Chapter 19
FLETCH
I drive through Cobbiton, windows cracked despite the December chill. The entire town drips with yuletide wonder—twinkling lights strung between lampposts, storefronts decorated with garlands and red bows, and the massive town square tree visible from blocks away.
Even the most practical businesses have succumbed to Christmas fervor, from the hardware store’s mini hammer-shaped ornaments to the post office’s mailbox Santa display.
I think Cobbiton’s North Pole energy has rubbed off on Bree. This morning, she was filling out Christmas cards and stuffing the envelopes with mini candy canes and chocolates for what she called her early reader team.
After parking behind the town hall with the truck bed full of wrapped toys from yesterday’s wrapping party with the team, Mayor Nishimura greets me on the steps, festooned in evergreen bunting.
She’s bundled in a red coat with a sprig of holly pinned to her lapel. “Right on time, Mr. Turley! The distribution team is waiting inside.”
“This town doesn’t do anything halfway.” I open my arms wide and add, “Well done, Cobbiton!”
She chuckles and we unload the gifts. Pride surges through me at the mountain of packages. Children who might otherwise have nothing will wake up to something special on Christmas morning.
“Your wife couldn’t join you?” the mayor asks as we finish.
“Writing deadline. She’s making great progress.” Or she’s hiding from me in her writing cave, but I did get a thank you note after I left her a breakfast tray and she signed it with a red lipstick kiss.
And I cannot stop thinking about last night under the street light.
No sooner am I back in my truck with the carols on does my phone buzz. It’s Coach Badaszek.
It’s toasty warm in here, but I brace myself, prepared for bad news.
“Ho, ho, ho, hello, Coach.”
He’s quiet. Was that too much?
I add, “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Sorry. My daughters appeared with a cookie tray and I had to take one before I lost my chance.”
Well, he sounds like he’s in good cheer. He continues, “In fact, things are more than okay, Turley.”
I lengthen my spine, and even though I’m still stationary in the truck, I grip the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers turn white.
His gruff voice softens slightly. “The team doc gave me your final clearance report this morning. You’re back on the active roster after Christmas.”
My entire body feels like it was lit by the buzz of the goal-scoring lamp, jolting my heart. “Seriously? That’s—that’s incredible!”
“You’ve put in the work and maybe this injury was a blessing in disguise. Gave you time to sort through your priorities.”
I tuck my chin. “What do you mean?”
He chuckles. “Marriage, Fletch. Never thought I’d see you settled down.”
“Yeah, well ...” I trail off, unsure how to explain the complicated arrangement that’s become increasingly uncomplicated.
“Make sure you bring her to the team party. I hear she’s an author. My Kathleen loved romance. She’d have liked to hear what inspires all her ideas, what she loves about her job.”
I take it he’s referring to his late wife.
Coach Badaszek is largely a mystery, but I’ve gleaned that not only is he a master at making cohesive player matches that routinely keep us at the top of the league and somehow premeditates plays like the game itself runs through his blood, but the guys have suggested that he fancies himself something of a matchmaker and believes in true love.
If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of his whistle and the subsequent lecture at full volume, you wouldn’t believe the guy could so much as spell the word.
L-O-V-E.
Each letter floats through my mind and then the image of Bree lands there, beaming. My heart beats out a new rhythm as I hang up with the coach, thanking him profusely.
I sit in my truck, letting the news sink in.
Back on the ice.
It’s what I’ve wanted for months, what I’ve worked toward. But the thought of returning to the demanding schedule, the travel, and the intensity forces me to ask how it could affect what’s growing between Bree and me.
I drive to her childhood home, where Mikey’s dad’s crew is finishing up the major renovations. The Victorian looks reborn—fresh paint, new windows, repaired roof. Inside, they’re nearly done with the kitchen, having installed new cabinets and flooring throughout.
“Whatcha think?” Mr. Cruz asks, wiping his hands on a rag as I enter the living room.
“It’s incredible. You guys are like Santa’s elves, but instead of making toys, you transformed this place from,” I lower my voice even though Bree isn’t here, “a place that was coming close to needing to be condemned, to a show-worthy house. And you’re fast.”
“We do our best,” he says modestly.
Mikey hollers from the other room. “Ma keeps us fueled with cookies, but I put the pressure on. Figured you and your bride needed a proper place to live.”
