The Sunshine Offensive (Alexandria Dominion Hockey #1)

Chapter 1

JULIETTE

March in Alexandria can’t commit to a temperature, and honestly, I respect its choices.

Yesterday, I was sweating through my shirt.

Today, I’m shivering on the fifteen-minute walk to pick up my almost-ten-year-old, clutching gas station coffee that tastes like burning mixed with regret.

Cherry blossoms are starting to bloom along the sidewalk…

I’m pretty sure if they could talk, they’d tell me tiny pink lies that spring is coming and I have any semblance of control over my life.

When I arrive at Theo’s school, I take my usual position: hair in a low, loose bun, leaning against the brick wall outside the building, pretending I’m not counting down the minutes until I see him.

If someone had told me ten years ago I’d be a single mom waiting at pickup, measuring my success by whether I remembered to pack the good snacks, I would’ve laughed as they helped me down from the table I was dancing on.

That was a version of me who thought life was easier. Bigger. Better. That was a woman who never would have guessed that the man who convinced her to start over in a new city wouldn’t stick around to see it through.

The schoolyard hums with effortless wealth.

Perfect coats. Artful scarves. Moms in clusters with cups of coffee that cost more than my lunch budget.

I tug my sleeve down over the patch I sewed onto my jacket this morning.

The navy thread on navy fabric, careful stitches that are only visible if you know where to look. And I always know where to look.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, daring to peek at the screen, already knowing what I’ll see.

RENT DUE: 3 DAYS

I delete the notification, pretending it wasn’t meant for me. As if that helps.

Theo’s birthday is in four weeks. Ten years old. Double digits. It should feel exciting, and it does, but excitement doesn’t pay for the kind of birthday he deserves. The kind his friends get—trampoline parks, escape rooms, whatever ridiculous trend fourth-graders are into now.

He hasn’t asked for much. Just a few small things—like a Rubik’s Cube (apparently, they’re cool again), a TV for his room and a laser tag set—but most notably not requesting to have his own phone, which feels like a minor parenting miracle. Trophy worthy, in fact.

But the thing he really wants?

Tickets to see the Alexandria Dominion, our new NHL team that landed here last year, at the beginning of their season.

This kid. He loves hockey. He wants to learn how to skate, too, which means he’ll most likely want to play hockey.

This is how I’m once again reminded that the moment a child wants to do something athletic, it immediately costs real money.

Of course he’s obsessed with hockey. The one sport his father loves. Also the one sport I can’t watch without feeling like someone’s pressing on a bruise that’s never quite healed.

The entire city’s been losing its mind since the team arrived—banners everywhere, news segments, grown adults wearing jerseys to the grocery store.

It’s a language only the true followers can understand.

The Birdcage. Get chirped. Hat trick? And now my nine-year-old wants to join a pucking cult and it makes me want to scream.

The doors burst open and kids pour out like a dam breaking. Then I see him—Theo, dark hair bouncing, backpack bigger than his torso, weaving through the crowd with that particular determination he gets when he spots me.

I lift a hand and wave.

“Hey, buddy,” I say as he reaches me. “How was it?”

“Good! Except history. Today, I hate history.”

“Why are we mad at history today, then?”

“Because there was a pop quiz,” he laments. However, I know my son.

“But you were ready for it?”

“Of course!” he responds dramatically.

We fall into step together, heading toward downtown and our shop. The afternoon light is golden on the brick buildings, making everything look more generous than it actually is.

“So,” I say. “Best part of your day?”

“Waffle fries at lunch.”

“Ah. A banner academic achievement.” We high-five.

He grins, then shoots me a knowing look. “Your turn.”

This is our thing: our daily reminder that even bad days have moments of goodness and wonder tucked inside them.

“Well,” I say slowly, “I think my favorite part is realizing spring is almost here. Soon the whole city will be covered in cherry blossoms. We’ll go to the beach more, have picnics—”

“Can we go to the Eastern Shore again? I liked Ocean City.”

“Maybe,” I say, because maybe is easier than explaining that gas money is theoretical right now. As theoretical as saying Ocean City can be compared to a Greek Isle, but hey, what’s a single mom to do?

We turn the corner and our street comes into view. Flower boxes waking up. Sidewalks dusted with early petals. Our shop sits on the corner—windows full of green, the sign I hand-painted last year catching the light.

Leaf even her bright pink earrings scream Look at me! “As you may remember from the local business meeting—”

I hold up a finger. “I’m so sorry, but could you share a bit more context?”

Behind me, Charlie makes a choking sound.

“Of course.” Carol doesn’t miss a beat. “At last month’s Old Town Alexandria Business gathering, the City Outreach group—that’s us—talked about the community initiative we’d been trialing, where we pair up some of our brick and mortar stores with larger businesses, aiming to bring exposure to help boost foot traffic in the shopping district.

We’re rolling it out to a few handpicked businesses, like yours.

” She pauses, quite obviously, for effect.

“I’m thrilled to say we’re here to talk to you because we’ve selected your store for collaborating! ”

“Collaborating?” She makes it sound like I’ve got a choice in the matter, and I’m beginning to think I don’t.