Chapter 5 Sawyer
SAWYER
You don’t need a crowd in the stands to feel the Birdcage. This place is loud even when it’s empty.
It’s all steel bones and barely contained energy, like the building is perched on a precipice, waiting for something to happen.
Like it remembers every cheer it’s ever held and doesn’t quite know what to do with the quiet.
Even on a Monday morning. Even with the stands dark.
Even with the mascot costume hung up somewhere backstage, feathers tucked away like it’s off-duty.
The cardinal will be back later. The noise will, too.
And yet, somehow, standing here now, it already feels like it’s warming up.
I step onto the ice and the cold hits my lungs with a wakeup call I need. I like it here on the ice, because it’s like the truth. Good. Honest. Simple. Hockey is the one part of my life that doesn’t require a disclaimer.
Some of the guys are already out here, slicing lazy circles, snapping passes, chirping each other like it’s a love language. The pucks clack against sticks and boards in a rhythm I’ve known since I was a kid. It should settle me, but it doesn’t.
Campbell skates up beside me, looking disgustingly well-rested. He’s got that calm, controlled energy he always has—like he came out of the womb with a game plan.
“You look like you fought a bear,” he says.
“Close.” I yank my gloves tighter. “It was a reporter.”
“Ah.” Campbell’s eyebrows lift. “A bear with a press pass.”
“Don’t joke.” I glance toward the bench, where Coach is talking to the assistant coach, clipboard in hand.
His posture is all sharp edges today, which makes sense.
First practice after a win, first practice of the week, first practice where everyone in this city is acting like we personally cured winter.
Campbell turns his stick in his hands, studying me. “Okay. What happened?”
I exhale hard, fogging the air. “A reporter from the Gazette showed up at Leaf she’s still running a business. ”
Campbell skates with me, easy as breathing. “And did they agree?”
“They said it was ‘good exposure.’” My voice drops into a mocking imitation. “‘And we can use all the good exposure we can get, Plant Daddy.’”
Campbell winces. “The PR team gave you a nickname?”
I roll my eyes. “I told them if they show up there again without her permission, I’ll personally go on the record saying the public relations firm contracted by the Dominion is run by feral raccoons with LinkedIn profiles.”
Campbell’s mouth twitches. “That might actually be good exposure.”
“Don’t encourage me.”
Coach’s whistle shrieks again. “STOCKTON!”
Since we do share the same last name, Campbell and I both snap our heads in the direction of the voice. Coach shakes his head and mutters something about “having two of you on my team, Lord help me…” before he points directly at me. “Talking to you, Plant Daddy.”
The guys who hear him stop what they’re doing long enough to crack up.
I’m wondering who on the PR team took the time to let him know about the new nickname, but never mind.
I don’t react, cause I don’t want to get on his bad side.
Coach points his stick toward the far end like he’s directing traffic. “Line. Now.”
“Yes, Coach,” I call, then push off hard, legs burning in that satisfying way that reminds me I’m still made for this.
Skating doesn’t lie. It doesn’t care if you’re famous or messy or grieving or the kind of guy who can’t keep a plant alive in a press conference. It just cares if you show up and do the work.
We run drills. We run them again. We run them until my thighs are screaming and my lungs feel scraped raw. The rookies get hazed in a way that’s mostly affectionate. Owen chirps everyone like it’s his job. Ty makes everything look annoyingly effortless.
And I should be able to let it all take over.
But my brain keeps flashing back to the shop.
Juliette behind the counter, hands braced like she was holding herself upright. The way she looked at me like she was trying to decide whether I was a threat or an ally.
The worst part is that she wasn’t wrong. This is my world. Cameras. Stories. People wanting the version of you they can fit into a headline. I’ve spent a couple years learning how to survive here, in the spotlight, without losing myself.
But Juliette? She’s built something quiet. Something tender. Something that doesn’t want to be consumed. Then I come along, complete with coffee, chaos, and a schedule that says I belong there three times a week.
A puck rockets toward me and I catch it on my stick automatically, sending it back down the line with a sharp snap. My body knows what to do even when my brain doesn’t.
Coach skates closer, eyes locked on me. “You happy we made the playoffs, Stockton?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You want to go to the top?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Then I need your head here,” he says, tapping the side of his helmet with two fingers. “Not wherever it is today. I need you right freaking here.”
My chest tightens. I nod once. “Yes, Coach.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then skates away like he’s satisfied.
At least one of us is.
The grocery store in the midafternoon should be a safe time to shop, but today it’s a three-ring circus in fluorescent lighting.
For some reason, carts are jammed at weird angles and someone argues with a self-checkout machine like it’s personally offended them. A kid cries in aisle seven because his mom probably said no to dinosaur-shaped nuggets.
I grab a basket and immediately regret it. I should’ve gotten a cart. I’m already balancing protein bars, bananas, pasta, and a jar of sauce. I know I’ll add more.
I turn the corner into the cereal aisle and immediately collide with something small and fast.
“Oof!” I look down just in time to catch a kid before he wipes out completely. “Whoa—hey, I’ve got you.”
The kid looks up at me, grinning, with his backpack slipping off one shoulder. I recognize him instantly.
