Chapter 14 #2
“Fletch, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
He shrugs, but I can see the effort it takes to appear nonchalant.
“At my most recent appointment, the doc said I’m healing beautifully.
” He lets out a breath. “I’m not going to prepare for the possibility that my career might be over.
Not giving up. A busted jaw isn’t going to stop me.
But it has given me a lot to think about related to my direction in life and my priorities. ”
“Yet that hasn’t stopped you from singing.”
“But it definitely tossed me out of the dating pool.”
The wood in the fireplace pops, sending a little spark toward the protective screen, but then the room is quiet as Fletch’s words crackle between us.
I can’t read his mind, but our marriage situation makes me wonder what’s next for him after the thirty days are up.
Likely, he’ll be back on the ice and find someone he truly wants to marry, not the pathetic “school newspaper girl” joke from college.
Tearing myself from the emptiness those thoughts leave me with, I say, “Is that part of why you’ve been doing so much community work?”
“Probably not a bad idea to build a life outside hockey, but that’s still compatible with it ... and sometimes, when you feel like everything has been taken from you, the best thing to do is give back. Give what you can.”
I blink a few times, shocked by the depth of his words. “That’s remarkably mature.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Did you think I was made of potato chips and pretzels?” he teases, dipping his shoulder into me, but his eyes remain serious.
“Potato chips and pretzels?” I ask.
“Things that break easily. Sorry, I’m hungry.”
I laugh through my nose. “So you’re a true romantic, then? On and off the ice?” I don’t know why I ask this, why I steer the conversation in this direction.
They say, “write what you know,” but maybe I’m trying to know what I write.
He chuckles—a short, surprised sound. “You think I’m a romantic?”
“Christmas. Volunteering. The way you talk about hockey and community. You almost sound like a guy one of my romance writer friends would create.”
“What about you?” he asks, turning the question back on me.
I squawk out a laugh. “Not even close. No, remember? I write about cowboys.”
“But they’re romance novels.”
“Fiction being the operative word.” Doing my best to ignore and hide the warmth, not just in my cheeks, but my whole body, I stare into my mug, hoping he doesn’t notice.
But apparently, my heart wants to make itself known because I say, “As you may have gathered, my parents’ marriage was functional at best. I see clearly now how they stayed together but lived separate lives.
My father was emotionally distant—he worked hard to support us, but affection wasn’t in his vocabulary. My mother, well, you’ve met her.”
Fletch shifts slightly so he’s facing me more and I instantly long for his strong, steady presence to remain close.
“In case no one ever told you this, none of that meant you were unlovable.”
Fletch attempts to hold my gaze, but as my chest spasms, I glance away.
Gently pinching my chin, he shifts my gaze back to meet his and all I see is intensity rioting in his brown eyes as if he’s willing to go to war for me, not against me. But this can’t be right, can it? If so, I have to reorder everything I believed about him … starting now.
He says, “I’m serious.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, but I keep talking like I’m trying to defend a thesis or be proven wrong. “In high school, I had a crush on a boy who used me for homework help, then publicly rejected me when I finally worked up the courage to ask him to a dance.”
“His loss.”
I snort a laugh.
“Later, in college, I had a serious boyfriend. I thought Chris was different, er, hoped that he was less about himself and more about us. You know?”
“Yeah. I do.”
I pause as a memory surfaces with unexpected clarity.
“I remember one night in December, I invited him to my dorm to help decorate my miniature tree. He came over but spent the whole time griping about his awful day, how his professor was really riding him about his final essay. I was listening, being supportive. Then I mentioned that his professor reminded me of one of the characters I’d been working on for a creative writing project—a demanding mentor figure who pushed the protagonist.”
Fletch frowns as if anticipating where this is going.
“Chris gave a half roll of his eyes. Not like he was amused. More like ...” I trail off, then force myself to continue.
“Like I’d said something ridiculous. A few weeks later, he broke up with me.
Said I cared more about my fictional characters than I cared about him.
That I was always in my head, always observing life instead of living it. ”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the cabin. He stokes the fire and adds a log before turning back to me.
