Chapter 26
accessories
Callie and Jess picked up Cam like it was the most normal thing in the world—like Callie hadn’t been kissed in a parking lot an hour ago and like Jess hadn’t asked, with a voice so low it almost didn’t exist, if she could hold Callie’s hand at the rink.
It was early September, that strange Minnesota hinge-season where the air still remembered summer but the mornings had started sharpening their knives. Hockey, of course, didn’t care. High school hockey in Minnesota didn’t “start” so much as it simply… continued. Year-round, like a religion that never fully released its congregation.
Jess’s SUV rolled into the rink lot under a sky that looked undecided. The building sat there like a concrete shoebox full of noise and tradition, and when Jess swung into a spot near the doors, the arena exhaled at them—cool and humid, a low fog of breath and resurfaced ice and machine heat. Steam curled out every time the door opened, ghosting into the parking lot as if the place itself was alive and annoyed to be disturbed.
Callie stepped out with one of Jess’s winter coats over her arm and slipped it on, anticipating the coming temperature change.
She pulled her borrowed coat tighter. Stylish in a way that said I bought this for practicality and accidentally became hot, the collar high, the fabric clean and expensive. It smelled like Jess: peppermint gum, faint soap, and that electric, ozone-adjacent thing that showed up whenever Jess’s emotions were a little too close to the surface.
“You look—almost perfect in that,” Jess said, and it wasn’t a question. She was pondering something.
“Toasty warm,” Callie grinned, “although you generate enough heat for both of us.”
“Not quite the complete look, though,” Jess murmured.
Jess’s mouth twitched. She reached into her pocket, then hesitated for the smallest beat—as if she was arguing with herself in real time—and produced a photo button.
Callie’s brain expected something practical. A car key. Chapstick. A weapon, because Jess.
Instead, it was Cam.
A glossy little circle with his face on it—hockey grin, helmet hair, that confident look kids get right before they do something reckless and survive it. The kind of button hockey parents wore like medals and love spells.
“I know you like… fox ears,” Jess said quietly, “but you could wear this, too.”
Callie went utterly still.
The world narrowed to that stupid little circle and the way Jess’s fingers curled around the edge of it. Callie could feel the weight of what it meant without needing anyone to translate: You belong here. You’re allowed to be seen with us.
“Jess…” Callie’s voice cracked in a way she didn’t appreciate.
“I had an extra,” Jess said, too casually. Too fast. “You can… if you want.”
Callie took it like it might shatter. Her throat burned. She nodded, once because words were failing her in the most inconvenient places lately.
“Okay,” she managed. “Okay. I want.”
Jess watched her a moment longer than necessary, then looked away like the emotion was bright enough to hurt her eyes.
Cam climbed out of the back seat with his bag slung over one shoulder, already in half-gear. He glanced between them—coat, button, Callie’s expression—and the corner of his mouth lifted.
He didn’t say anything.
Which was worse.
They walked in together, steam swallowing them as the doors opened. Inside, the rink air hit Callie like a slap: cold, damp, metallic, alive with echoes. The scent of sharpened skates and old popcorn and Zamboni exhaust stitched itself into her lungs. Overhead lights glared down on the ice with unforgiving fluorescent honesty.
The varsity girls were out there, skating warmup drills—sharp turns, clean edges, effortless speed. Their laughter and callouts bounced off the boards, and the sound had that familiar rink quality: half joy, half battle cry.
And then—
A wave.
Not subtle. Not polite. A whole arm windmilling from one of the girls, like she was trying to signal a rescue helicopter. Another girl followed. Then two more. Helmets bobbed. Sticks lifted in greeting.
Callie’s instinctive reaction was automatic: she lifted her hand and waved back, smiling because she genuinely liked them and because the rink had always been one of the few places Callie felt… included.
Then she felt it—the tiny hitch in the air.
The realization.
It wasn’t loud. It was quiet. A sudden, collective recalibration. The way a room changes when something becomes true in public.
A faint, unmistakable—
A squeal.
Brief. Excited. The sound people make when they spot a celebrity and forget, for half a second, that they’re supposed to be cool about it.
It came from somewhere near the bench. Then another one, strangled, like someone tried to swallow it and failed.
The girls disappeared into the locker room in a sudden, suspicious rush, like a flock of birds that had seen a hawk.
Jess didn’t move. She just watched the door swing shut, her expression somewhere between resigned and deeply amused.
Callie stared after them, then looked up at Jess, stunned.
“We just got squeed,” Callie said, voice low with disbelief. She blinked once. “Jess.”
Jess’s mouth curved, small and real. “Yeah.”
Callie felt her own smile start, helpless. “We’re officially a thing.”
Jess’s eyes softened, and the way she said it was almost reverent—like she didn’t say holy words unless she meant them. “Yeah,” she murmured. “We are.”