“Oh,” I say, way too dumbly. “Hi. Theo, right?”
His eyes go huge, like giant saucers. The expression on his face is like I just told him Santa works at the grocery store now.
“Hi, Sawyer,” he says, breathless.
“You doing the weekly shopping by yourself?” I say carefully.
“Nah.” Theo grins. “My mom is here, too.” Before I can say anything else, his gaze drops to my basket. “Are those protein bars good?”
I glance down. “They taste like cardboard and peanut butter.”
He considers that. “I like peanut butter.”
“Then you’ll tolerate them,” I say.
He nods, deeply serious. “Good to know.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, feeling a strange, hollow tug in my chest.
“Mom!” Theo calls over his shoulder. “Guess who I ran into!”
Oh no. Baby Bear just called out for Mama Bear. I’ve seen this program on PBS and it won’t end well for me.
I look up as Juliette appears at the end of the aisle, reusable bags looped over her arm. She’s close enough that I can watch as her expression shifts in stages. First stage is surprise. Then, a flicker of alarm…before she finally lands on calm calculation.
She takes in the scene, and I’m pretty sure she used her mom-ness to assess the situation in about half a second: her kid, my hands hovering just in case, the cereal aisle like a neutral zone we accidentally wandered into.
I straighten automatically, like I’ve just been caught doing something mildly illegal.
“Hi,” I say. “We had a…momentum issue.”
Theo grins. “I almost wiped out, but he caught me.”
Juliette’s eyes flick to mine, then to Theo, then back again—like she’s recalibrating.
“He does that,” she says. “Falls with enthusiasm.”
“Ahh, a case of committed velocity,” I say, looking down at Theo very seriously. “It’s a lifestyle choice.”
Theo nods seriously. “I like that.”
Juliette’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, yet, but close enough to feel like a win.
Theo, naturally, takes this as his cue to begin what appears to be a full interview.
“So,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “I need to know. What’s your fastest slapshot?”
I blink. “Uh…ninety-six?”
“Whoa.” His eyes widen. “Can you really skate backward super fast?”
“Yes.”
“Do you get nervous before games?”
I pause. This one lands differently. “Yeah,” I say honestly. “Every time.”
Theo frowns. “Even though you’re really good?”
“Especially then. In fact, if I wasn’t nervous, I’d be worried.”
He thinks about that. “My dad used to say being nervous means you care.”
My chest tightens so fast it almost hurts, but I notice when Juliette stiffens at the same time. It’s a fraction of movement, but it feels like a small tidal wave of change.
I keep my voice steady. “Well, he’s right.”
Theo nods, satisfied, and the silence stretches for a beat. Not awkward. Just full.
Juliette watches me like she’s trying to read something I’m not saying out loud.
“So,” Theo says suddenly. “Do you have kids?”
There it is. I swallow. Oof, I need to choose my words carefully.
“No,” I say. “But I had a really good dad.”
Theo tilts his head. “Where is he?”
“Theo. We don’t do that…” Juliette begins, but I beat her to it.
“It’s fine.” I bend down so I’m at Theo’s height. “He died a couple years ago.”
Theo’s face softens immediately. No fear. No pity. Just simple, kid-level empathy.
“Oh,” he says. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” I agree as Juliette winces. “It really does.”
He nods like that explains everything. “My mom says when you miss someone, like really miss them, you can still carry them with you.” He reaches out and pats my heart. “You carry them here.”
I glance at Juliette. Her jaw is tight, eyes glossy but controlled.
“That’s a good way to put it,” I tell him.
He brightens. “You wanna see my hockey cards?”
I laugh, quietly this time. “I’d love to. But maybe another day. When I’m at the shop?”
I look at Juliette again and ask silent permission with my eyes this time.
She hesitates, glancing at her watch, then nods. “Another day,” she says, and Theo grins like Christmas came early.
I step back, deliberately creating space. “Funny running into you here.”
“Alexandria is a lot smaller than you think,” Juliette responds.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
Juliette’s mouth opens as if she’s going to say something, but Theo interrupts, pointing to a box of sugar-coated crunchy bits for breakfast. “Can I have…”
“No, buddy,” she says with a quick shake of her head. “We’re here on a mission, remember?”
He sighs. “Can we get a unicorn donut on the way out?”
Juliette looks to the ceiling as she shakes her head again. “No.”
“Chocolate glazed?”
“No.”
“Fine.” Theo grabs her hand and tugs her toward the next aisle. “We’ll just get flour, then. Come on.”
Juliette rolls her eyes and then looks at me, holding up a flyer she’d been clutching in her hand. “Bake sale. We’ll be spending our evening in the kitchen making cookies.”
“At least it’s not cupcakes. I feel like that’s harder.”
She laughs. “You’re not wrong.”
“Mom.” Theo is at the end of the aisle, tapping his foot playfully.
“I’m coming.” I watch her walk off, but she glances back at me once. Only once. And for a split second, I could swear there’s something in the way she’s looking at me that wasn’t there before.
I watch them disappear between the shelves, my basket suddenly too light. For the first time since my dad died, the ache in my chest doesn’t feel empty.
It feels something more, something bigger. Connected.
Which might be worse.
Or might be everything.