for a reason—to support my kids. Mentally pulling my boy shorts out of my ass, I step forward to offer Brennan help with his groceries for a donation. I’m saved by Gray when he murmurs, “I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Take care of your kids.”
Even as I move to do just that, I hear Gray greet the man I never got over. “Hi, Brennan McCallister. Right?”
“Right.”
“Grayson Cedar—owner of Cedar Market. Looks like you were assisted by one of our student volunteers. Let me help you out to your car with your bags so I can tell you about the fundraiser going on.”
Only when I know Brennan has been corralled at a safe distance do I allow my body to relax. Because apparently no place is safe anymore now that Brennan McCallister lives in my town.
I take a deep breath and regroup before going back to my kids. Right here, right now it hits me.
There’s no hiding the fact my carefully rebuilt peace begins to crack.
After the fundraising is over, I don’t head back to my apartment. Instead, I let muscle memory guide me to the place my heart needs to be. The radio hums low. I leave it that way because silence feels louder.
Brennan.
At Cedar Market.
Pushing a cart like he’s supposed to be there.
The road to my parents’ place winds the way it always has—two lanes, a stretch of trees, curving around the old coffee mill that smells faintly of dark roast first thing in the morning. Willow Creek never changes; it just transforms.
It adapted when I came home, but now? With Brennan? I’m going to be expected to conform to his presence here when he’s part of the reason I came home with my tail tucked between my legs.
How am I supposed to forget that?
I pull into their driveway and cut the engine. Despite my bravado, my chest still feels like I forgot how to take a full breath somewhere between the bread and produce aisles. I press my forehead to the steering wheel and take deep breaths.
Then my head turns to the side when the front door opens. My mom must have seen my car. Of course she did. Opening the door, I slide out and head right for her.
“Amy? What’s wrong?” she asks.
I barely get a foot over the threshold before she’s pulling me into her, arms warm, familiar and unyielding. I breathe her in—laundry detergent and something baked, the scent of home that never fails to undo me.
My dad is already standing from his chair, concern etched deep into his face. “Are you okay, Boots? What happened?”
My lips curve briefly at my Dad’s childhood nickname for me—derived from a time when I wouldn’t take off my boots, even to go swimming. Helpless, I give them both the answer, “I ran into Brennan.”
The room stills. Saying his name in the house is akin to saying Beetlejuice three times. My parents remember everything involving Brennan—the good and the absolute devastating.
Mom’s arms tighten around me, just a fraction. Dad exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the way he does when he’s angry and refuses to let it show. “Where?”
“You were doing the fundraiser at Cedar Market,” Mom jumps in before I can answer.
“Yes.” I hesitate. “But that wasn’t the first time I saw him since he moved to town.”
My mom guides me to the couch and sits beside me, never letting go. My dad lowers himself back into his chair, hands clasped, jaw set.
“So, it’s true,” Mom says. “He’s really here.”
“Yeah. He moved to town.”
“Where did you see him before?” My dad growls.
“The Honeyed Hearth.” I scrub my hands over my face. “Because why not ruin all my spots?”
My parents exchange a look. A silent conversation passed between them with a single glance, the quiet shorthand they used when I was a kid whenever they wanted to keep something between themselves.
Like who was in charge of leaving money as the Tooth Fairy, whether or not “Santa” was going to spring for hockey tickets, or if it’s time to confess that the Elf on the Shelf did not move on his own.
They knew Brennan. Liked him. Loved us together. Granted, they’d only met him when they visited campus, he was practically family from all our calls home. I used to think the same thing about his parents.
I’ve always hoped they were doing well. It’s not their fault their son is an unmitigated ass.
As for my parents, they appreciated his concern for me, his protectiveness. They’d chat with him when he answered my phone while I was studying. They listened to him talk about his plans, his future, and the certainty of the world waiting for him.
For us.
That there would be an us.
They didn’t grieve the loss of him the way I did. But I know it’s made them cautious with people and promises.
“I’ve thought about the boy. He never came here; never set foot in this house.” Dad says quietly.
“Small favors,” Mom starts.
He didn’t need to. I brought him here while I grieved; didn’t I? After all, Brennan was my soul. Every dream I ever had.
Before I was targeted.
Instead of coming home with grand plans, I’d run from college.
I hadn’t needed to explain much. Whispers had already reached Willow Creek.