Callie exhaled, a laugh and a tremble mixed together. She looked at the locker room door, then at the ice, then at the steam still curling from the open entryway like the building itself was gossiping.
Point of no return, she thought—half thrilled, half terrified.
Then the buzzer sounded, and the girls’ session ended. A few skaters slid back out onto the ice edge, gliding toward the bench as the next group prepared to take over.
The teams switched places like a well-rehearsed ritual.
A few minutes later, a girl walked towards them, then vaulted up on the bleachers—tall, and in street clothes, she had an oversized helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp at the temples. The varsity girls’ goalie. Callie spotted her instantly.
“Hey, Netminder,” Callie called, the grin coming easy. “Still a sieve?”
The girl barked a laugh, loud enough to make two teammates behind her glance over and drift closer, pretending they weren’t listening.
“Sure,” the goalie said, rolling her eyes with affection. “You show up and rocket pucks at me. I’ve got half the D-lines trying to build the next Callie Cannon.” She leaned in, lowering her voice as if it were a confession. “It’s adorable. And terrifying.”
Callie laughed, shoulders loosening. “Tell them to stop. I don’t need competition.”
“Too late,” the goalie said, but she was grinning—until her gaze dropped.
To Callie’s coat. To Jess’s jacket. To the almost-matching photo buttons catching the rink light like little, shining claims.
Her face changed in an instant—eyes going bright, mouth parting in a soft, startled gasp.
“Ahhh,” she breathed, and it wasn’t mocking. She was delighted. “You two…?”
The girls behind her clustered tighter, curiosity turning into very curious.
Callie felt her pulse kick. She didn’t answer. She looked at Jess instead, giving her the space—on purpose—to own it.
Jess’s throat worked once. Then she nodded. Small. A little shy. Quiet-ish, like she was setting something down gently rather than throwing it.
The goalie’s smirk turned wicked in the best way.
“Privacy? Here?” she murmured, eyes flicking toward the locker room door, the stands, the rink-wide grapevine already warming up. She turned her head just enough to address the girls behind her. “This place runs on gossip and Gatorade.”
A couple of them made noises of protest. One tried to edge closer.
The goalie shooed them back like ducks. “Go. Hydrate. Pretend you have manners.”
They scattered, half-laughing, half-buzzing, and the goalie stepped in again, voice dropping.
“Makes me happy,” she said, simple and honest. “Have a good night.”
Then she pushed off, gliding away with the calm satisfaction of someone who’d just witnessed something good and decided to protect it.
Callie exhaled, dazed.
Jess’s fingers brushed Callie’s sleeve—barely there. Grounding.
Cam came out of the locker room smirking like he’d been handed a secret and told to act normal about it.
He didn’t. Not really.
He skated by with his helmet shield flipped up, glided close to the boards, and tapped the glass once—gentle, deliberate—like a benediction delivered with a hockey stick.
Jess didn’t move. She just watched him, jaw tight, eyes soft in that new way she hadn’t learned to hide yet.
Cam’s grin widened a fraction. “I can get a ride home if you want.”
Callie blinked, realizing what he was offering—space. Time. A small, teenage gift wrapped in sarcasm and Zamboni-scented air.
She shook her head. “Is it okay if we stay?”
Cam nodded once, easy. Like, of course. Like he’d already decided it was fine. Then he pushed off and skated away, joining a loose huddle of boys at center ice—sticks on shoulders, shoulder bumps, trying to look casual and failing.
A beat later, two of them glanced over and threw quick thumbs-ups—one at Callie, one at Jess—then immediately pretended they’d been stretching.
Callie let out a ridiculous little breath that felt like relief.
“Where do we sit?” Jess asked, deadpan, as if she were asking where to park a moving truck.
Callie frowned. “Serious?”
Jess’s mouth twitched. She was serious. That was the problem.
Callie tilted her head toward the rink. “On the blue line. Of course.”
In the parking lot later, the cold had teeth, and Jess’s SUV smelled faintly like peppermint gum and old hockey tape.
Callie paused at the passenger side like the door might bite.
Cam, already halfway to the back, looked over his shoulder. “Oh my god,” he said, with the weary disgust of a boy forced to witness adulthood. “Don’t be dumb. You get the front seat.”
Callie’s throat tightened so fast it startled her. Her eyes went hot. She blinked hard, once, then again, and climbed in like she’d been granted something sacred and ridiculous.
Cam slid into the back and immediately became the world’s most opinionated chaperone.
“Hold hands, fine,” he announced, already buckling. “But no making out at stoplights.”
Jess stared forward, lips pressed together, trying not to laugh.
Callie turned her face toward the window so Cam wouldn’t see her smile break open.
Jess’s hand found hers anyway—low and steady across the console—like it belonged there.
And this time, nobody let go.