Chapter 18
Eighteen
Poppy
“Do you think I’ll be warm enough, Mom?”
I glance down at my daughter—layered in enough clothes to resemble a tiny, adorable marshmallow—and bite back a smile. “I think you’ll be plenty warm, sweetie.”
Summer sunshine glares down overhead, but it’s me who begins to worry that I may not be warm enough in my light hoodie and sweats as we tug open the door to the Cedar Hollow Ice Center and step inside.
I shiver against the gust of cold air and look around the space.
Gosh, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in here.
I purposefully avoided being exactly where I am the last few years, serving drinks and setting up tents outside during the previous Home Ice Classics, doing my best to stay far, far away from the rink.
Not only because I don’t know how to skate.
But because I didn’t want to remember.
Being huddled in the stands with my friends, watching Storm and the guys play.
Cheering for goals, yelling at the refs for penalties.
Hanging around afterward and hoping he’d notice me.
That he’d smile at me.
He had…
And then he’d gone.
Left me—
“Storm!” Holly shouts, running across the space.
And gathering the attention of every single Cedar Hollowian in the place.
Yeah, this is so going to be on the town’s Facebook page. Or maybe it’ll make the front page of the freaking Cedar Hollow Gazette again.
I glare at Gertie Walkins as she surreptitiously takes a picture of my daughter throwing herself into Storm’s arms.
Better to glare than acknowledge how the gentle hug he gives her in return makes my heart squeeze.
And my stomach twist.
And the anger that’s been sitting just below that ever since he came back into town boil.
Or maybe it’s that the anger’s always been there.
Ever since the day he left.
My daughter wriggles out of his hold and starts chattering away.
“…and then we had popsicles! But Gerald took Asher’s so I gave him half of mine,” she finishes as I reach them.
I wince at the mention of Wilder Reed’s son sharing a grimy popsicle with Holly.
The man is—has always been—a germaphobe.
He definitely won’t be party to popsicle-sharing.
Well, I mentally shrug, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
(Because I certainly won’t be sharing.)
And anyway, kids get dirty, germs get shared, popsicles get stolen by geese. That’s just Cedar Hollow, and since he and Asher have now permanently moved back to town after Wilder was traded to the Hawks a few weeks ago, the man is just going to have to deal.
Apparently, hockey players returning home is becoming a trend around here.
Speaking of which, the girls better ask him to play in the Cedar Hollow Classic too.
I can see it now—
HOMETOWN RIVALS FACE-OFF IN THIS YEAR’S HOME ICE CLASSIC
Though, instead of the game featuring Wilder and Storm, maybe it should showcase Wilder and Clementine.
My lips twitch at the memory of how those two used to fight…and as I consider how those fights might translate to today.
Then I hear Holly say the word “rattlesnake” and immediately tune back into her chattering.
“Well, I’m glad you guys didn’t see any snakes today,” Storm says, crouching down in front of her.
“I’m not,” she grumbles.
A chuckle. “Still, overall, it sounds like a pretty awesome day.”
“It was.” She immediately perks up. “And now I have the best skating teacher ever!”
His gaze comes to mine, and something goes soft inside my chest.
Because I’m watching it happen right in front of me—watching him fall in love with my daughter.
With our daughter.
“We’ll see about that,” he says, and his tone is light as he tilts his head toward the benches. “Wanna sit down so I can put these on you?”
I glance at the skates—the decidedly brand-new, not rental skates—and lift my eyebrows.
He looks up at me as Holly runs over to sit down, murmurs, “Did a little reconnaissance yesterday about shoe size.”
I lift my brows higher.
The edges of his mouth tip up. “Turns out the rink has a pretty nice pro shop.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“I should, Pop,” he says firmly. “I should have been doing it for a long time.”
Our eyes connect and hold, the softness in my chest growing, almost drowning out that layer of hurt, of anger, and for a moment, it’s like I’m back in the stands again, willing him to notice me, to smile up at me.
I want it so viscerally, so intensely that the blip of yearning is almost immediately overpowered by fear.
It sends the desire, the past, the hope skittering away in a hundred different directions.
Like the Cedar Hollow Mafia on a mission to steal popsicles.
That hope isn’t my past.
And…it isn’t my future.
“I-I should help her,” I say quickly, starting to move past him.
He wraps his hand around my leg, stopping me, his palm on my shin, his fingers drifting over the back of my knee.
Their heat soaks through the thin fabric of my sweats, sears into my flesh.
“I’ve got it, Pop,” he murmurs, those fingers flexing.
“I can—”
Those fingers tighten further, sending my pulse racing. “I’ve got it, baby.”
That’s all it takes for me to crumple, and yeah, I’m aware it’s pathetic.
That it’s dumb. But for some reason, I still just nod and let him move over to where Holly is sitting on the bench, standing back and listening as he explains about the sharp blades and how the skates should feel once they’re on right, watching as he puts actions to words and laces her up.
“Skating!” she yells when he’s done, jumping to her feet and then immediately almost falling.
“Whoa,” Storm says as he catches her. “It’s going to feel a little strange at first,” he says.
Holly bites her lip, practices a couple more steps, growing steadier with each one.
“Good.” He nods toward me. “Why don’t you and your mom take a lap around the benches while I get my skates on?”
“’Kay!”
Then my determined girl does exactly that, holding my hand and starting with slow, shaky steps that grow sounder and more confident.
By the time we complete our slow circle, she’s pulled her hand from mine, and Storm is standing, towering over me in his skates, and—
Fuck, why is he even hotter in skates?