I chuckle, but I am grateful. “Is the writing room finished?”
“Custom shelves were installed yesterday. Perfect place for an author.” Mr. Cruz leads the way and leaves me to admire the space.
I touch the smooth wooden surface of the desk that faces the bay window.
I can picture Bree here, laptop open, creating her worlds while looking out at the snow-covered yard.
I’ve designed this space specifically for her, though I haven’t told her yet.
It’s part of my Christmas surprise—if she wants it.
The rest of the house is coming together, too. The leaks have been fixed, the creaky stairs reinforced, and the drafty spots sealed. It’s becoming a home again, not just a house with stale memories.
Back at my place, I’m eager to tell Bree about the good news from Coach Badaszek, but then trepidation hits me like a snowball to the face. What will it mean for us if I’m traveling more? What about the thirty-day deadline?
With each step I take, my thoughts turn into a snowy whirlwind of white-out conditions. Fortunately, it’s not currently snowing, but there is some in the forecast in the coming days. All of Cobbiton is hoping for a white Christmas.
I find Bree and the dog cuddled on the couch. She’s typing furiously on her laptop but looks up when I enter.
“Hey, how was the toy delivery?” she asks, a soft smile spreading across her face.
“Great. The kids are going to have an amazing Christmas.” I sit beside her, and the dog immediately places his head on my lap.
“Hi, Dog. We need to figure out your name.”
He whines and tucks his muzzle under his paw.
“I stopped by your house. It’s really coming along.”
She sets her laptop aside and turns so her knees press against my thigh. It’s natural, comfortable, but no less thrilling. The pillow fortress has remained between us, but each night, it seems to be less and less reinforced as we grow closer and closer by day.
“I still can’t believe you’re doing all this. I’ve been thinking about what happens next. After ...”
Heartland Happily Ever After comes to mind, but what about our happily ever after, or HEA, as Bree calls it? “After our thirty days?” I hold my breath, afraid of her answer.
She nods, not quite meeting my eyes. “I guess we’ll have to see …”
“I got some news today,” I say instead of addressing the question mark between us. “Coach cleared me to return after Christmas.”
Bree bounces from her spot on the couch, disturbing the dog, and hops into my lap, wrapping her arms around me in a huge hug, declaring, “Fletch! That’s wonderful!”
Then she goes abruptly still as if I just told her a bee landed on her arm.
Our gazes meet and she blinks slowly for a long moment.
I lock on her lips as they part.
Instead of our mouths meeting, she mutters, “Um, sorry. I just got carried away with excitement.” She awkwardly disentangles herself from me.
“Can’t say I mind if this is what excitement looks like.” I grin.
Her enthusiasm seems genuine, but I catch something else in her expression—concern—or is that just me?
“Yeah, it is. But the travel schedule, the away games ...”
“It’s your career. Your passion. What you’ve been waiting for. Talk about the best Christmas ever,” she rambles as if nervous, but why?
“One of my passions.”
The dog’s furry ears perk up and if I’m not mistaken, Bree listens intently, having rightly caught the phrasing. One of my passions, indicating there are more.
I take a deep breath. “What if we don’t think about the past and how I was a dumb hockey player, or the future and what could happen?”
“Like we focus on right now?”
Without another word, our fingers lace together, and not only do I get a little jolly jingle running through me, but it feels right. Looks right. Well, almost. Something is missing on each of our left hands.
The dog barks, completely oblivious to the potential of the moment.
“That’s one way to remain present,” Bree says.
“What should we name him?” I ask, both to lighten the mood and because we really do need to decide.
“What about Cinnamon?” Bree starts.
“I was thinking Nutmeg.”
“Hmm. Maybe we’re both hungry.”
We laugh simultaneously, somehow harmoniously and she turns her gaze to me with such depth in her hazel eyes, I see the struggle there—the writer’s deadline pressing on her, the uncertainty about what happens when our arrangement ends, the fear of believing in something she’s convinced herself doesn’t exist.
But also the hint of something else—hope, want, possibility?
I recall the moments early on when she’d blurted what sounded like nonsensical words—car insurance, chicken sandwich—but see now that we’ve both been nervous. This tells me we’re not that different after all.
But how do I show her these similarities and how they can help us get past any doubts she has before it’s too late?