Chapter 9 #2
I expect the name to land, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure why I brought up my mother, but the man got under my skin and it’s thick from handling hot pans, so that’s not exactly an easy thing to do.
“Who’s Suzie Bass?” Sabrina asks.
I shake my head slightly, imagining it’ll eventually come into focus for Lane Sheridan Senior. “You’ll have to ask your husband.”
Turning on me again, he says, “I imagine you’re going to run now that a kid is involved.”
I scoff, right there in his old, puckered face. “Kai seems like a good kid in need of a good home.”
“I’m on the road and Sabrina is busy with her causes,” Lane Sheridan Senior says as if that automatically abdicates him from the responsibility.
Narrowing my eyes, I want to give this man the benefit of the doubt, but he just proved my father right and then some.
Bowling on and surprised by the cast-iron in my own voice, I say, “I want him to have one with us.”
Kai looks at me with the kind of happy surprise that only a kid can—like I told him we’re headed to Disneyland and will remain there for the foreseeable future. I flash him a wink, a look of assurance to say that we’re going to figure this out.
Apparently.
Because I just told one of the most fearsome hockey coaches in the league that I’m going to honor my vows to his son and provide a stable and loving home for his grandson.
This also means I broke my promise to my father.
Lane Sheridan Senior stalks off, leaving Sabrina, Kai and me to talk among ourselves. I get the sense that while her husband is accustomed to getting his way, she truly runs the show and will give him an earful later.
Instead of backing down, something inside of me rises to the occasion. I feel confident and powerful in a way that I never have before. As the game resumes, my entire body whirrs with what I can only describe as electric certainty.
It sticks with me, loud in my cheers from the suite as I make it very clear that I want the Knights to crush the Mustangs and for Lane to win.
When he sinks a goal, he immediately finds me in the stands. The shift in his expression goes from fierce to fleeting, like he can’t believe his eyes.
I’m wearing his jersey.
Even from here, I can see the way his shoulders straighten like he wants to play harder for me, fight harder.
The way he skates with new energy and purpose makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the realization that maybe I matter to him in a way I never expected.
The Knights win four to two, with Lane scoring the final goal.
My friends insist on dragging me to the team after-party here at the facility.
Margo organizes these events with careful attention to detail—silver, red, and black streamers cascade from the ceiling while accent lighting bathes the room in a warm glow.
Even the drink swizzle sticks are in the team’s palette and she managed to find silver platters shaped like hockey pucks for all the snacks.
The players and their families fill the massive space lined with glass on three sides, overlooking the rink and the Cobbiton winter night.
I spot Lane immediately, standing with his parents and Kai near the refreshments table. He changed into casual clothes—jeans and a longsleeve shirt. Even tired and in need of a shave, he somehow looks even more handsome.
His gaze strays to me and lingers, cuts back, and then returns as if he can’t resist a second glance. Warm shivers rush through me as I approach.
“We should take Kai back to our hotel tonight,” Sabrina says excitedly. “Spoil him a little. He’s had quite a few days.”
Lane looks uncertain. “I don’t know ...”
“We have a huge suite at the Obelisk, and there’s a pool,” Sabrina adds as if that sweetens the deal.
I watch Kai’s face as the adults discuss his immediate future like he’s not standing right here. He’s trying to look excited about the fancy hotel, but his expression is stony, guarded like he’s learned not to get too attached to good things because he’s observed they don’t typically last.
Stepping into their circle, I say, “Kai gets these little spurts of love and attention, and then what? He gets handed off to whoever will take him next. That’s not really fair to him.”
Lane stares at me, and I realize I’ve just articulated something he’s been feeling but couldn’t put into words … or I overstepped. I’m not entirely sure.
“I get that grandparents spoil their grandkids, but he also needs consistency. People who show up every day, in the middle of the night if his stomach is upset, after school to help with his homework, out early to bring him to sports practice.”
At those last particular words, his face brightens.
“You’re absolutely right,” Sabrina says, her respect for me clearly growing.
Shifting my gaze between both Lanes as if what I’m about to say is law, I declare, “He can stay with you tonight and then he comes home to us.”
The word us hangs in the air like a line in the sand. No, in cement. Once we cross it, there’s no going back. I can’t take it back. I don’t want to. Even though I don’t know this kid, in many ways, I was this kid.
