Chapter 7
SEVEN
THATCHER
If suspension is supposed to feel like punishment, I must be doing it wrong.
The cabin looks like Christmas threw up on it—in the best way possible. The fire’s glowing, the scent of cinnamon and pine fills the air, and Liz has convinced me to try “artisanal” cookie decorating.
Of course, I’m failing spectacularly.
But she’s patient, laughing each time my gingerbread man loses another limb.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to just supervise?” I ask, holding up my latest casualty.
“It’s festive abstract art,” she teases. “A gingerbread Picasso.”
“I was aiming for hockey player, but yeah—sure.”
She leans across the counter, cheeks flushed from laughter and oven heat. “You’ve got icing on your nose.”
I wipe at it, miss entirely, and she steps closer, dabbing it away with her thumb.
The brush of her touch makes the room tilt a little—warmth spreading, steady and unstoppable.
For a heartbeat, we just stand there, firelight flickering over the garland-draped mantle, the faint strains of an old Bing Crosby song crackling through the cabin’s speakers.
I’ve been part of championship games with less magic than this.
After we clean up the cookie carnage, she suggests we finish decorating the tree. Our handmade ornaments from the other day glint among the lights—paper snowflakes, popcorn strings, a lopsided star fashioned from twigs we gathered behind the cabin.
She threads a final garland, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. “You’re really getting the hang of this mountain-man domestic life.”
“Careful,” I say. “If the league keeps me benched, I might start a home décor line.”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Thatcher Holt: professional lumberjack slash interior designer.”
“Hey, I could rock flannel couture.”
“You already do,” she says softly, almost to herself.
Something tightens low in my chest. She doesn’t even realize what that does to me—to be looked at like I’m more than the mess I’ve made. More than a guy trying to outrun his own mistakes.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying our work. The tree isn’t perfect. Neither are we. But the light it casts across the room feels like hope.
We settle on the couch with cocoa and a blanket, the air full of pine and quiet. I can’t stop staring at her profile—the way her lashes flutter when she laughs, the way her fingers cradle the mug for warmth.
“What was Christmas like for you growing up?” she asks, turning to me.
I think about it, take a long sip before answering. “Loud. Competitive. My dad used to set up skating drills in the driveway. I got a hockey stick instead of a teddy bear. I don’t think he knew how to turn off coach mode.”
She smiles gently. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. But good, too. He meant well. I just… never learned how to stop proving myself.” I gesture vaguely around us. “Suspension was supposed to teach me humility. Instead, I got you and an impressive cookie-baking resume.”
“You call that impressive?” she laughs.
“Hey, that snowman had structural integrity issues, not artistic flaws.”
Her laughter quiets, and for a moment her gaze lingers on me—warm, unguarded. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A cocky athlete who’d spend the whole time complaining about missing the game.”
I shrug. “Maybe I am. I just don’t feel like complaining when you’re around.”
She looks away, but not before I catch the blush rising in her cheeks.
She tells me about her childhood next—about her mom stringing lights across the porch, her dad reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas by candlelight.
“Every Christmas Eve, our town had a tree-lighting,” she says.
“Everyone gathered in the square, and we’d sing Silent Night while holding candles. It was my favorite part.”
There’s a faraway look in her eyes that makes me ache a little.
“You said they still do that here, right?” I ask.
She nods. “Tomorrow night. I saw the flyer at the market.”
“Then we’re going.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You’d actually go to something that wholesome?”
“I’d go anywhere with you,” I say without thinking.
The words hang there, soft but solid. Her lips part slightly, like she’s not sure what to say, and for once, I don’t try to fill the silence.
It’s enough to just look at her, to feel the fire reflecting in her eyes and know that I’d give up every win, every highlight reel moment, just to keep this—her laughter, her warmth, her quiet.
The next afternoon, we make plans. She wraps herself in a red scarf and those ridiculous fuzzy earmuffs she found in a drawer. I pull on my thickest coat and offer to drive us into town for cocoa before the lighting. The air outside is crisp, the sky a watercolor wash of pink and gray.
We’re halfway through bundling up when headlights sweep across the drive. A car crunches to a stop on the packed snow.
“Were you expecting anyone?” she asks.
I shake my head, peering out the window. My pulse spikes when I recognize the SUV. “Oh, hell.”
Liz blinks. “What?”
“Family.”
Sure enough, Grady climbs out first, then Stevie—waving like she’s just shown up for brunch. I groan, but Liz is already smiling, pulling open the door.
Stevie barrels in and hugs me so hard my ribs pop. “You look cozy! And alive! And maybe even happy? Miracles do happen!”
“Define happy,” I mutter, but I can’t help grinning. She smells like peppermint and mischief.
Grady shakes my hand, a knowing smirk on his face. “Heard you’ve been on your best behavior.”
Liz shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Debatable.”
Stevie sets down a tote of wrapped gifts and turns to me, eyes bright. “Have you seen the news?”
I freeze. “What news?”
Grady chuckles. “You’re trending again, man. The league’s reviewing your suspension.”
My stomach knots. “Reviewing as in longer?”
For a beat, the question doesn’t sting the way it should. I glance at Liz, the twinkle lights reflected in her eyes, and realize I could stay here forever and not care about the league’s judgment.
But Stevie shakes her head, smile widening. “No, genius. Shorter. They’re considering lifting it. You might be cleared for the Christmas Day game.”
It takes a second for the words to land. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.” Grady claps my shoulder. “You might want to start packing. They’ll call tonight if it’s official.”
Liz goes still beside me. I can feel her watching, waiting for my reaction.
I should be over the moon. This is what I wanted—redemption, proof I’m not a total screw-up. Yet, all I can think about is the tree in the corner, the scent of cookies still lingering, the way she sang along to Bing Crosby when she thought I wasn’t listening.
“Oh,” Liz says softly. “That’s… really great news.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “Great.”
Stevie elbows me. “Don’t sound too thrilled. Most guys would be throwing confetti.”
“Yeah, well.” I clear my throat, forcing a smile that feels brittle. “Guess Santa came early.”
Liz busies herself pouring cocoa for everyone, her movements careful, practiced. The room feels warmer and colder all at once.
Grady’s still talking—something about travel arrangements, game schedules—but the words blur. All I can hear is the low hum of the fire and the realization pulsing through me: I’m leaving. Tomorrow morning.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to go back to the ice.
I glance at Liz again, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way the lamplight brushes her hair, and the thought that drifts through my head is as quiet as it is terrifying.
I’m in trouble.
Because this—this woman, this place, this impossible sense of peace—feels more like home than anything I’ve ever known.