Chapter 25
JULIETTE
The box is louder than I expected.
Not chaotic—just buzzing. Like anticipation has a sound that’s humming through the glass, the steel, and navy-and-gold everything.
Theo grips the railing, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he might launch himself into the ice.
He’s already in the Dominion jersey Sawyer left in the suite for him to find—it’s brand new with Theo’s favorite number, thirteen, plus his name on the back.
No wonder Theo keeps tugging at the hem like he’s making sure it’s real.
“If they win this,” Charlie says, leaning back in his seat, “they clinch the playoffs.”
Theo spins around. “Actually,” he says, pushing up his glasses, “they clinch a spot in the playoffs. They still have to win more games.”
Charlie fights a laugh. “I stand corrected.”
I smile, settling into my chair, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. This isn’t just a game. You can feel that. Everyone here knows it: the players warming up below, the VIPs filtering in, the layer of tension tucked underneath the chatter.
“Sawyer’s going to score tonight.” Theo turns back to the ice, nodding his head like an eighty-year-old soothsayer who knows how the game is going to turn out. “I can tell.”
Of course he can.
I lean back in my chair taking a second to really look around.
The box is filling in now—people dressed just a little nicer than the average crowd, laughter carrying easily, drinks being passed, everyone wearing that identical expression of tonight matters.
It’s polished and everything feels bright, like the building itself expects a win.
Perfection, curated.
My gaze drifts upward, instinctively, to the jumbotron.
The same screen that once made my chest seize, my stomach flip, my breath disappear.
And now?
Now, I smile.
It’s still huge. Still looming. Still very much there. But it doesn’t own me anymore. Sawyer took something sharp and rewired it into something else—something softer, steadier. A place for new memories instead of old landmines.
There’s a warm sensation flooding through me when I check my watch. My smile falters just a touch, and I can feel a definitive chill in the air suddenly.
David should be here by now. He said he’d call this morning. Said he’d confirm plans, timing, where he’d meet us. But he didn’t. I told myself not to read into it. I always tell myself that. But this is about Theo. Not me. Not us. About our son.
I pull out my phone and type a quick text to David.
Hey—are you on your way? We’re in the box.
The message sends. No reply.
Theo glances up at me, perceptive in the way kids always are when you least want them to be. “Did you hear from Dad?”
I tuck my phone back into my bag a little too quickly. “Not yet,” I say lightly. “But look—” I point toward the ice, where players are circling through warm-ups. “There’s Sawyer.”
Theo lights up instantly. “I see him! He’s fast today.”
“He is,” I agree, watching Sawyer glide past, effortless and focused, like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks up for just a second, scanning the boxes. Like he’s looking for us.
And when his gaze finds this one, his grin flashes quick and unmistakable.
Theo waves wildly. I lift my hand, too, heart doing that inconvenient little skip I’m still pretending I don’t notice.
“Okay,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I’m going to make a quick bathroom run before they toss out the disc.”
“Puck drop,” Charlie corrects.
And I roll my eyes. “Puck drop.”
“You’ll get there.” Charlie salutes me, biting back a grin. “But I do recommend ‘NHL Talk for Dummies’. Good read for you.”
I stick my tongue out at him and start on my mission. I take exactly three steps toward the door before it bursts open. Vivian barrels in, holding a bakery box roughly the size of a small ottoman, grinning like she’s about to unveil the crown jewels.
“I have arrived with—”
There is no graceful way to describe what happens next: the box tilts. The lid pops. Gravity chooses violence.
Theo’s birthday cake comes at me in one horrifying, slow-motion wave of chocolate, frosting, and optimism gone wrong.
It hits my jacket first, moves on to my dress, then my hands.
There’s a soft, humiliating splat I will forever hear in my nightmares as frosting lands in my hair. I can even feel it.
Chocolate streaks down the front of me like modern art. Decorative piping—once proud and symmetrical—slides off my shoulder and onto the floor. A strawberry bounces against my sleeve and sticks there, clinging like it’s trying to survive the wreckage.
There’s a long, stunned beat.
Men in suits gawk. Women dressed beautifully cringe. All of them are staring at me.
I mean. That’s fair.
Theo gasps, his eyes wide. “Mom!”
Charlie, in a whisper that feels deeply unhelpful, says, “It’s as if that cake had a personal vendetta.”
“Juliette, I am so sorry,” Vivian’s face drains of color. “I didn’t—I was careful. It slipped and then I tripped and—”
I look down at myself.
I am coated. Like a chocolate dipped almond, and all I can do is start laughing. Because if I don’t laugh, I might cry.
And I refuse to cry over a cake that clearly woke up this morning and decided I was its enemy.
“It’s fine,” I say, wheezing a little. “Really. Dignity is overrated.”
“I cannot believe this happened.” Vivian fumbles around in her bag. “I brought so many napkins. But I did not plan for this level of cake betrayal.”
Before I can respond, a calm, composed, and very Southern voice cuts through the chaos.
“Oh no. Absolutely not.”
A woman steps forward from the neighboring seats—effortless posture, sleek coat, hair that somehow looks perfect even in a hockey arena. She takes one look at my frosting-covered situation and immediately goes into action mode.
“Follow me,” she says, her accent wrapping around me like a warm hug in autumn. “I know how to fix this.”
I cock my head to the side, taking the stranger in. “You do?”
She gives me a knowing smile. “Honey, I come prepared.”
She steers me down the hallway before we duck into a small office just off the box level. Without hesitation, she sets her bag on the desk and starts digging.
