Chapter 21
Colt
Iwake up with a cramp in my neck, a child’s elbow digging into my ribs, and the scent of Zoey's baking drifting up from downstairs.
And I’ve never been happier.
Even after whatever happened last night.
I twist on the sofa, careful not to make a sound. Morgan is curled against my side, one small hand fisted in my shirt, the other clutching the crayon drawing she never let go of last night.
Her unicorn pajamas are soft against my arm, and her breathing is deep and even, the kind of sleep that only comes when you feel completely safe.
Last night, after everything… the tears, the fear, the yelling…
Morgan wouldn’t let go the second I came back upstairs.
I helped her brush her teeth and her hair, then we read her favorite book and moved to the sofa while Zoey got some pillows and blankets with a quiet, exhausted resignation that her daughter was absolutely not sleeping anywhere but at my side.
Now, morning light filters through the windows, and downstairs, I can hear the familiar sounds of the ovens starting up, the clatter of sheet pans, and the soft chime of the bell as the door opens and closes.
Zoey’s already working, probably hoping to distract herself from making the choice we both know she needs to make.
My heart does something complicated and painful in my chest.
Carefully, I ease my arm out from under Morgan. She stirs, mumbling something incoherent, her fingers tightening for a second before relaxing and letting go of her drawing.
I grab the drawing and tuck the blanket around her, smoothing her wild hair back from her face. She looks so small. So peaceful.
I stand, stretching out the kinks, and head quietly down the stairs in my socks and yesterdays clothes.
The bakery is buzzing already, with trays of golden-brown croissants gently cooling on racks in the kitchen. The air is thick with the scent of caramelizing sugar and freshly ground coffee, and behind the front counter, moving with a tense, robotic efficiency, is Zoey.
She’s already in her apron, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes tell me she didn’t sleep much, if at all.
Harold Frost is at the counter, peering into the display case with his usual critical expression as Zoey gathers his morning order.
“The raspberry tarts look a tad pale today, Zoey,” he announces.
“They’re exactly the same as every day, Harold,” Zoey says, her voice flat. She doesn’t look at him as she slides a tart into a small white box.
“Hmph. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but my taste buds are infallible.” Harold’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Zoey. “Though I suppose some distractions are worth a slightly under-baked tart.”
Zoey’s spine goes stiff as she hands him the box. “Tell Millie I said hi.”
Harold leaves, and when the door closes, Zoey finally looks at me. Her eyes are still guarded and wary, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she expects me to say I’ve changed my mind, that I’m catching the next flight to New York.
It fucking guts me.
“I, um, I gotta head to The Den.”
Her expression doesn’t change, she just hums as if it's the best thing her racing mind can fester right now.
"I didn't wake her," I add, nodding toward the stairs. "Figured she could use the sleep after last night. One day off school won't hurt, right?"
Zoey's hands still on the coffee cup she's cleaning. For a second, I think she's going to tell me that Morgan's attendance record isn't my concern, that I don't get to make those calls.
Instead, she just exhales. "Yeah. One day won't kill her."
"I'll be back in a couple hours," I say, grabbing my jacket and sliding Morgan's drawing in the internal pocket. "Just need to check in with the trainers, maybe do some light work on the ice."
I cross the bakery floor and move behind the counter before she can dodge me. I lean in and press a soft kiss to her cheek, my lips lingering against her warm skin.
She freezes, her hands going still on the towel she’s clutching.
As I turn for the door, I hear her whisper, so quiet I almost miss it.
“Be careful on the ice.”
I glance back, but she’s already turned away, scrubbing at the counter like her life depends on it. And I know, right then, I’d give up every arena in the world to be right here, to ease her quiet worry, to stay with the kid sleeping upstairs.
I'll do anything to stay in this tiny kingdom she's created.
I sit in my SUV in the players’ lot of The Leopard Den, engine off, staring at the massive purple and gold leopard head logo above the main entrance.
This building has been my home for two years. The ice inside is where I’ve bled, sweated, laughed, and lost. It’s where I’ve performed for crowds of thousands, where I’ve chased pucks and approval with equal desperation.
It’s also where Gabe Devereaux shattered my entire fucking world with a single, devastating hit.
I close my eyes, and the memory surfaces: the blinding pain, the tunnel vision, the panic as I realized I couldn’t get up.
And then… her.
