Chapter Two
Crew
Crew Donnelly had survived overtime penalty kills, locker-room brawls, and one team bus ride where Frankie taught everyone a murder podcast theme song in harmony.
None of that prepared him for Marin Webb holding a frosting knife and deciding his future.
To be clear, the knife was not large.
It was not, technically, a weapon.
It was silver, flat, and currently smeared with red frosting that looked more festive than threatening if you were a person with no survival instincts.
Crew had survival instincts.
They had been developed over years of hockey, older cousins, military-family holiday gatherings, and one spring-break weekend with Wilder Knox, which the university had probably sealed in a file labeled Do Not Repeat.
So when Marin’s fingers tightened around the handle, Crew did what any rational man would do.
He stepped slightly in front of Mrs. Paxton.
Marin noticed.
Of course she did.
Marin Webb noticed everything.
Three years ago, she had noticed when he stopped laughing as easily. Noticed when he checked his phone too much. Noticed when his answers got shorter. Noticed when leaving started turning him quiet before he ever said the word goodbye.
Now she noticed him moving two inches to protect the woman who had just handed them a flyer with a tiny heart printed between their faces.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You,” she said, pointing the frosting knife at his chest, “do not get to act heroic right now.”
Crew looked down at the knife. Then back at her.
“I’m not acting heroic.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re standing in a morally smug location.”
Behind him, Mrs. Paxton gasped softly. Not in horror. In delight.
Crew knew that sound.
It was the same sound the Honeybrook Fourth Committee made whenever someone said something that could fit on a T-shirt.
Morally Smug Location would be on a fundraiser hoodie by tomorrow morning.
Crew shifted another inch, mostly to block Mrs. Paxton’s view of Marin’s expression.
Bad idea.
Marin saw that too.
Her eyebrows went up.
“If you try to manage me,” she said, “I will put this cupcake in your pocket.”
Crew glanced at the cupcake on the counter.
It had red frosting, blue sprinkles, and one small white chocolate star.
It looked innocent.
It also looked like something Marin could turn into a felony with enough motivation.
“I’m not managing you.”
“You have a management face.”
“I have one face.”
“You have several. This is the one where you pretend to be calm while silently rearranging everyone else’s emotional furniture.”
Mrs. Paxton whispered, “That is very good.”
Crew closed his eyes for half a second.
He had been home for eleven minutes.
Eleven.
His plane had landed. He had picked up his suitcase.
He had ignored thirteen messages from the team group chat because every preview line contained either a siren emoji, a flame emoji, or Frankie typing in all caps.
He had come straight to Webb & Whisk because Marin deserved an apology before she heard his name from one more person with a phone.
He had not planned for flyers.
He had not planned for Mrs. Paxton.
He definitely had not planned for a tiny heart between his hockey headshot and Marin’s bakery photo, where she looked bright-eyed and sharp and completely unaware that his idiot teammate would someday turn her into a local romantic conspiracy.
Crew opened his eyes.
Marin was still furious.
Good.
Furious was better than hurt.
Furious gave him something to stand in front of.
Hurt made him remember exactly what her face had looked like three years ago when he told her leaving would not change anything.
He had been wrong.
Leaving changed everything.
Marin set the frosting knife down with surgical precision.
Crew did not relax.
He knew Marin Webb.
Quiet was when she became most dangerous.
Mrs. Paxton, however, had apparently never learned this.
“Well,” she said brightly, clapping her hands once, “I think we can all agree the energy here is tremendous.”
“No,” Marin said.
“Electric, really.”
“No.”
“Community-building.”
“Mrs. Paxton.”
“And emotionally compelling.”
Marin picked the knife back up.
Crew stepped farther in front of Mrs. Paxton.
“Marin,” he said quietly.
She looked at him.
That was worse.
It always had been.
Marin’s anger had edges. Her eyes had history.
She was wearing a navy Webb & Whisk apron dusted with flour across one hip.
Her dark hair was twisted up with a pencil shoved through it, and a streak of blue frosting marked the inside of her wrist. She looked like the kind of woman who could run a bakery, save a fundraiser, ruin a man’s peace, and remember every promise he had ever broken in alphabetical order.
Crew had spent three years trying not to picture her.
He had failed daily.
Now she was five feet away from him with a frosting knife and the right to hate him.
He deserved worse.
His phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
Then buzzed four times in rapid succession.
Marin’s gaze dropped to his pocket.
“If that is your emotionally unsupervised hockey orphanage,” she said, “I suggest you silence it before I answer for you.”
Crew pulled out his phone.