I stare into the flames. “Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m just ... not built for real relationships. Maybe I’m only good at writing about love, not actually experiencing it.”
Fletch shakes his head and locks his gaze on me once more. He repeats, “His loss.” Then he adds, “My gain.”
The words fly toward me on the wings of a dove, but I let them glide by, afraid of what might happen if I invite them in.
I release a frustrated huff. Frustrated with myself for ever being a fool for love.
“The point is, I’ve always been the friend listening to others’ love stories, never living my own.
So I started writing them instead. It became my way of controlling love narratives when I couldn’t control real relationships. ”
“Your characters get the happy endings you don’t believe are possible for yourself,” Fletch says softly.
I look up, startled by his insight. “Exactly.” I tell him what my editor once told me about how I write.
“But it hurt because you have been burned,” he finishes.
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat and the way he understands. Part of me laments the fact that the house where I grew up could’ve been filled with sunlight and laughter. But instead, it’s just dusty, forgotten. I wonder how my life would’ve been different.
Fletch shakes his head. “What if I told you I disagree with your whole theory about love being fiction?”
Fletch leans forward and in the firelight, I notice that his eyes aren’t solid brown. There are layers, a world of stars in shades of umber and bronze, chestnut and sienna.
When I finally reply, my voice is barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re opposites, so it would follow that you’d see things differently than I do.”
“Like the North and South Poles?”
“Like you just like to get on my nerves,” I say with a faint laugh, bumping my elbow into him.
His is genuine and warm. “Maybe a little. But being opposites isn’t always bad, Bree. Sometimes it’s two different pieces that come together to make a whole.”
A smile scrolls across his lips, but does nothing to diminish the earnestness in his expression.
For the first time, I fully drop my guard and let myself truly look at him—not as the cocky hockey player who once teased that he’d marry me, not as my fake husband for research purposes, but as the man who sits beside me now. Thoughtful. Kind. Complex.
I wonder, just for a moment, if maybe this could work. Not the arrangement, not the charade, but something real between us.
The thought sends a terrifying little thrill through me.
His gaze finds mine, replacing the thrill with a shower of tingles.
I peek into the future and see dozy mornings and cozy nights watching movies. In between is all the stuff of life, the two of us, together.
But this can’t be. It wasn’t the plan.
But with Fletch, I feel safe, seen, and cared about.
“We should get some sleep,” I say, breaking the moment before I can do something foolish like tell him what I’m thinking or press my palm softly to his jaw or bring my lips to his. “Long drive back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he replies, voice husky.
Does he feel it too?
Fletch lengthens as best he can on the undersized couch, pressing himself into the back and inviting me closer—I take it Coach Badaszek doesn’t overnight here or has a blow-up mattress we didn’t find earlier.
I sit on the edge, physically frozen by my thoughts about the sleeping arrangements with my husband and getting chillier by the moment. “But we don’t have our pillow barrier.”
“I don’t bite.”
“Yes, but—” I splutter.
“We’re married, Bree. Plus, it’s only going to get colder. We need each other for warmth.”
I trip over the words, We need each other.
I’m strong, independent. I don’t need anything or anyone. Well, except for my friends, readers, and editor. She’s indispensable.
Also chocolate.
But I can’t bring myself to get closer to him. It’s too big a risk because then what? It’ll shatter everything I’ve told myself about this particular man and the plan I had for my life—following the muse and writing reality into fiction.
But what if it all led me to him?
At that thought, I cannot bring myself to do anything other than slide onto the floor like a slushy, melting puddle.
Gripping me under the arms, Fletch easily drags me back up. “Sugar Plum, you’re not sleeping down there. You’ll freeze.”
“You’re just saying that for selfish reasons. You don’t want to be cold,” I counter, even though that’s the biggest pile of yellow snow I’ve ever heard myself say out loud.
He chuckles. “There are spiders down there.”
“Not afraid of them.”
He clears his throat. “I am. They’re nightmare fuel.”
I gasp.
He shrugs. “Fine, I admit it. I need you to protect me and keep me warm.”
“You’re a human furnace. Hot to the touch.”
Fletch’s eyebrows bob. “Hot, huh?”
