Chapter 18 Zoey #2
Great. I've just scolded them, and now I have to grovel for a favor. I feel like I'm sixteen again, about to ask my parents if I can borrow the car after I've already dented the bumper five times.
“So… guys? I have to go to The Den. Delaney needs me. Something about the program—"
“We’ll take Morgs,” Mason says immediately. “We were gonna hit The Leopard Lounge for lunch anyway. Wanna see if we can beat Cade Jensen at pool again, kiddo?”
Morgan’s eyes light up. “Yes!”
“Are you sure?” I ask, already feeling the pull of guilt. “I can just bring her with me—”
“Zoey.” Beck puts a hand on my shoulder. “Go. We’ll cover the lunch rush and then take her out.”
Declan nods, his gaze softening just a fraction. “Go.”
For a second, I hesitate.
Am I becoming the kind of mom who drops everything for a work opportunity? Who lets her kid eat bar food for lunch while she chases a dream she packed away years ago?
But then I look at Morgan.
She's already pulling on her coat, chattering to Mason about which pool trick she wants to learn.
She’s fine. She’s more than fine. She’s surrounded by people who love her.
And I… I have somewhere to be.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling. “Okay. Thank you.”
I race upstairs, change into the only remotely 'cute' thing I own that’s clean. A cream-colored sweater dress and knee-high boots. I run a brush through my hair and grab a quick coffee that hopefully pardons me for my life choices.
It scalds a glorious, awakening path down my throat, and for a second, the morning finally sharpens into focus.
Leaning into the bathroom mirror, I wield some fresh mascara like a tiny magic wand. Each sweep is a promise of transforming my sleep-deprived, sex-indulged smudges into something that whispers I definitely have my life together.
Lip-gloss is next, a swipe of sheer, peachy shimmer.
It’s a five-second transformation that feels like a secret weapon, and when I come back down, my brothers are already handling the bakery like they've been doing this their whole life.
I head straight for the door to find my tiny human fan club in full cheer mode.
“Good luck!” Morgan yells, waving both arms like she’s trying to land a plane in a hurricane.
“Knock ‘em dead, sis,” Beck calls, leaning against the counter with a lazy grin.
Declan, who’s been silently judging my outfit from across the room, adds, “Just try not to trip on your way out. We’ve already had enough excitement for one morning.”
Mason, ever the supportive one, gives me a thumbs up. “You got this, Zee. And tell Lane we said hi.”
I blow Morgan a kiss, shoot my brothers a look that promises future retaliation, and push out into the crisp air, their laughter chasing me all the way to my car.
The Den is buzzing when I arrive, even though it’s a non-game day. Staff move through the concourse, setting up for something, and the sound of skates cutting ice echoes from the arena bowl.
Delaney is waiting at the main entrance, looking effortlessly chic in a tailored blazer and heels.
“Zoey! You look amazing.” She air-kisses my cheek then grabs me by the shoulders. “Ready for this?”
"I guess." I paste on a nervous smile. “For what, exactly?”
“You’ll see.” She loops her arm through mine and leads me through the corridors, past the locker rooms, toward the event space where the launch party was held.
But instead of going inside, she stops at a set of double doors marked PRIVATE – EXECUTIVE BOX.
“Big Mike’s idea,” she says, grinning. “He wanted to do this somewhere… special.”
She pushes the doors open, and the executive box is nothing short of breathtaking.
The wall of glass overlooks the ice, where the Snow Leopards are practicing. I can see Colt, in a purple practice jersey, taking shots on an empty net.
The room itself is filled with dark wood and plush purple velvet, with a fireplace crackling in the corner and a spread of food on the central table that makes my baker’s heart sing.
I step over, and look over the spread of artisanal cheese boards, glistening fruit, and delicate pastries from… well, from me.
And in the center of it all, is a single, beautiful white box tied with a purple velvet ribbon.
“Zoey Morrison. Come in, come in.”
Big Mike stands by the window, sipping what looks like… a bourbon?! It's barely ten in the morning.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” I say, suddenly nervous.
I didn't know the CEO of not just one, but two NHL franchises was going to be here.
“Please, call me Mike.” He gestures to the box. “Come closer. Ms. Evans and I have something to show you.”
"So… as you know…" Delaney steps forward, her eyes sparkling. “The votes have been tallied. And the winner, by a landslide, is…” She unties the ribbon on the white box with a flourish. “The Cardamom-Butter Twist!”
