Chapter 14
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I can’t stop thinking about the cookie-baking event. The way Fletch’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. The warmth of his hands as he guided mine through rolling the perfect gingersnap balls. The flutter in my stomach when we found ourselves in a food fight and the moment we shared afterward.
None of it was real, I remind myself as we drive through the steadily falling snow. We’re delivering holiday meals to families in need throughout the county—something I wouldn’t have imagined myself doing a month ago, no less with Fletch … my husband!
“You do so much volunteering. Is this just a regular week in the life of Fletch Turley?” I ask, watching him navigate the increasingly treacherous roads with confidence.
“When I can. My schedule is a lot different during the season, er, when I’m not sidelined.
Travel, extra practices, meetings, and games.
It doesn’t leave much time. But I always step it up around this time of year.
This December, I have extra time on my hands, so I’m trying to give more, you know?
” He squints through the windshield as the wipers struggle to keep up with the snowfall.
“But I admit that this year I wasn’t feeling it at first.”
“Yeah, sure, Buddy the Elf.”
He chuckles, but his eyes dim.
“Me neither. Not that I’d be Buddy’s twin or anything even in the best of times.”
“You mean wife?”
I snort a laugh. “But seriously, you’re super generous and you make it a priority.”
His shrug is the kind that comes from someone who is humble and not the showboat I remember from college.
He says, “Community matters. My dad always said we play for the name on the front of the jersey, not the back.”
“So are all of the Turleys hockey fans?”
“We have a football zealot, a soccer fanatic, a golf aficionado, and a pickleball champ. Thankfully, Mom is my number one fan.”
I take that to mean he’s the lone hockey player. “That is so adorably sweet.”
Part of me wants to compare Mrs. Turley to my mother, which would only cause me to be a step away from feeling bad about myself.
Instead, I want to know the woman who raised this man—not exactly the guy I pegged him for back in college when he said what became those famous six words, which have somehow resulted in our current reality.
The snowfall intensifies, transforming the countryside from a charming backdrop to a legitimate hazard. After delivering our final meal to an elderly couple, Fletch pulls over, frowning at his phone after it buzzes.
“Weather alert. They’re closing the roads.”
My stomach knots. “What? Where will we go? What will we do?”
Concern scrolling across his features, Fletch looks over our shoulder at the wall of white behind the truck.
“It doesn’t look like we can go back.”
The couple’s parting words were to be careful on the roads. I wish we were still in their warm farmhouse.
He sends a text. “Working on it.”
“What about the dog?” He has become such a fixture in our lives in this short time that the thought of him alone worries me.
Focused, Fletch types rapidly on his device. “Please text Nina. I have a hidden key so she can check on him. We need to find shelter soon.”
Thirty minutes later, because of the slow going, we’re pulling up to a small cabin nestled among snow-laden pines.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Coach Badaszek’s fishing cabin by the lake. He said any of us could come here for emergencies.” Fletch cuts the engine.
“I wish this were one of those ‘Better safe than sorry emergency plan scenarios,’” I snark with a shiver.
“For a guy like him, the need to get away from it all by going fishing in the summer, or ice fishing in the winter, might fall under the banner of an emergency.” He smirks. “Unfortunately, I don’t want to risk these roads tonight. It’s going to be icy.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod, grateful he knew what to do and where to go to get us to safety.
Inside, the cabin is simple but cozy—one main room with a kitchenette, a stone fireplace, and a small bathroom off to the side.
Fletch immediately sets to work on the fire while I explore our temporary shelter.
“Nina says the dog is fine,” I say, grateful for cell phone service.
“And we are too,” Fletch replies with a slim smile meant to reassure me—and it does.
If I’d been alone—unlikely given the fact that I’d tagged along on the food delivery drive—I’m not sure how I would’ve handled the situation. It’s not that I’m helpless, but maybe Mayor Nishimura was right—together, we make a good couple, a team of our own.
Tipping my head to the side, I add, “Though, she suggests we finally decide on a name.”
“She has a point. Dasher Dickens doesn’t quite work.”
I laugh despite my nerves. Shivering, I say, “What do you think of Frosty?”
“That would work for a white husky, but he’s too much of a love muffin.”
I squawk a laugh because I didn’t expect him to say that. Love muffin? Who is this guy?
