Chapter 12 #2
I don’t want to burst their bubble, but it’s statistically unlikely that they’ll all achieve that goal.
So I say, “That would be cool, but also know that trophies aren’t the only rewards.
When you build competence and skill in one area, it gives you the confidence to do other things that might seem challenging to most. So while it’s possible that not all of you will become NHL players, by giving your all here, you’ll be able to apply the same amount of commitment to whatever you do. ”
They nod, picking up what I’m putting down, possibly encouraged, and definitely itching to start moving again. I slide to the boards and stumble back onto the spectators’ side of the rink.
Despite my writer’s block, I understand what Fletch must’ve seen in me. Even though my passion for writing was becoming a challenge, I didn’t let it turn into a roadblock. I kept going, even if that meant taking a detour or two.
After the session ends, most kids hurry off to waiting parents, but one girl lingers, shuffling her feet nervously near the bench where I sit.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Turley? I was wondering ...”
I look around, not sure who she’s talking to, but her eyes land on me. Oh, right. Me. Mrs. Turley. Fletch’s wife. How could I forget? It could be that we didn’t have a proper wedding. I don’t have a ring. I didn’t technically say, “I do.”
The girl asks, “How did you know you wanted to be a writer?” Her voice is barely audible.
The question catches me off guard. “I didn’t, at first.”
“So you didn’t want to write since you were a little kid?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But I loved stories.” I tell her about my many hours spent at the library.
She nods solemnly. “I write, too. But my dad says it’s not a real career.”
Something in her hesitant demeanor and the way she clutches her notebook strikes a chord. I recognize myself in her—the uncertainty, the longing to create despite doubts. “Mine either. He was an engineer. My mom still thinks it’s superfluous.”
Her eyes twinkle at my use of that word—she knows exactly what I’m talking about. I sense a kindred spirit, reminding me of one of my favorite childhood books about a spunky girl named Anne with red hair, who lived in a small town and the boy who teased her.
“Yet here I am. What I was saying out there about the mental game is true when you have doubts, but also when the people in your life cause you to second-guess what you’re doing. Sometimes you have to push past it … or like Fletch with that puck, you just shoot your shot.”
She bites her lip as if unsure.
“I’ve heard on good authority that hockey romance is hot right now. I write historical westerns, but the genre could be a fun place to start, considering your experience out there.” I jut my chin toward the ice.
Her gaze drifts to a boy removing his skates and her cheeks warm.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Emma.”
“Well, Emma, storytelling started nearly at the beginning of time and writing is one of the most long-standing professions in the world. It’s how we preserve the past, our personal histories, share our ideas, and understand each other better.
Whether you become an author or not, it’s a worthy pursuit. ”
Her face brightens. “Would you maybe look at something I wrote sometime?”
“I’d be honored,” I say, and mean it as a tiny idea forms about hosting a creative writing workshop at the library in the future. Well, wherever I end up living.
Fletch appears beside us, gear bag slung over his shoulder. “Making friends?”
“Emma is a writer,” I tell him.
“Creative people always find each other.” He clicks his tongue.
And in fiction, so do the people who are meant to be together.
On the drive home, Fletch makes an unexpected detour to the tree lot we visited last week.
“Again?” I ask, puzzled.
“These smaller ones are part of a fundraiser for the Junior Explorers,” he explains, selecting a three-foot fir.
“I did that when I was a kid instead of Girl Scouts.”
He looks genuinely surprised. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Fletch.”
His smile is slow and thoughtful. “Learning is the fun part.”
After selecting a small tree, to my surprise, he drives us to Golden Years Village.
“Now what are we doing here?” I ask.
“Your mother needs a little Christmas in her life,” he explains, carrying the tree inside. He’s also brought a box of decorations from my parents’ basement—ones that didn’t make it onto our tree.
“So you’ve taken it upon yourself to get her a tree?”
Just then, my mother throws open the door and greets us with more enthusiasm than usual. “What’s all this?”
“We’re here, just spreading some holiday cheer,” Fletch says, setting up the tree in the corner of her apartment.
“Very thoughtful. Though I’m still waiting to hear about your nuptial plans. Maybe you’d like something formal for your reception? For friends and family?”
Fletch and I exchange panicked glances.
“By formal, do you mean romantic?” I ask, meaning public and knowing she probably just wants to use the opportunity to impress her friends.