“I always keep a spare outfit,” she explains, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. “Long story. Involves red wine, a white dress, and a charity gala.”
She pulls out a neatly folded set of clothes—black pants and a soft pink blouse.
“They might be a little big,” she says, assessing me with a practiced eye, “but the pants will fit. Trust me.”
At this point, I would trust this angel with my social security number and bank details. I follow her into a bathroom attached to the office. “I don’t even know how to thank you,” I say, already peeling off my frosting-smeared jacket.
“Pay it forward,” she says easily, winking as she grabs a hand towel and runs water over it before handing it to me. “Preferably with less cake. Here, use this for that chocolate on your hands…it’s in your hair, too.”
Grimacing, I disappear to change quickly, emerging five minutes later looking like a functional adult again. My new friend gives an approving nod.
“There we go,” she says. “Crisis managed.”
“Seriously,” I say, “you just saved my night.”
“It’s what I do.” She extends her hand. “I’m Sutton. Sutton Mahoney. I’m here on behalf of my AHL team, the Renegades. We feed players into the Dominion.”
“I’m Juliette,” I say, taking it. “Juliette Gianelli. I feed plants.”
“Ah!” Her grin goes from accommodating to knowing. “You’re the plant lady who has been tasked with our Plant Daddy. How’s that going?”
“Better than my first time being in a VIP box,” I say, gesturing to the pile of dirty clothes in my hand. “You know Sawyer, I take it?”
“I’m engaged to his cousin,” she says with a wink. She smiles, gesturing for me to follow her.
“Of course you are,” I choke a laugh. “And you’re also my saving grace today.”
“Happy to help. Playoff games deserve better than a chocolate circus.”
When we return to the box, the game has started. Theo is out on the balcony with Charlie, both of them leaning forward, fully invested. The ice glows beneath them, the players a blur of motion and purpose.
I slip back into my seat and check my phone.
Still nothing.
No missed calls. No texts. No David.
Theo turns around then, scanning the box like he’s counting heads. His smile fades a notch, and he lifts his hands, palms up, the universal question written all over his face.
Where is Dad?
I meet his eyes and give a small shake of my head.
“I don’t know,” I mouth back.
He nods, accepting it in that quiet way kids do when they’re used to disappointment—but his gaze drifts back to the ice, to the game, to something he can cheer for.
I follow his line of sight.
Sawyer streaks past the boards, focused, strong, exactly where he’s meant to be.
I breathe in, steadying myself. Cake disasters. Missing phone calls. Unexpected heroes with spare pants. This is parenting.
I slip back into my seat, watching skates carve clean lines across the ice. The puck snaps from stick to stick. The crowd rises and falls in unison, reacting a half-second before I do, like they’ve all agreed on the same collective heartbeat.
From here, I can tell that Theo is a bundle of nerves and excitement, calling out commentary that is only occasionally accurate. Charlie nods along like he’s watching a chess match.
I check my phone again, Vivian beside me and peering over my shoulder.
Still nothing.
I push the thought aside just as the energy in the arena spikes. A breakaway. A near miss. The kind of moment that pulls everyone forward, hands gripping rails, breath held.
“Mom!” Theo yells suddenly. “Mom, look! LOOK!”
I’m on my feet, hurrying out of the seats and to the railing before he finishes the sentence. Charlie and Vivian crowd in on either side of us, all gaping at the jumbotron.
HAPPY 10TH BIRTHDAY, THEO!
Theo absolutely loses his mind.
“That’s me!” he shouts, bouncing, waving both arms like the screen might miss him if he doesn’t. “That’s my name!”
I laugh, my throat tightening in that way that sneaks up on you when joy and relief collide. I wrap an arm around his shoulders as the camera finds us. A moment I would not have been prepared for a week ago, but thanks to Sawyer, today I am.
Theo beams beside me, waving like he’s personally responsible for powering the arena, and a five block radius around it, with pure enthusiasm.
Down on the ice, a certain hockey player looks up.
Even from here, I see it—the way his face softens when he spots us. There’s pure delight in his grin as he watches Theo’s excitement. He lifts a hand in a quick wave, like this was exactly what he was hoping to see.
Theo waves back with the commitment of an emergency flare, leaning so far over the railing I grab the back of his jacket before he launches himself onto the ice in solidarity. Standing here and bearing witness to this, something I’ve not thought about before lands hard, right in my chest.
Even though his dad isn’t here, my son is glowing.
That man out there on the ice, who brings Theo so much happiness and friendship, he’s the one who put that glow there.
But I’ve not taken into consideration that I have no idea what happens to Theo when Sawyer’s outreach hours end and his real life—the one full of travel and cameras and women who aren’t single moms running plant shops—pulls him back.
My mother’s words are suddenly on repeat in my mind. You’re thinking about someone else’s needs too, not just Theo’s.
That could be a problem. Theo is the one person my focus should stay on, always, no matter what. This little boy is filled with nothing but light and love, yet is continuously disappointed by the one man in his life who should be his role model.
Theo shouts Sawyer’s name again, and Sawyer finds him in the crowd immediately—like my son is a frequency he’s already tuned to.
That’s the thing I’ve been trying not to see.
I have fallen for that man on the ice. Quietly, inconveniently, completely. My son has too—except Theo doesn’t know yet that sometimes people don’t stay. He hasn’t learned that lesson.
I have. I learned it thanks to a jumbotron, with twelve million witnesses.
I pull Theo back from the railing one more time, straighten his jacket, and make myself smile when he looks up at me.
One of us has to know better. That’s always been my job.