She lifts the lid and the sides fall open to reveal, nestled on a bed of gold tissue paper, my pastry.
But it’s… more.
The twist is perfectly golden-brown, glistening with butter and sparkling sugar, the cardamom scent wafting up, warm and exotic.
It’s presented gorgeously in a custom, sage-green cardboard sleeve, stamped with a gold Snow Leopards logo on one side and a simple, elegant Butter Batch script on the other.
“This is the prototype,” Delaney says, her voice soft with pride. “For the arena. We’ll sell them at dedicated kiosks on the main concourse with all the special Butter Batch branding."
I reach out, my fingers brushing the sleeve. It’s real. This thing I created in my tiny kitchen, the recipe I tweaked for years, is now… a product. A brand.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“It’s a masterpiece,” Big Mike says, coming to stand beside me. “And it tested through the roof. People are already asking when they can buy them.”
I look up, tears prickling my eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, just hold onto that thought,” Delaney says, grinning. “Because that’s not all.”
She nods toward the ice. Colt has stopped practicing and is leaning against the boards, watching us through the glass. He lifts a hand in a wave, and my heart does a slow, dangerous roll, remembering the night we just shared.
“He’s going to lose his mind when he sees this,” Delaney murmurs, following my gaze. “He’s been talking about these twists for weeks. Do you have any idea how much that man has done to make this happen? I think he’s personally responsible for at least a hundred of the votes.”
I smile, watching him.
He's sweaty, his sandy hair plastered to his forehead in dark, damp streaks, his practice jersey clinging to every ridge of muscle across those broad shoulders. From up here, he looks like sin on skates, and my thighs press together, a flush of heat curling low in my belly.
He’s done this. All of it. The arena, the gold-stamped sleeve.
He got me here, so maybe tonight, I’m going to spend an hour between his thighs and worship him like the sexy hockey god he is.
Big Mike clears his throat. “There’s one more thing, Zoey.”
I pull my focus from my dirty thoughts, and Big Mike reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp envelope.
“This,” he says, sliding it across the table toward me, “is an official offer.”
My name is written across the front in elegant calligraphy, the kind of looping script that makes everything inside feel important before you've even cracked the seal.
I stare at it like it might bite.
“An offer…" I stutter nervously. "For what?”
Big Mike chuckles and glances across at Delaney. She just smiles, gleefully bouncing on her heels.
“Open it!” she squeals.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up. The paper is thick and expensive. I slide my thumb under the flap and pull out a stack of sheets that are fronted by an official looking document.
My eyes scan the first line:
Official Offer of Partnership - Butter Batch Bakery
My breath stops and my hands start to shake.
It’s…
It’s everything.
Everything I ever dreamed of. Everything I wrote in that notebook, every late-night fantasy, every 'maybe someday' I packed away when life got hard.
I flick through the pages, and it's a whole lot of legal jumble about expansion opportunities, bigger production volumes, and real world distribution complete with partner alliances and up-front funding from investors.
And the numbers are… staggering.
I look up, my vision blurring, but I can’t speak. I just hold the paper, the weight of it in my hands feeling like the weight of a future I never let myself believe was possible.
Big Mike is watching me, his expression serious.
“This is a real offer, Zoey. So take your time, and think long and hard about it. Talk to your people.” He nods toward the ice. “And maybe, talk to him.”
On the ice, Colt pushes off the boards and starts skating toward the tunnel, only to be surrounded by Willa and Coach Ashford. They start talking, and Colt's entire face lights up, like he just got handed his lifelong dream.
"What's going on?" I ask, watching carefully as Colt throws his arms around Willa, pulling her into a huge hug.
Delaney shuffles up beside me, smiling down at the rink. "I'm not sure."
Big Mike chuckles beside us. "Let's just say… that looks like the face of a man who just got handed his dream, too."
Delaney loops her arm through mine and pulls me in close. "Then it looks like we need to get your man up here to celebrate. I'll go get him, shall I?"
Shit.
He’ll see the pastry box. He’ll see my face. He'll see the envelope.
And that's all fine.
But I’ll have to decide, not just about the ridiculous life-changing offer, but about what happens when the dream you gave up on suddenly gets handed back to you, wrapped in a purple ribbon and sealed with a kiss you’re still trying to believe in.