“What do you think of Buddy?” Fletch asks.
“That’s kind of plain, no?”
“Like Buddy the Elf from the movie,” he clarifies.
“Hmm. I feel like that would better fit a golden retriever or a labrador.”
“Guess it’s back to the drawing board.” He arranges kindling in the fireplace.
After a minute, the fire catches, casting warm light through the cabin. Outside, the world disappears behind a veil of white. We’re completely cut off—no traffic sounds, no neighbors, no distractions.
Just us.
“Looks like we’re in for the night,” Fletch says, hanging his coat by the door.
I hold my hands out to the fire, soaking up the warmth, then wander the small space in search of supplies while Fletch stacks the firewood he managed to bring in before the snow covered it.
After brushing off, he says, “Hope you don’t mind being stuck with me.”
“There are worse things,” I blurt.
“Like a poke in the eye.”
“Like hitting your funny bone.”
“So not funny.”
We settle on the small, threadbare sofa with mugs of instant hot chocolate that I scrounged up.
Not only is the couch worn, but the cushions have lost their springiness and we kind of smoosh into each other. Fletch is warm, so I don’t mind. You know, strictly so we don’t freeze to death.
The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable as the fire crackles.
Then he asks, “What did you want to be when you grew up? Before you became a writer?”
The question catches me off guard. “In some ways, I always wanted to be a writer. But non-fiction, reporting facts because that was practical. Then, after college, reality seemed less and less appealing, so I started writing romance.”
He’s quiet for a long moment as if contemplating my words. “The end?”
“No. That was just the beginning. I sought out an agent.”
“I have one of those, but no plans to write a book.”
“A literary agent, not a sports agent. I got a form rejection letter. The first of forty-six.”
“You counted?”
“I used them as motivation to keep improving. Each one meant I wasn’t good enough yet, but that I was also getting closer to the dream of being signed by an agent and then a major publishing house, which would mean becoming a full-time author.”
“Achievement unlocked.”
I nod slowly, feeling uncertain about my current status, given the lull in inspiration and missing my original deadline.
“Bree, you did it. That’s incredible. Forty-six rejections and you kept going.” The admiration in his voice is warm like the fire.
I don’t talk much about the personal side of my career. It’s so solitary that it feels good to be recognized.
Fletch continues, “That kind of persistence and dedication is rare. I knew you’d have something valuable to tell the teens. So often, people only see the success, the name in lights or whatever, but they don’t see the years of hard work that led to that. You know?”
“Nor do they recognize the hard work that continues day in and day out. Sometimes late into the night.”
He snorts a laugh through his nose. “You got that right. Maintaining your place, whether in pro sports or publishing, is a battle to be your best. Every. Single. Day.”
“Exactly. What they don’t tell you is that you immediately need to write another book. And another. It never stops.”
“And train, workout, refine skills.”
“It’s relentless. The pressure to keep producing, to top your last success. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a one-hit wonder.”
Fletch’s hand slides around mine and he squeezes. “The way you’ve kept your cute butt in the chair every day in front of that laptop says otherwise.”
His faith in me is disarming. I deflect because most of the time, I’m afraid I just don’t have it in me to reach the final draft. But then a little detail he slipped in snags my attention. “What do you know about my butt?”
“That it’s been cute since college.”
The kindling inside now ablaze, I need a change of subject. “What about you? Did you always want to play hockey?”
Fletch nods. “Since I was nine. My dad is a major football fan and wanted my brothers and me to be active. Unfortunately, none of us wound up as star quarterbacks, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Dad never pushed me, just encouraged me.
In fact, he learned how to play hockey so we could practice together. ”
A little piece of my heart yearns for that kind of encouragement and support. Then again, Fletch just offered some. I guess I’ll take it where I can get it.
I say, “You must miss playing, being sidelined—or whatever the hockey term is—like this.”
A raw vulnerability I haven’t seen before flickers across his face.
“Yeah. At first, the doctors were concerned I’d need major surgery, which meant an even longer recovery before I’d get cleared to play again.
But I got some more opinions. The other doctors veered toward a more conservative approach.
Unfortunately, Coach got the first report and swiftly learned about the migraines that came with the jaw injury.
They’re gone now, but because I have had a couple of concussions, he’s been treating me with kid gloves. ”