And…God, why haven’t I learned my lesson by now?
He’s here now. He clearly wants to be in Holly’s life.
But there’s no guarantee that’ll be permanent.
He could walk away tomorrow and not look back, and we—
“Ready?” he asks.
Holly nods briskly, waits as he snaps a helmet onto her head, then slides her hand into his with a trust that makes my heart pulse. I watch them move toward the rink, fighting the urge to yank her away from him, to run home and slam the door.
To keep myself—no, to keep Holly—safe.
Right?
It’s Holly I have to keep safe.
I have to.
Closing my eyes, I exhale, gird my loins. Then I open them again, see that Storm is crouched in front of Holly again, giving quiet instructions. My daughter’s expression is fierce, clearly trying to commit each and every one to memory.
And I know that fierceness is from Storm himself.
There’s a reason he made it to the NHL when so many others didn’t.
They move toward the rink, and then he’s stepping on, guiding Holly up next to him—
And supporting her when she goes full Bambi.
He laughs, says something that has her grinning, and then I’m watching them make a slow circle of the ice.
First, Storm is all but supporting her as she takes tiny, slipping steps. Then, gradually, her strides get longer and his support is reduced. And then she’s doing it herself, making halting progress with him just moving slowly beside her.
It takes ages.
So long the cold air is biting at my skin and I’m wishing for those extra layers.
Then…it happens.
Holly gets a little over confident.
She pushes her speed, wobbles, overcompensates, and—
Clothes are suddenly the last thing on my mind.
“Ouch!” I hiss as she goes down hard.
Every Mom Instinct in me has me lurching toward the door.
But before I can be an idiot and race out onto the ice, Storm is there with a crying Holly in his arms. She’s trying to be brave about it, but she’s scared and honestly, her hip and butt have to seriously hurt with how hard she fell.
“M-Mom,” she sobs as Storm carries her to the bench, setting her down onto it.
“Breathe, baby,” I say, smoothing back her hair and wiping away her tears. “I know it hurts, but let’s just try to breathe first, okay?”
A shaky nod, her rapid-fire breathing slowing a smidge.
“Here.” Storm passes me a tissue, worry etched deep into the lines of his face.
I want to reassure him. Tell him that falls and tears are an inevitable part of parenthood.
But I have to make sure Holly’s okay first.
“You did really good,” Storm says a few moments later.
Holly scowls as she scrubs at her face. “Until you let me fall,” she accuses.
He flinches, steps back.
“That’s not nice,” I tell her firmly. “Remember how many times you fell while learning to ride your bike? It’s part of the process.” She sniffs, her scowl deepening, and I take a breath. Remind myself she’s only six—being rational isn’t always possible. “This isn’t Storm’s fault and you need to…”
I turn to look up at him, my command for her to apologize to Storm fading away.
Because he’s not there.
Something twists inside me, but I just focus on Holly, hugging her close, wiping away her tears, brushing back her hair.
“You need to apologize to Storm,” I say once she’s pulled it together.
Her bottom lip sticks out, but only for a second. Then she exhales and whispers, guilt rippling across her face. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t his fault I fell. I didn’t bend my knees like he said I should.”
I open my mouth—
“Here.”
We both turn, see that Storm is back, a steaming cup in his hand.
“Hot cocoa,” he says, “is the best cure for falls.”
Holly lights up and takes the cup eagerly.
“Slowly,” I advise. “It’ll be hot.”
She nods, blows on the top, then sips carefully. Storm sits on her other side and waits.
Eventually, she works up the courage to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It wasn’t your fault I fell.”
He shrugs those big shoulders. “It’s okay.”
“No.” She frowns. “Ms. Murphy always says that mistakes are okay but we have to take re-response-responsibility for them.”
“Ms. Murphy is still around?”
“Yeah,” Holly says. “And she’s mom’s friend.”
“Wow.” His eyes dance as they come to mine and I know he’s thinking the same thing as I do on the regular: Ms. Murphy isn’t Clem, it’s her mom. Except, not anymore.
Clem’s mom died a few years back.
I wonder if he knows.
And part of me feels sad that he probably doesn’t.
“Well, Ms. Murphy”—more dancing gray eyes—“sounds smart.”
Holly nods sagely. “She is.”
Quiet falls between them as she sips her hot cocoa, and as I stand there, the rest of the world begins to creep back in—kids laughing and shrieking on the ice, food being made at the snack bar, the Zamboni making some concerning (but probably normal to my untrained ears) noises on the far side of the rink.
And the whispers.
I sense the looks we’re getting more than I hear the actual words, and for once, I find myself resenting the intrusion of Cedar Hollow.
Especially when Storm notices them too, and tension begins to slide back into his frame.
To his credit, he ignores it. “Thanks for apologizing,” he tells Holly quietly. “And I’m sorry I let you fall.”
“Apology accepted.” She grins, holds out her empty cup. “I love hot cocoa.”
Laughter bubbles up in my chest and I know Storm is fighting it too.
“Good to know.” He takes the empty cup, tosses it in the trash. “Have you had enough skating time?” he asks when he returns. “Or do you want to get back out there?”
Holly leaps to her feet—and hardly wobbles at all. “I want to skate more!”
“Awesome.”
Then the unthinkable happens.
Excitement fills every inch of my daughter—
Okay, that’s not the unthinkable part.
That happens when she says, “You should come too, Mom!”
I open my mouth, preparing to say absolutely-the-fuck-not, but Storm is…
Well, he’s an asshole.
And sneaky one.
Because he’s suddenly holding up a pair of skates.
“Size seven, right?”