Zoey, sitting in my hospital room with a box of blueberry muffins and no idea what to say. For the first time in my life, someone saw me as just a guy in a bed, not an asset or an opportunity.
Those weeks of recovery that followed… The frustration, the uselessness, the fear that maybe this was it. The dark thoughts that maybe I’d peaked and this was the slow, quiet slide into obscurity…
They were hell.
But then Delaney assigned me to Butter Batch. And suddenly, I had a reason to get up in the morning that wasn’t just another set of rehab exercises.
I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over my agent’s contact. The man who’s been negotiating my contracts since I was eighteen. The man who called the New York offer 'the opportunity of a lifetime.'
I tap the call button, and it rings twice.
“Colt! My man. I was just about to call you. New York is getting antsy. They need an answer by end of day. But I think we can squeeze another half mil out of them if we play hardball. What do you think?”
I take a deep breath. “Marty, I’m turning down the trade.”
Silence. Complete, utter silence on the other end of the line. I can practically hear the gears grinding to a halt in his brain.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to New York, Marty. I’m staying in Chilmore.”
The protests come in a torrent, practiced and persuasive, but I barely hear any of it. I'm too busy picturing a life here, in Chilmore, with Zoey.
But what if she chooses the expansion?
“Colt, listen to me. The Snow Leopards are a great story, but they’re a small market team. This offer is legacy money. You’re walking away from generational wealth! Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” I say, and the word surprises me with its certainty. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Another pause, followed by what sounds like Marty having a very colorful conversation with his coffee mug about my apparent brain damage.
Then, the low blow strikes. His last attempt to rattle me and have me change my mind.
“Do I need to call your parents? What are Jim and Julie going to say when they find out their son turned down the biggest opportunity of his career to stay in some… some mountain tourist town?”
A cold anger settles in my gut. Old anger. Familiar anger. The kind that used to make me train until I puked, just to prove I was worthy of their attention.
“I don't give a shit, Marty. Call them,” I say, my voice calm and steady. “Hell, I'll do it myself. Then I can be the one to tell them their son finally figured out what makes him happy.”
“Colt, be reasonable—”
“I am being reasonable. For the first time in my life, I’m making a choice for me. Not for my parents’ bragging rights.” I look back at The Den, at the mountains rising behind it. “I’m staying with the Snow Leopards. And I’m staying with my family.”
My family.
I hang up and drop the phone onto the passenger seat, letting out a long, shaky exhale. The weight that’s been sitting on my chest since Marty first called about the offer… it’s gone. Just like that.
Because that's exactly what this is about, isn't it?
Zoey, Morgan… hell even Beck, Mason and Declan. The fucking Snow Leopards. They're all my family.
I've spent my whole life wanting this.
I can't leave that behind.
I grab my bag and push out of the SUV, and for the first time in weeks, I don't feel like a man walking toward something he has to prove.
I feel like a man walking home.
I pull up my messages and text Samuel on my way through the front door of The Den.
Me: Dude… I need you. Bring Cade to the arena in 20.
I don’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes later, the players’ entrance door swings open and three figures emerge: Samuel Voss, all quiet authority in a team tracksuit; Cade Jensen, grinning like he’s already heard gossip; and…
Gabe Devereaux, looming behind them like a brooding mountain.
They find me sitting in the front row of the lower bowl, staring at the pristine sheet of ice.
“This better be good, Lane,” Samuel says, dropping into the seat beside me. “I was in the middle of film review.”
“I turned down New York,” I say, without hesitation.
Cade lets out a low whistle. “No shit? The golden boy said no to the big apple?”
“Shut up, Cade,” Samuel murmurs, but his eyes are on me. “Why?”
I tell them everything. The trade offer. Zoey’s franchise deal with the relocation condition. The fight last night. The way Morgan’s face crumpled when she asked if I was leaving.
They listen, and when I finally finish, the silence stretches.
Then Gabe of all people, speaks first. “You’ve changed.”
I look at him. “What?”
“You've changed since the injury.” He shifts, his massive shoulders rolling like he still hasn't quite forgiven himself.
“For the better. You stopped screwing around, you stayed the night with a woman. You looked after her kid. You flew her brothers out just so they could be together.” I swear to God, a smile touches his mouth.
“You memorized her goddamn notebook, man.”
He nudges me with his fist, and I have to look away to take it all in.