Chapter 23
brEE
The Ice Palace has been transformed for the Knights’ annual Christmas party.
Twinkling lights drape from the rafters, two massive decorated trees stand where the goals usually are, and wrapped presents fill the penalty box.
Tables laden with food and drinks line what would normally be the players’ bench area.
Even the Zamboni sports reindeer antlers and a red nose.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Fletch guides me through the entrance and onto the ice, partially covered with a walking area for those not wanting to skate, his hand warm at the small of my back. His touch sends a warm shiver through me.
Fletch says, “Margo, Beau’s wife, is an event planner. She goes all out. Wait until you see him dressed as Santa.”
I laugh, but inside I’m a bundle of nerves. This is the first time I’m officially attending a hockey event as Fletch’s wife—a role that still feels both foreign and increasingly right. I tug at my red sweater dress, suddenly worried it’s too casual or too formal or just too ... something.
“You look beautiful,” Fletch says, reading my mind and dropping a kiss on my temple.
I blush, and my nerves disappear.
“I know you’ve met a lot of the characters—”
My gaze snaps in his direction.
Anticipating my question, he says, “Just saying, hockey romance is hot. You could write one. Let’s see, the hero would be about this tall.” He measures the air in front of us at his exact height. “Strong, handsome. Dare I say strapping? But distinguished too.”
I can’t help myself. I crack up with laughter. The jokester still lives somewhere inside him and I’ll admit that I like it.
Swinging our hands between us, he says, “Come on. There are a few more people I want you to meet.”
The next hour passes in a blur of names and faces. Some I’m relieved to recognize—Ella, Jess, Leah, Gracie, and a few more. But others, I’m only now placing with stories Fletch has told me.
His teammates greet him with backslaps and jokes about his big charity game win—which I thought was a loss, resulting in their bet … and me, us—but perhaps, since we’re actually here together, it’s a net gain. Meanwhile, their partners welcome me with genuine warmth.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Cara, the coach’s daughter and wife to defenseman Pierre Arsenault, says as she pulls me into their circle. “We were starting to think Fletch made you up.”
I laugh. “Trust me, I’m real. Awkwardly, painfully real. I’m the woman who kissed him by accident, agreed to marry him through a website, and somehow still managed to fall for him. If I wrote this in a book, my editor would send it back with ‘TOO RIDICULOUS’ in all caps.”
“Careful. She’s a writer. She’ll put you in her next romance if you misbehave,” Gracie says with a wink.
“Too late. You’re all already characters in my head,” I joke.
The women laugh, and I feel myself relaxing. “Honestly, my life has become a romantic comedy I’d be too embarrassed to publish. But here we are.”
Juniper grins. “I think we’re going to get along great.”
Gracie bounces a little on her toes. “Tell me you’re considering writing a hockey romcom.”
I’m not sure I’ll jump genres, but say, “I’ll consider it.”
They laugh, and just like that, I’m part of their group.
The women I’m just meeting now ask about my books, my writing process, and how I met Fletch.
I navigate the questions carefully, sticking to our agreed-upon story that’s close to the truth but leaves out the mail-order part.
It’s not that we’re ashamed, but it’ll open the door to too many questions that, quite honestly, I don’t have the desire to share with strangers.
“We have watch parties for away games,” Heidi explains as we sample the Christmas cookies that Whit made. There are the classic flavors, plus pinwheel poinsettias, macaroon blossoms, peppermint meltaways, and shortbread thumbprints with jam.
Delaney says, “The watch parties rotate from house to house. You can host one once you’re settled.”
“That sounds fun,” I say automatically, then pause.
Once I’m settled? Where will that be? The thought follows me through the evening.
I’ll have to talk to my mother about the house—and baking.
Maybe Whit offers classes. Perhaps it’s something she and I could do together as a mother-daughter bonding activity.
I also learn that the team has all kinds of gatherings, from game nights—board games—brick oven pizza parties, they go big on birthdays, and holidays are total blowouts.
As Fletch mingles with teammates, I find myself picturing life here—a permanent life.
Writing in the mornings, attending games to cheer for Fletch, hosting watch parties in .
.. where? My childhood home seems the obvious answer, but what about the renovations Fletch has been overseeing?
Would I sell it after all his work? And if not, how can I pay him back?
Fletch appears at my side, offering a cup of eggnog. “Puck for your thoughts?”
“Just thinking about the future,” I admit.
Something flickers in his eyes. “Anything specific?”
Before I can answer, Badaszek’s booming voice cuts through the room. “Gather ‘round, everyone! Time for the Secret Santa exchange!”
Fletch takes my hand, and we join the circle forming around the tree. Watching him interact with his teammates—the camaraderie, the inside jokes—I realize how much this community means to him. This is his world, his family beyond family.
And I want to be part of it.
The realization hits me with startling clarity. I don’t want to leave after thirty days. I don’t want to wander from rental to rental anymore. I want roots, connection, and belonging—all the things I’ve convinced myself weren’t for me.
“You’re up, Turley,” Badaszek calls.
Fletch steps forward to receive his gift—the hockey version of the Monopoly board game, because he’d been sandbagging his night to host game night with the original version of the game, which no one wants to play again.
Next, to much fanfare, a player named Clark gets a hideous Christmas sweater with hockey sticks and pucks that light up.
“Mandatory uniform at practice tomorrow,” Liam declares to raucous laughter.
