12. Grant
Chapter twelve
Grant
The photo arrives while I am reading Vivian's latest revision of the lodge inspection brief.
A scan of an old property map. Hand-drawn additions in faded pencil. Trees marked. Structures labeled. And at the bottom right corner, circled in fresh blue ink: outdoor practice rink?
Laurie's text follows immediately:
Does this still exist?
I stare at the screen.
The outdoor rink has not been used in fifteen years. Maybe longer.
My phone buzzes again.
Laurie:
Bethany found skates in storage. We're investigating.
I close the laptop.
Major lifts his head from his bed, ears pricked.
"Yes," I tell him. "We're going."
He does not argue.
***
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to Lestor Lodge and find Laurie standing on the front porch holding two pairs of ancient skates.
She grins when she sees me.
"That was fast."
"You texted about wandering around the property in the snow." I climb out of the car. "That requires supervision."
"Supervision." Laurie's mouth twitches. "That is the least romantic excuse for joining a walk I have ever heard."
"It is not an excuse. It is risk management."
"You are genuinely impossible."
The door opens behind her, and Bethany appears, zipping her coat.
"Oh good, Grant's here." She looks at Laurie with exaggerated innocence. "I just got a text from Jenna. She needs help moving furniture. Total emergency. You two go ahead without me."
Laurie narrows her eyes. "Bethany—"
"Tragic timing, I know." Bethany is already heading toward her car, waving over her shoulder. "Text me if the rink is real. Bring photographic evidence."
She drives off before Laurie can protest further.
Laurie looks at me.
I look at the skates. "Are those my size?"
Major nudges Laurie's hand with his nose.
She scratches his ears, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
"You really do not have to come with me," she says quietly. "I can just walk around back and see if—"
"Laurie."
She stops.
"Show me where the map said it was."
***
The old practice rink sits behind the lodge, tucked between pine trees and the far edge of the property line.
Someone cleared the ice recently. Probably the same winter caretaker who handles the driveway. The boards are patched and weathered but still standing. The goal frame at one end is faded but intact. Snow piles along the edges, and the lodge lights glow warm through the trees behind us.
It is rough.
And beautiful.
Laurie stops at the edge of the ice, her breath fogging in the cold air.
"Grant." Her voice is soft. "It's still here."
I step onto the ice first, testing the surface. Solid. Uneven in places, but safe enough.
When I turn back, Laurie is watching me with an expression I cannot name.
"What?" I ask.
"You just checked the ice before letting me step on it."
"Would you prefer I shove you out first?"
"I would prefer you admit you are slightly overprotective."
I hold out my hand.
She takes it.
The skates are old but functional. Laurie ties hers carefully, muttering about whether this counts as trespassing on team property when she technically lives here now.
When she stands, she wobbles immediately.
I catch her elbow.
"Rusty?" I ask.
"I have not skated since I was sixteen." She grips my arm harder than necessary. "This may have been a terrible idea."
"Too late now."
We step onto the ice together.
Laurie's first few strides are cautious and unsteady. She clings to my hand like a lifeline, laughing when her skate catches a rough patch and nearly sends her sideways.
I steady her automatically.
"You are doing fine."
"You are lying."
"You are still upright."
"Barely."
I guide her forward slowly, keeping her close. Her hand is cold even through her glove. After a few minutes, she finds a rhythm. Shaky. Uneven. But determined.
She grins at me.
"See? I am not completely hopeless."
"I never said you were."
"You thought it."
"No. I thought you were brave for trying."
That stops her.
Laurie searches my face, her breath unsteady in the cold air.
Then she pushes off, skating a few feet away on her own. Wobbly but triumphant.
"Teach me something," she says. "Make me better at this."
So I do.
I show her how to shift her weight, how to use her edges, how to stop without flailing. She accuses me of turning skating into a military drill. I tell her structure prevents injury. She laughs and calls me impossible again.
But she listens.
And after a while, she is not holding on so tightly anymore.
We skate slow circles around the rink. The trees block most of the wind. The lodge lights glow behind us. Major watches from the edge of the ice, tail wagging occasionally.
Laurie talks about the inspection binder, about the photos she has been collecting of the lodge's history, about how this rink could show the property was meant for the team and still serves that purpose.
I watch her face light up as she talks.
"You really think this place can work," I say.
"I know it can." She glances at me. "You do too. That is why you are fighting for it."
I don't answer immediately.
Because she is right.
The lodge is not just an asset or a legal complication. It could be something real for players like Shane. Men who need structure and stability and somewhere safe to land. Players the franchise overlooks because they are not profitable enough to matter.
"You do not just clean forgotten places," I say quietly. "You bring them back to life."
Laurie stops skating.
Her eyes are bright. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold.
"Grant—"
I reach for her hand.
This time, it is not to steady her.
***
We make hot chocolate in the lodge kitchen afterward, both of us still flushed and breathless from the cold.
Laurie wraps herself in the Outlaws jacket someone left draped over a chair. It is far too large on her. She looks ridiculous and beautiful.
She laughs when the ancient kettle whistles, loud and sharp in the quiet house.
I watch her pour hot water over cocoa mix, humming under her breath, completely at ease in this worn kitchen.
And I realize I want this.
Not the fake engagement. Not the optics. Not the strategic arrangement that bought time.
This.
Coming in from the cold with her. Hearing her laugh in the kitchen. Watching her breathe life into forgotten spaces. Knowing she sees past the control and the armor and the carefully maintained distance.
Laurie turns, holding two mismatched mugs.
"You are staring."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I cross the kitchen.
Her breath catches.
I take the mugs from her hands and set them on the counter.
"Grant—"
I kiss her.
She kisses me back.
Laurie tastes like chocolate and something dangerously close to hope.
When we finally pull apart, her forehead rests against mine.
"That didn't feel fake," she whispers.
"No."
"We shouldn't—"
"I know."
But neither of us moves.
For the first time since this began, there is no audience. No rumor. No legal strategy. No other purpose.
Just Laurie's hand against my chest, her breath unsteady, and the terrifying certainty that nothing about this feels temporary anymore.