Chapter 15
SAWYER
There are ten women sitting in front of me. Ten. Ten expectant sets of eyes waiting for me to tell them what to do.
All holding empty pots.
All watching me.
All waiting for me to do something intelligent with a pothos. Or is it a philodendron?
I have played in sold-out arenas. I have skated under spotlights. I have taken slap shots while being screamed at by twenty thousand people who desperately want me to fail.
Yet somehow this is worse.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together like that will summon courage from the universe. “So. Repotting a pothos. Very chill. Very low pressure. Nothing terrifying about having eleven sets of eyes on me.”
Juliette stands off to my right, arms folded, lips pressed together like she’s actively fighting a smile. She has her phone out, angled just enough that I know exactly what she’s doing. Documenting this for posterity. And social media, but I’m going for Oscar-worthy drama today.
“I can skate backwards for hours on the ice in front of thousands of people,” I mutter, picking up the plant like it might bolt, “but ten women with houseplants is where I meet my emotional limit.”
A few of them laugh. One nods like she deeply understands this struggle.
Juliette taps her screen again. “Smile,” she says softly.
“I am smiling,” I say through my teeth.
“That’s concern,” she replies. “Different face.”
I glance down at the ficus, then back up at the group. “All right. First rule. We’re not panicking the plant. Plants can sense fear.”
One woman raises her hand. “Is that true?”
“No,” Juliette says calmly.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
She gives me a look. I shrug. “I need authority here.”
Another phone comes out. Then another. I can feel this spiraling, and yet—oddly—it’s kind of fun. The energy in the room is light. Curious. Rooting for me in a way I’m not used to off the ice.
I slide the ficus out of its pot and soil drops onto the table. Then onto the floor.
“Confidence,” I say, as if this were intentional. “Very important.”
Juliette laughs, quick and bright, and catches it on camera. I glance over at her and something steadies. The way she’s watching. She’s not judging me. She’s having fun.
“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s repot this thing.”
Feeling steadier, I glance toward the back of the store—and freeze when movement catches my eye. Two figures I recognize are trying to slip in amongst the shadows and go unnoticed, but please. Maybe in a larger crowd, but not here in Juliette’s store, population of fourteen today.
Owen and Ty stand there grinning from ear to ear. Both are wearing bright white T-shirts that read, in bold green letters: PLANT DADDY.
Owen lifts a stack of them like he’s presenting sacred relics as the women turn, tracking my gaze.
There’s a collective gasp as our workshop attendees realize they could be in a hostage situation. Hockey-hostage, that is.
“Is someone messing with me—,” someone whispers.
“Never,” Owen says proudly. “We’re here for moral support. Plus, we brought gifts.”
He starts tossing the shirts like T-shirt cannons. The room erupts. Laughter, squeals, carnage.
I put my hands on my hips. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope, no jokes here,” Owen sings.
“Funny, funny, funny,” I say when they finally stop. “You can stay if you want—but if you do, you’re helping.”
“Oh no,” Ty says immediately. “We’re not staying.”
Owen nods. “Absolutely not.”
They lean back against the wall, Ty even dropping his things for good measure.
“But we will watch for a few minutes,” Owen adds. “For quality control.”
The women eat it up. Even Juliette shakes her head, laughing. “Sawyer. Focus. It’s a workshop.”
“Right,” I say. “Which is why I need an assistant.” I glance around. “Where’s my assistant?”
There’s a beat before Theo appears from behind the counter, wearing an apron that says PLANT BUDDY.
The women melt. As if that wasn’t enough, I slip on my own PLANT DADDY apron, and as the ladies start to oooh and ahhh, the guys cheer.
Juliette looks at me. “How did Theo get one?”
“Ask Charlie,” I say, nodding my head toward the culprit. “He made them.”
She stares at me a beat before dragging her eyes to take in Theo, then back to me. And somehow, for a second, it feels like we’re in this together.
“Okay,” I say, turning back to the pothos, and the women waiting for my instructions, and I clap my hands together. “Let’s get dirty.”
I’m sitting in my car outside Juliette’s apartment building because I forgot the hoodies.
That’s the official reason. The responsible reason. The one I will be sticking to.
On the passenger seat are two folded hoodies. One is navy and gold, ridiculously soft, signed by the Dominion roster. The other is smaller, plain, and very clearly meant for a nine-year-old who takes his hockey seriously.
Theo’s hoodie. That one matters.