I catch wind of the official Knights’ ugly Christmas dare that Pierre succumbed to, leading him to meet Cara—a sticky, secretly dating-the-coach’s-daughter scenario. Hmm. Maybe there’s more fodder here for hockey romance books than I thought.
From across the room, Fletch’s eyes find mine, shining with laughter, and my heart swells.
Later, as we drive home through gently falling snow, the truck is quiet except for the soft Christmas music from the radio. I watch the snowflakes dance in our headlights while I sneak peeks at my handsome husband.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
“I did. Your hockey family is great. A blast, actually.”
“They like you. Especially Gracie. She’s already planning a book club featuring your novels. Emma, Leah, and Jess, too. Margo is mad that we didn’t hire her to plan our wedding. Fake mad, but still.”
I smile, picturing it. “Technically, we didn’t have a wedding, but there’s talk that she’s been in contact with my mother.”
“Would you want a proper wedding? Like a big fancy affair?”
I shrug and find his hand in the dark. “Actually, I think what we have works. But a honeymoon …” I start, my mind drifting to places I’ve wanted to visit as settings to feature in my books.
I share a few with Fletch before we lapse into silence again, but it’s comfortable, filled with all the things we’re not quite ready to say but are no longer denying.
Back at the townhouse, Bailey greets us with happy barks and his wild tail wagging.
While Fletch takes him outside, I stand at the window watching them play in the small backyard, their silhouettes visible under the porch light.
He’s patient as Bailey drops the ball, then runs in circles instead of bringing it back.
Fletch just laughs and chases him, both of them playing like kids.
My chest melts like snowflakes on the window with something that feels dangerously close to love.
I’ve been so careful my whole life. Careful with my words, careful with my heart, careful not to want too much or hope for things that I foolishly thought were out of reach.
The quiet girl. The serious one. The writer who observed life from the sidelines instead of living it.
But Fletch has made me want things I’ve never let myself want.
Nina’s words from weeks ago echo back about me being afraid to live a real romance.
She was right. I’ve been terrified, actually.
Because if I let myself love him—not just go along with this arrangement—and it doesn’t work ... if he wakes up one day and realizes I’m not enough, not fun enough, not spontaneous enough, not the kind of woman a man like him should be with, I don’t think I’d survive it.
The thought is like an avalanche. I’ve survived disappointing relationships before. Isaac’s rejection. Chris’s criticism. My parents’ emotional distance. But those hurts were surface wounds compared to what losing Fletch would feel like.
Because this time, I’ve let someone in—past all my walls and defenses and careful distance.
The scariest part is that it wasn’t even hard.
He just walked right in like he’s always belonged here, filling my life with laughter and light and a kind of warmth I didn’t know existed outside the pages of my books.
Through the window, Fletch looks up and catches me watching. Even from here, I can see his smile, the lopsided one that’s just for me. He waves, and my traitorous heart does a loop the loop.
I’m in love with my accidental husband.
But what happens in the third act? I’m afraid to find out.
As “my boys” continue to play outside, I step away from the window. I’m not ready to let Fletch see how I’m caught between fear and hope. Not ready to admit out loud what I’ve just admitted to myself.
Not only that. Nina was right. I was wrong, which means no lifetime supply of cookies.
I settle at my laptop. The manuscript is nearly complete—just the final chapter to revise.
When they come inside, Bailey bounds onto the couch, snuggling in beside me, wet paws and all.
Fletch brings me a mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and a kiss on the forehead.
His lips linger there and I want them to find mine.
I breathe him in, wanting more, but instead, he teases, leaving me yearning.
With a wink, he says, “Don’t stay up too late.”
Alone with my work, I find the words flowing effortlessly and maybe I’m motivated to get this done so I can snuggle with my husband.
At last, Lorna and Drake’s story reaches its conclusion—not just a happily ever after, but a beginning.
A choice to build something lasting together, despite their different backgrounds and initial mistrust.
By the glow of the tree, I add the final sentence after midnight, my eyes burning but my heart full. After one last skim, I attach the manuscript to an email for Meredith and press send.
It’s done. The weight of the deadline lifts from my shoulders.
I let out a long breath. Tears brim in my eyes—not because I’m sad or even relieved.
It’s emotion to be sure, but the good kind.
It’s sometimes what happens when there’s so much love inside that it has nowhere left to go, so it overflows.
Puffing my cheeks on an exhale, I realize that as soon as the book earns out its advance, I’ll start receiving royalties and won’t have to take dares to kiss strangers again in order to pay off my student loans.
Though I realize with a smile, I’d do it all over again if it meant finding Fletch at the door under the mistletoe.
But now what? Soon, our thirty-day arrangement ends. The manuscript is complete. The pageant is on Christmas Eve. And then ...
I close my laptop and move to the window, watching the snow blanket the quiet street.
Nina’s house is starting to resemble Whoville.
The rest of the block is festive and aglow.
I think of my childhood home, standing empty but full of potential.
Of Fletch reading my books by the fire. Of the hockey wives welcoming me into their circle and possibly me hosting watch parties and game nights.
I know what I want. But wanting isn’t enough—I need the courage to reach for it. To revise my own story into something I never thought possible.
After the pageant, I’ll share my skit. I’ll tell Fletch that I want to stay. That I’m ready to believe in us.
For once in my life, I’m writing my own happily ever after. And I hope—with everything in me—that Fletch wants to be my co-author.