“Don’t try to flirt your way out of this one, mister.” I poke him in the chest and I practically sprain my finger on his firm pectorals.
He tips his head back with laughter.
“I can’t sleep up here with you. There’s nothing between us.”
“On the contrary, I think there is most definitely something between us, whether you want to admit it or not.”
My thoughts flurry, but I’m no longer cold. Not at all.
“We’re married.”
“But we made rules. We’re … us.”
“Explain why that’s a bad thing.”
I huff, but I can’t. Instead, I suggest, “How about we sleep at opposite ends?”
“First of all, this sofa is more of a glorified love seat with a lot of outsized confidence. Secondly, you’re willing to sleep next to my feet?”
He’s wearing dark blue socks with white dots.
I don’t detect any foul odors. “What’s the big deal?”
“Have you seen them? Gnarly hockey skate toes.”
When he puts it that way, the corners of my lips lower. “Let’s not talk about your feet.”
“So we’ll discuss our sleeping arrangements.”
I’m backed into a corner … of the symbolic sort. If I cuddle up with Fletch, I might like it. If I don’t, his oversized ego, much like the sofa, will speculate and assume it’s because he makes me warm all over, inside and out.
Not exactly false.
Wearing his playful, lopsided grin, he says, “You. Here. Now, missus.”
I narrow my eyes with defiance. “Is that an order?”
“My oh my, are you stubborn. Okay, if this were a scene in one of your books, what would happen? Let’s see, there’s a woman in her wagon train and it goes off track—”
“They weren’t actually trains like we have today—”
Undeterred, he says, “And a kindly gentleman took her into his care, but night fell and they had to take shelter in a one-room cabin …”
I lean in, listening intently.
Lips rippling with a smirk, he asks, “How would it work?”
“First of all, she’d be packing a revolver in her garter belt, so—”
His chin dimples as he grins. “Are you wearing one of those?”
“What? No, I have jeans on.”
Lip quirking, he asks, “Okay, then what?”
With a roll of my eyes, I relent. At this rate, we’ll be telling stories and arguing for hours instead of sleeping. I’ve pulled some all-nighters and paid for it the next day, so there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable.
Sighing, I start, “Okay, so Suzanne, the heroine, in this work of fiction—”
“With her gun and her garter belt,” he says, voice rough.
“She would, well, she’d lie down beside the kindly gentleman for warmth only. There would be no funny business.”
“None,” he repeats.
I edge closer, biting the inside of my lip.
“Let’s call him Logan—it’s a good, strong name.”
“Fine. Suzanne and Logan.”
Fletch makes room for me and I tentatively slide beside him.
“She’d remind him repeatedly that she’s a lady.” On my side, with my back to Fletch’s chest, I lengthen my legs along the couch, right in front of his.
“Hold on. We established that the hero in this story, Logan, is a kindly gentleman. He wouldn’t take advantage of a woman, especially not one with a gun.”
“This is the old west we’re talking about, cowboy.”
He grunts. “I’ve never met a hockey-playing cowboy. But I like the sound of that.”
I playfully whack his thigh and settle in, nudging up against him.
Fletch wraps his heavy arms around me and draws me close.
I could get used to this.
He’s sleepy now and says, “I need you.” At least, I think that’s what I hear, but his voice is muffled in my hair.
He needs me? Why me? That couldn’t have been right.
What did he say instead?
He deeds me—like he’s playing his cowboy role and will give me the deed to the cabin?
He reads me—and wants to check out one of my books?
But my mind turns mushy, my thoughts obscure as I sink into how secure it feels to have my husband’s arms around me.
I’ve never been this close to a guy before. At least, not in this way. Unlike the female main characters in my stories, I’ve never been snuggled.
Turns out, I like it.
I want it.
Does that mean I want Fletch?
Wrapped up in blankets and him, I can’t help thinking about the characters in my stories. How they always know the exact moment they fall in love, how certain they are.
Real life is messier, filled with doubt and fear and walls built from past hurts.
But for the first time in a long time, I find myself wondering if those walls might be worth climbing over.
Or knocking down.