Chapter 12
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I’m making real progress on my manuscript—almost back on track with my daily word count goals to meet the new deadline. The scenes are flowing better than they have in months. My characters finally feel alive instead of just moving like paper dolls through the plot points I’ve assigned them.
My phone buzzes for the third time in an hour. Mother again. Reluctantly I answer, knowing that she won’t relent until I do.
“Bree, Mrs. Gormely keeps calling me. She says strange men are prowling around the property. Should I call the police?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You mean the Nebraska Knights hockey team and the A-2 Carpentry crew? I told you Fletch is renovating the house.”
“Without consulting me on design concepts and paint color? I’m still technically the owner, Bree.”
I take a deep breath. “I know, Mom. But you left me to handle it. I also know you’ve been wanting to sell it, and with these updates—making the house habitable again—we can probably get a much better price.”
I don’t mention that I’ve already done the math in my head and whatever we make above the current market value goes to Fletch to cover his investment with interest. I haven’t consulted my mother about this part of the plan, but I’m not sure how much she cares beyond aesthetics or how much say she actually has, considering she essentially abandoned the house when she moved to Golden Years Village.
Granted, I understand the old Victorian comes with a lot of upkeep, but something about what Fletch said the other day has stuck with me.
Because maybe you deserve a house where love can live.
Whew. That hit me in the feels unlike anything has in a long time.
Well, except for the way he looks at me, how he came to my defense when Derek, the pageant director, made an advance, and how he truly listens with interest when I talk, whether it’s about mundane things or my work in progress.
Fletch’s comment was so unexpected, so sincere, that I haven’t been able to shake it. No one has ever suggested I deserve love—or a house full of it—before.
After ending the call with my mother, I try to focus on writing again, but my concentration is shot.
For once, though, I’m not distracted by thoughts of failure or self-doubt.
Instead, my mind keeps wandering to Fletch—the way the dimple in his chin deepens when he smiles, how sweet and playful he is with the dog, and the unexpected thoughtfulness of fixing up my childhood home.
Speaking of the dog, we still need an official name.
So far, none of them have fit. Fletch suggested I ask my readers for name ideas, having exhausted his fans’ suggestions, but the truth is, much like how I planned to hide out in this town for a few weeks, I’ve been avoiding them.
Disappointed in myself for missing my deadline and afraid of what will happen if I can’t produce another book they love.
But you know what they say about best-laid plans.
Instead of remaining behind closed doors for the rest of the day, I end up helping with the toy drive, working on the skit scripts, and now Fletch has asked me to join him for a hockey skills clinic for teens this afternoon.
I’ve never played hockey and only know how to skate because of the pond behind my old house.
I haven’t been back there in years. I wonder if it has frozen over yet this winter.
“Ready to go?” Fletch enters the living room, already bundled up in his team jacket.
“Do I really need to come? I’ll just be standing around watching.”
“You’re my good luck charm. Besides, everyone has been asking why I’ve been smiling so much lately.”
“Because it’s Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year in Fletch Town.”
He holds his hands out grandly. “This is Hockey Town. Word has gotten around that I’m married to a famous author.”
I snort. “I’m hardly famous.”
“You are to them.”
With a smirk, he steers me toward the door.
In the truck, on the way to the Ice Palace practice rink, Fletch cranks the carols and sings along.
He says, “You’re humming.”
Falling silent, I refuse to admit that “Little Drummer Boy” is a banger.
When we arrive, I’m surprised by how at ease Fletch is with the teenagers. There’s none of the awkwardness I’d expect between a professional athlete and a bunch of teens. They respect him, hanging on his every instruction, but there’s also a genuine camaraderie.
“The key is follow-through,” he demonstrates a perfect shot that sends the puck sailing into the net.
They watch—we all do—with awe because of how smooth the motion is. How fast. Nothing and no one, probably not even the world’s best goalie, could’ve stopped that. It was like lightning. A comet. I’m surprised the ice didn’t melt.
To my surprise, he doesn’t turn back to the group, wearing a gloating smile or pause, waiting for a stream of accolades. No, he tells them everything he knows so they can be their very best.