Lane’s phone buzzes, and he steps away to take a call, leaving me with his parents and Kai.
“I like her,” Sabrina announces.
Kai bounces on his toes. “Me too.”
Lane’s father doesn’t seem convinced, but he might just have the general air of perpetually tasting sour milk.
An hour later, after Kai has left with his grandparents for his night of luxury hotel spoiling, I’m chatting with the girls when Lane leaves the huddle of his teammates, likely reviewing the game and makes his way to me.
I instantly know what Emerson meant by swoon.
Or it could be that my blood sugar has gone off the deep end because not only do I stress-bake, but occasionally I stress-eat and today single handedly polished off more than one portion of Jess’s latest Bundt—spongy vanilla cake filled with luscious cream, which tastes uncannily like a Twinkie.
It’s dangerous, but this man is even more so.
My alleged friends suddenly seem to forget that we were having a conversation, and aside from the music and general chatter in the background, everything goes uncomfortably quiet.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he repeats as if we’re meeting for the first time.
“Hi,” the girls chorus, followed by a verse of giggles.
If I can handle Coach Sheridan, I suppose, I have to take this situation into my hands. My strong, capable hands that are up every day at dawn, kneading dough.
Before I can say anything, a more powerful hand lands in mine. Our fingers twine and wrap snuggly, and thankfully so because that heady, swoony feeling comes again at Lane’s touch.
Or it could be the fresh mint and icy, woodsy scent that suddenly fills the air. Oh, wait. That’s him, too.
Addressing my friends, he says, “Ladies, if you excuse us. We have some hot chocolate to make.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor because how did he know that’s my go-to comfort drink after a late night? Actually, it contains more warm milk than it does chocolate, but it’s what Bibi always made when I was a kid and couldn’t sleep.
We take separate cars to my house on Sweet Corn Court.
When we step inside, Lane takes a deep breath.
Some people think I burn candles, but my house just carries the scent of sweet baked goods.
His eyes hold the lines of exhaustion, but the tension that’s been in his shoulders dissolves like he just walked into a puffy cloud and is ready to kick back.
He’s more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we were in the jacuzzi.
He eyes my Christmas tree, still glittering and aglow. “Kai is going to take one look at this place and think he just hit the kid’s equivalent of the jackpot.”
“Mission accomplished. I try to make my home a cozy, comfortable place that’s inviting. A cozy retreat from the world. Would you like some hot chocolate?” I ask because it’s been a day.
“Let me.” He winks. “Trust me on this.”
“In that case, make yourself at home.”
He heats milk and sugar in a saucepan instead of using the microwave, whisks in cocoa powder and vanilla, then adds a pinch of cinnamon, followed by a sprinkle of salt that makes the whole kitchen smell like Christmas.
Well then. The man somehow knows my love language.
I take a sip and internally correct myself. No, this feels like Christmas. Like warmth and hope and affection. “This is super creamy. So much better than my recipe.”
“Secret ingredient,” he says, settling into the chair across from me.
“Which is …?” I ask, having watched his every move.
“Patience. You can’t rush good hot chocolate.” He takes a sip of his own. “My mom used to make it after games, slowly warming the milk, adding the sugar and letting it melt, then the cocoa powder, and finally a pinch of salt.”
“Tell me about her,” I say softly.
“She was ... steady. Always there. Even when Dad was traveling, even when things got crazy, she was our constant.” His voice gets quiet. “When she died, it felt like the center of our world … disappeared.”
“And your dad?”
Lane shrugs. “He dealt with grief by throwing himself into hockey even harder. Which meant Desi and I were on our own a lot. We basically raised each other. Can’t say I was successful, all things considered.”
I reach into my pantry and pull out a bag of homemade marshmallows, dropping a few into each of our mugs. “I made these earlier.”
He arches his eyebrow in question.
“You mean you have been processing life in the kitchen?”
Or avoiding.
“Some people journal. Some people bake. Those are my people.”
“But this is kitchen as catharsis.”
“Yes, but cooking rather than baking. Different category entirely.”
Lane laughs, and the sound fills my kitchen in a way that reveals it had been lonely despite how much time I spend here. “What’s the difference?”