Chapter 17 #2
Bree starts, “It all happened very quickly. We just couldn’t help ourselves, but my mother is insisting we have a big ‘ole reception and we figured we’d wait until after the holidays.”
Picking up where she left off, I add, “We were going to tell you on Christmas.”
“Where’s the ring?” Graham asks.
Bree bites her lip and rubs her finger.
“Working on it,” I say.
Violet, my niece, hops on the arm of the couch so she’s at eye level with Bree and says, “When I get married, my husband is going to get a princess. I’ll have a big dress and my hair will be glamor-puss.
You would make a very pretty princess.” In her scratchy, little kid voice, she goes on to describe her grand plans, bursting the bubble of shock as we all listen intently and laugh.
I glimpse something like longing in Bree’s eyes. Does the woman who writes romance but doesn’t believe in it secretly want a fancy happily ever after?
After spending the afternoon at the Christmas Market and eating our weight in giant salted pretzels with a variety of dips, buying more ornaments for my tree—Mom has a more is more approach to life—and playing an extremely competitive game of Swoop, we order takeout and head back to my place.
Seated at the head of the table, Dad says, “We didn’t expect you to accommodate all of us, so we got tickets for tomorrow’s game. We’ll all go cheer on your team, even if you’re not playing.”
I force a smile, but it cracks. “Great.”
Bree places her hand over mine. “Fletch’s been working hard to get back on the ice.”
“Do you have an ETA?” Dad asks.
“Still uncertain.” The words taste bitter.
The conversation shifts to future plans. Christmas traditions, New Year’s parties, and spring break possibilities. Mom insists we come to their lake house in July. “All the kids love it. And maybe by then, you two will have a little one on the way.”
How we went from a tenuous marriage announcement to full acceptance, I don’t understand, but it’s Christmas, a season of grace and forgiveness. Plus, in this family, if you pause too long to think, you’ll be left behind as they move on to the next thing.
But at the discussion of future plans, Bree withdraws slightly, her smile turns wooden and becomes fixed. No one else seems to notice, but I see it—the way she folds into herself and how her eyes dart to the door like she’s planning an escape route.
“Hey, could you help me with dessert?” I ask her, standing up.
In the kitchen, she leans against the counter, exhaling slowly.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“They’re lovely. Wonderful.”
“But?”
She meets my eyes. “But they keep talking about the future like I’m part of it. Like this is permanent.”
The words tighten inside me like tape around a hockey stick. “Would that be so bad?”
She runs a hand through her hair. “No, it’s not that. It just feels like waking up the morning after Christmas. All the anticipation is behind you, and what’s left is ... I don’t know. Reality?”
I’m not sure what to say to that. The kitchen feels too small suddenly.
“We don’t have to pretend for them,” I offer again.
“It’s not the pretending that bothers me. It’s how easy it is,” she whispers, at least, that’s what I think she says, because loud hooting laughter comes from behind us.
Before I can respond, Graham bursts into the kitchen. “Are you two making out in here? Mom says to hurry up with the pie.”
Bree’s face flushes and she grabs the dessert plates.
“Brothers, I tell ya,” I mutter.
At the game the next night, Bree wears my spare jersey. It’s too big on her, but my name and number are bold across her back. I shouldn’t like the sight as much as I do.
From the box seats, I watch my team battle through three periods, ending in a shootout win. The crowd roars, my family cheers, and Bree jumps up with them, genuinely excited.
“That was amazing! I’ve never understood hockey before, but it’s actually fascinating when someone explains the rules,” she tells me afterward, eyes bright.
“Who explained the rules?” I ask, amused.
“Your dad. He wasn’t even analytical about it. More like a sports announcer, making it funny and easy to understand.”
“Don’t tell him that. It’ll go to his head.”
We laugh, and for a moment, it feels real. Us, together, sharing this moment, life.
However, at dinner, we nearly slip up. Mom asks how we decided to get married so quickly, with the emphasis on how, which amounts to a digital signature on the Heartland Happily Ever After website.
“Well, there was this website—” she says.
“—where we connected. After running into each other at a mutual friend’s house.”
Bree nods, eyes wide. “Right. The website.”
“What kind of website?” Bradley raises an eyebrow.
“For people. You know.”
They don’t look like they understand. How close can we come to the truth without totally exposing it or outright lying?
“I’d figure you’d have an assistant to set up dates now that you’re in the big leagues.” Bradley chortles.
To irritate him because he hates social media, I pick up my phone, swipe, and quickly pan around the room. “Fam, say hi to the hockey fans!”
Everyone except Bradley cheers and I click post.
Stacy, Graham’s fiancée, leans close to Bree and asks, “Don’t you get worried about all Fletch’s female hockey followers? They must swarm him.”
Lips turning down, she says, “Oh, if they so much as bat an eyelash in his direction, I’ll throw doughnuts.”
I chuckle because that would be a sight to behold. “What happened to the pen being mightier than the sword? How about you just tell them to back off?”
“In this case, they’d be better off with the doughnut holes.”
They laugh like we’re joking, but is Bree? She wears a fierce expression that suggests fried balls of dough might fly if I get some unwanted attention from the opposite sex. Is she jealous of other women? She has absolutely no reason to be because my eyes are only on her.
Thankfully, the conversation moves on, crisis averted, but Bree’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes. A silent thanks, a shared secret.
As we say goodnight to my family hours later, Mom hugs Bree again.
“You’re good for him. He seems happier than I’ve seen him in years, but especially since the injury.” She doesn’t even bother to whisper.
After I close the door, I lean against it, catching my breath.
Bree stands in the middle of the room, eyes wide as if I’m barring her exit and she’s contemplating jumping out the window.
I say, “For what it’s worth, they love you.”
“I like them too, a lot, actually.”
“But?” I ask, sensing there’s more.
She turns to me and steps closer. “But in a short amount of time, this ends. And I’m not sure what happens then.”
I’m not sure either, and the notion of her not filling this space with me makes me feel empty. It hurts more than any check into the boards ever has. But I can’t wade into that territory just now. I’ve spent my career scoring goals, but winning Bree’s heart might be the biggest challenge yet.
Instead, I say, “Tell me more about this doughnut war you plan to wage?”
She laughs.
It’s my new favorite sound.