Fletch says, “If Bree wants romantic, that’s what she gets.
If she wants public, let’s do it. But if she prefers something private, that’s good too.
Say she wants us to have an intimate dinner party celebrating our marriage, we could—” He goes on to describe that option in elaborate detail, likely knowing that I’m not keen on a big, over-the-top to-do.
My mother’s brows crimp together, but I see exactly what Fletch is doing. He’s unwrapping a delicate gift presented by the Christmas Market elves.
“We could go ice skating afterward,” I add impulsively, because I imagine that’s something he’d enjoy.
“Whatever you want, Sugar Plum.”
Mom says, “I thought you were out on an injury.”
He taps the air. “Someone has done their homework.”
“Even though he’s on the injury list, he can still ice skate,” I supply.
Fletch flashes me a look of surprise because, fine, I’ve done some homework too. If hockey romance is so popular, I had to find out what the fuss was all about.
Mostly, I browsed the NHL social media and website. There are a lot of articles and photos featuring my husband, all husky, hot and sweaty in his uniform. I fan my face at the thought.
So far, we haven’t outright lied to my mother, but we are both dancing, or skating as it were, around the truth. The small, intimate dinner image he painted sounds pretty romantic. Is that what I want? The little bounce in my belly suggests that I’m not opposed.
He continues, taking my hand. “Just picture it, soft twinkle lights, background music, including Bree’s favorite Christmas song—” He chuckles, knowing I’m not one to sing along.
“‘Winter Wonderland.’” I supply the first one that comes to mind and the one that the man has not stopped singing, especially to the dog.
For a moment, I can almost see us surrounded by the lights and music … at a real celebration of our marriage. Disappointment twists in my chest—disappointment that we’re telling a story, a work of fiction, and we didn’t get a real wedding, a real beginning.
The voice inside that reminds me that this isn’t real, it’s research, is barely a whisper.
“Do you have photos of your engagement and wedding? We could put them on display,” my mother suggests innocently.
Except they don’t exist.
“Um, I’ll have to work on that. I’ve been so busy with my manuscript—”
“Do you use email, Mrs. Darling?” Fletch asks.
“I told you to call me Monique and of course. I’m active in the local community groups and Alisson down the hall signed me up for a dating app.”
I nearly choke on the air in the room. “Dating?”
“Online matches are all the rage. Real love connections are made in cyberspace.”
Is she onto us? She can’t be.
“What about Dad?”
She snorts. “He loved three things: his work, his wood shop in the basement, and you.”
Why isn’t she in the equation? Why am I?
She looks from Fletch to me and then, as if seeing something I don’t, she confesses, “Our relationship had faded long before you were born. We just lived together because, well, what else would we have done with that big old house?”
“But what about the thing you said about real romance?” I ask, recalling my first visit when I’d arrived back in the area.
“We all tell ourselves stories, Bree.”
Fletch’s statement about love comes to mind. I suddenly feel sorry for my mom and my version of my parents’ story splinters by the second.
But then my mother’s expression softens as she picks up a glass ornament from the box. “These were your grandmother’s. I’d forgotten about them.”
“I bet she loved Christmas,” Fletch says.
Mom nods, a distant look in her eyes. “I did too, once upon a time.”
Also, news to me. I’m not sure whether to be shocked and resist how all this new information conflicts with what I thought I knew or allow it to fill the gaps and make sense of the incongruences that made my childhood so lonely.
Fletch laces his fingers through mine. Bubbles bounce under my skin where our skin connects.
His defense of me when my mother was pointing out her observations about our contrast floods back. He sees me in a way no one ever has.
As we help her decorate the small tree, I find myself studying Fletch and how present he is—not checking his phone like many modern men and not with his nose in the newspaper like my dad.
Fletch is a full participant in life—even if he’s sometimes cocky and tries to charm everyone from the gal at the front desk downstairs to my mother … to me.
The man would never remain in a lonely relationship in a house that was falling apart around him.
His expressive, animated demeanor highlights my more reserved nature.
His height creates sweet moments where I have to look up at him during conversations—like now, as he passes me a star for the top of the tree, our fingers brushing.
He doesn’t pull his hand away and his knuckles dance toward my wrist. The warmth that flows through me makes me think that somehow we’re right together, even though we’re so different.
Or maybe I’m just getting my wires crossed and thinking of Lorna and Drake.