I was supposed to give them to her earlier. At the shop. We were standing right there. Talking. Laughing. Being normal. And somehow my brain decided that was the perfect time to completely forget I’d brought them.
They stayed in my car, which means here I am.
I tell myself this stop is about Theo. Which it is. Mostly. I also tell myself it’s no big deal that I took the long way over. Or that she didn’t actually invite me. Or that I saw her a few hours ago and absolutely could have handled this then if I were a more organized adult.
But I didn’t.
And if I’m being honest, realizing that gave me a very convenient excuse to see her again.
So if she asks why I’m here, I’ll say I was already nearby. That I was driving past. That this just made sense. All technically true. In the loosest possible way.
Feeling marginally more confident than I deserve, I grab the hoodies, get out of the car, and buzz her apartment.
“Hey,” I say when she answers. “It’s Sawyer.”
“Sawyer?” She pauses and I swear I hear the gears turning in her mind. “What are you doing here?”
“I am delivering a very important package. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”
The door buzzes open.
She comes down a minute later, wrapped in a sweater, hair loose, looking surprised and soft and way too pretty to be sitting home on a night when someone should be showing her off.
“What package?” she repeats. “And how did you even get my address?”
I lift my phone. “Charlie. I hope that’s okay.”
She tilts her head to one side. “Of course it is. But—”
“I had a gift I wanted to give you today but forgot.” I hold out the hoodies. “These are for Theo.”
Her eyes drop to them as she takes them from my hands.
“One of them is signed,” I explain. “All the guys did it. Tell him not to wear that one. He might want to sell it someday. Or keep it forever. Either way.”
She laughs, that warm, disarming sound that always gets me. “Okay.”
“The other one is for actual use.”
“Shame he’s not here,” she says softly, her eyes meeting mine. “He’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Well, I hope he likes them.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “I know he will. Thank you.”
I stand there for a moment longer, not wanting this to be it. I really don’t know why I didn’t just give her these earlier. I had to go and come over here, and I’m probably making things awkward now.
But I can’t shake the feelings. The dance. The touches. Dinner. Walls coming down. I know I feel it, surely she does, too? I scan my mind for anything, any kind of reason or excuse so I can stay for a few more minutes.
“And, uh…would you mind if I used your bathroom?” Seriously? This is all I can come up with? “I was driving for a while.”
“Sure,” she says. “Come on up. You can even leave him a note if you want.”
I grin. “That would be great. Thank you.”
We bypass the elevator and she takes us straight to the stairs. I’m a little grateful for this because, honestly, I don’t know what I’d do in an enclosed space with her right now. Stare? Leer?
I follow her up the stairwell and to her apartment, where she points me to a door down the hall. When I come out of the bathroom, I get the chance to look around, and the apartment hits me all at once.
A single lamp glows beside a worn armchair. Music hums low in the background—something slow and warm, like it was picked for listening, not filling space. The rest of the apartment sits in shadow, peaceful in a way that feels deliberate.
Juliette stands near the couch, watching me.
“Oh,” I say quietly. “I didn’t realize…”
“Realize what?”
“That it would feel like this.” I gesture around. “It’s cozy. Not kid things all over.”
“Oh ha ha.” Her tone is sarcastic, but she smiles a little. “I do clean up my home.”
“I figured you might,” I manage. “Did I interrupt you?”
“Reading,” she says, pointing to a book on the coffee table. “It’s rare I get to be in the living room when it’s this calm and read, so I take advantage when I can.”
I glance at the book. “Is it any good?”
“If you like happy endings,” she says dryly. “I like to set my expectations.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, reflecting back to me something open and vulnerable in it that makes my chest feel tight. The music keeps playing and the lamp keeps glowing. And for a second, I forget I ever meant to leave.
But then, Juliette shifts, glancing toward the door. “I should probably—”
Only, something that glistens a little too much catches my eye.
“Hold on,” I say. “You’ve got something in your hair.”
“What?” She reaches up.
“No. I’ve got it.” I step closer before I can stop myself. It’s just a little leaf, probably from the shop or her jacket, tangled near her temple. I lift my hand to brush it away—and my watch snags.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. That’s…not ideal.”
“What do you mean?” She freezes. “What is not ideal?”
“My watch,” I say, biting my lip to keep from laughing. “Your hair has gotten wrapped around it. It’s stuck.”
“Ohhh no.” She laughs nervously. “Of course it is. Is it bad?”
I try to pull back, but it only makes it worse. Her hair tightens around the band. “Ow! That hurts.”