What my parents were concerned with was how my eyes were so swollen from crying, I could barely see.
How my heart was shattered into pieces I didn’t know how to reassemble.
It took a long time for me to figure out how to find my strength again—my will to fight.
When I did, I went after the company who refused to take down the photo with a vengeance. It helped, but none of us can forget the man I was in love with walking out on me because he refused to believe me.
My mom rubs slow circles on my back. “How do you think he looked?”
“Older. Then again, I guess we all are.”
“Amy,” my mother admonishes gently.
I know she’s asking about him being hurt because despite the way our relationship unraveled, I didn’t wish him physical harm. “Tired, maybe? But… still him.”
My dad’s mouth tightens. “Did he talk to you?”
“He tried.”
There’s steel in my father’s voice. “He doesn’t get to waltz back into your life like nothing happened.”
“I wouldn’t let him. I was very firm that I don’t need anything from him.” But even as the words pass my lips, one question lingers. Was it worth it?
Up until a year ago, I would have been certain he’d say yes. Now that he can’t play professional hockey? Maybe regret is what led him here.
When I say as much to my parents, my father’s jaw hardens. “He can shove his regret…”
“Ted,” my mother chastises my father before leaning back to study me. “How are you feeling?”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Like I survived one tornado only for another one to come racing down the plains in the exact same spot.”
She nods. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
I stare at the framed photos on the wall. Me at five, gap-toothed and grinning on the first day of school—with a brand new pair of boots. A few frames down, I’m standing between my parents on move-in day at college completely unaware of how my life would eventually change because of fame.
“He hurt you,” my dad states factually. “We lived it with you.”
“He didn’t have anything to do with it, but his abandonment hurt the most,” I qualify.
“Because he didn’t believe in you when it counted most,” Mom soothes me.
“He didn’t upload the photo, but he made choices that gutted you,” Dad adds.
The familiar ache of betrayal blooms in my chest. “I thought I made peace with everything at least until I saw Brennan’s face again.”
“You built a life,” Mom agrees.
“I stayed. I healed. I moved on—mostly.”
They don’t disagree. They’ve watched me accomplish so much. But even healing to this degree doesn’t mean forgetting that I was left at my darkest hour by the person who used to gaze down at me with adoration and promised to love me forever.
Regardless of the obstacles life put in our path.
My mom reaches for my hand, squeezing it once. “Sweetheart,” she says, voice careful, loving. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Did you ever really get over Brennan?”
“Mom!”
“What?
“How can you ask me that?”
“Because love isn’t like your math equations. You don’t get to resolve your emotions and move on. Saying you’re over someone and actually being over them are two very different things.”
I hate that she’s right. Yet, seeing Brennan has me questioning whether I’d actually left the past behind.
She leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Don’t overthink the question.”
“I won’t,” I lie. Because I’m doing just that.
Deciding to stay for dinner was easy. Halfway through loading the dishwasher, I pull my phone from my bag. I open our group chat knowing my girls will have definite opinions about today.
Me:
I’m here.
The replies come instantly.
Maya:
How did today go?
Christin:
Did you raise enough for the trip?
I lean against the counter, the familiar kitchen sounds grounding me.
Me:
We’ll be doing it monthly all year. Otherwise I’ll have to funnel my tutoring money into the fund.
Maya:
You know we’ll chip in. All of us.
Emery:
Absolutely.
My chest warms even as I prepare myself to tell them about today.
Me:
Things were…kind of unexpected.
Christin:
Did hell freeze over causing the frozen food to melt?
Me:
Brennan showed up.
Chaos erupts.
Maya:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Emery:
Head injury clearly affected his decision-making center.
Christin:
I almost wish it was the frozen foods.
Despite everything, I smile.
Maya:
How are you?
Me:
I hate that seeing him still brings feelings back.
Maya:
Like what?
Me:
Like we have unfinished business.
Christin:
It means he mattered.
Emery:
You’re human.
Maya:
I’d worry if you felt nothing.
My throat tightens.
Me:
I loved him. Completely. The girl I was always will.
Maya:
We know.
Christin:
Took you long enough to admit it.
Dad grumbles about changing the channel. Mom laughs. Life goes on. I set the phone down, lighter and heavier at the same time.
Whatever Brennan does next isn’t mine to manage. But as I stare out the kitchen window at the quiet street I grew up on, one thought slips through anyway.
If he’s back, our story isn’t over.