It strikes me that Fletch, as bombastic and bold as he is, has been muddling through life lately without his livelihood, having been benched due to the jaw injury.
Even though I had been at a standstill with writer’s block, at least I could still try to do what I love. He can skate and practice, but not play a real game.
How does he remain so chipper?
His deep, resonant voice floats back to me as he continues, “Your body keeps moving in the direction you want the puck to go.”
The teens take turns as I watch from the bench, bundled in my warmest coat, oddly content to observe. Watching someone in their element is mesmerizing—confidence, ease, and joy radiate from Fletch as he shares his passion.
I’m not exactly sure why I’m here because he seems to have it under control. Moral support? Or maybe he wanted to show off even though he’s playing it cool. But that sounds more like the guy I knew in college and less like the man I’ve been getting to know.
He has a way of making everyone feel seen—these kids, the mayor, my difficult mother …
me. He doesn’t just fill spaces, he illuminates them.
If I’m a star, according to what he said at my mother’s when they met, he’s a candle, providing light and hope.
I’ve spent so long protecting myself from it because I’m afraid of the dark that comes when it’s gone.
After they’re done with the drills, Fletch says, “My wife, a published author, is going to come around to your small practice groups and give you some pointers to up your mental game.”
I glare, gawk. What?
“It’s one thing to stand on the ice and go through the motions.
It’s another to show up, whether it’s skating until your muscles burn or plopping your backside into the chair every day to write.
Performing at a high level takes discipline.
Mental fortitude. Even though her work as a writer doesn’t require the same physical skills we learn out here, I promise, getting your head in the game is an entirely different beast and it isn’t easy. She’s a pro at that.”
My chin bottoms out, hits the ice—proverbially, not literally. We don’t need two broken jaws on our hands.
He could’ve prepared me. Might have mentioned something about wanting me to offer these kids some encouraging words. I’ve sat on several guest panels at writing conferences, but aside from open Q&A, I usually have a topic prepared to discuss ahead of time. My thoughts disappear. Head empty.
Fletch smiles at me briefly and just before he turns to continue with the workshop, I get a wink. Like a firefly in the summer, I want to catch it. Want its little twinkle to be mine, all mine.
Does that mean I want him?
Fletch sees something in me that I’ve hardly let myself recognize. His comments about discipline and fortitude filter back. Gaps fill in. A picture takes shape out of words.
“Mrs. Turley, the ice is yours.”
Several heads swivel in my direction, eyes wide with interest. I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the sudden attention.
Fletch turns, talking with a guy who I think is the Knights’ assistant coach and Redd, one of his fellow players.
Since he volunteered me to talk to the teens, I don’t want to let them down, for them to feel like they’re not seen or that I’m not interested in them.
I know the feeling all too well and like a pesky pimple, when I was around their age, it came to a head, resulting in me pushing back and wanting total independence from my parents.
Since they weren’t going to fill our house with love or even acknowledge me in a meaningful way, I built a fortress around myself.
Yeah. I just realized that.
Sliding onto the ice in my boots, I make my way from group to group, asking if they have any questions about what Fletch called the mental game.
Of course, I have nothing to contribute about hockey, but being a professional author is on par with being a professional athlete as far as time and dedication go, so I suppose I have something to contribute in a general sense.
Most of the kids just want to practice, but while they’re waiting their turn, I tell them about how there will be times when they’ll want to stay at home, watch movies, play video games, or whatever it is the teen set does nowadays.
But to get good like Fletch and Redd, if they want to rise to the top, they have to give more than a hundred percent, especially when they only feel like they have fifty percent in the tank.
One asks, “What if I need a rest day?”
“Take it. But always be honest with yourself. Is it rest because your body and mind need it or is it because when you reach a certain level, it gets hard? And hard is, well, hard.”
A few of them nod, understanding.
“Someone once told me, ‘If it were easy, everyone would do it.’ That’s to say, do the hard thing, go beyond where the average person goes, refine your skills, do it even when you’re tired, discouraged, or scared, and more than likely you’ll be rewarded.”
One of the kids shouts about having their name on the Stanley Cup one day.