The group chat name had changed.
Of course it had.
CREW DONNELLY HOMETOWN EMOTIONAL SURVEILLANCE UNIT
Crew stared at it.
He should have turned the plane around.
Messages stacked so fast the screen jumped.
Wilder: FIRST OF ALL I AM VERY SORRY.
Sutton: He is not typing this voluntarily.
Frankie: SECOND-CHANCE SUMMER HAS brAND POTENTIAL.
Cooper: Delete that.
Hayes: Screenshot first.
Beck: why are we like this
Junie: because nobody respects supervision unless snacks are involved
Milo: Did he apologize yet?
Reese: Crew, do not say “we can fix this.”
Wilder: Too late probably.
Sutton: Wilder.
Wilder: I said probably with remorse.
Crew locked the phone.
Too late.
Marin saw enough.
Her mouth curved.
Not a smile.
A warning.
“Did they name it?”
“No.”
Her stare sharpened.
Crew had lied to opponents, reporters, his coach, and once to airport security when Wilder claimed a jar of peanut butter was “a protein emergency.”
He could not lie to Marin.
“They named it.”
Talia, who had been leaning against the pastry case with the expression of a woman watching premium drama she did not have to pay for, straightened.
“What did they name it?”
“No,” Crew said.
Marin held out her hand.
“No.”
“Crew.”
There it was.
His name in her mouth.
Still a problem.
His self-control had taken hits before. Pucks to the ribs. Elbows to the jaw. Coach Gordon’s disappointed silence after a blown third-period lead.
None of those compared to Marin saying his name like she was disappointed he had not grown more sense in three years.
Crew handed over the phone.
She read the group chat title.
Her expression went flat.
Talia peeked over her shoulder and made a sound like a teakettle discovering gossip.
“Oh, that is awful.”
“Thank you,” Marin said.
“And accurate.”
“Talia.”
“I said awful first.”
Mrs. Paxton leaned around Crew. “What is it called?”
“No,” Crew and Marin said at the same time.
The word landed between them.
Too familiar.
Too easy.
For half a second, the bakery went quiet.
Then a notification pinged from Marin’s phone.
And another.
And another.
Marin glanced at the screen, and Crew watched the color in her face shift from anger to something tighter.
He hated that shift.
He hated that he knew it.
Anger was her armor.
This was the bruise underneath.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Marin.”
“Do not use the concerned voice.”
“I only have one voice.”
“You have several. That one makes people confess things in locker rooms.”
Talia took Marin’s phone before Marin could stop her.
Marin made a grab for it. “Talia.”
“Nope.” Talia turned away, reading. Her face changed too. The amusement drained out. “Local page posted the flyer.”
Crew’s stomach sank.
Marin closed her eyes.
Mrs. Paxton, tragically, brightened.
“Already? Oh, Dotty is fast.”
“Dotty needs a hobby that is not ruining my blood pressure,” Marin said.
Talia read aloud, her voice dry enough to parch land.
“‘Honeybrook’s favorite almost-couple is back for Hometown Hero Week. Come support the veterans center, the Fourth Festival, and maybe a second chance.’”
Crew’s jaw tightened.
Marin went very still.
The kind of still that came before a person either cried or committed arson.
Crew preferred arson.
He could handle arson.
He deserved arson.
Mrs. Paxton clasped both hands to her chest. “Isn’t it sweet?”
“No,” Marin said.
“It’s catchy.”
“It’s invasive.”
“It’s for the veterans center.”
“That sentence is not a magic wand.”
Mrs. Paxton’s smile flickered.
For the first time since she had marched into the bakery with flyers and municipal confidence, she looked at Marin instead of through her. Really looked.
“Oh, honey,” she said, softer. “I know this is a lot.”
Marin’s mouth tightened.
Crew knew that look too.
Marin hated being honeyed.
She had once told him it was what people called you right before they ignored every word you said.
Mrs. Paxton continued, “But the roof repair estimate came in higher than expected. Tom’s tribute dinner was already nearly sold out, but since that video…
” She drew in a breath. “Donations doubled by breakfast. The donor dinner waitlist tripled. We had two local businesses offer matching gifts. The center board is crying in the good way.”
Marin looked at the cupcakes.
Crew looked at Marin.
He did not look at Mrs. Paxton.
He could not.
His father’s name sat in the room like a hand on his shoulder.
Tom Donnelly had taught half this town how to tape a hockey stick, change a tire, fold a flag properly, and look a person in the eye when apologizing.
He had coached youth teams long after Crew’s own games moved out of Honeybrook.
He had driven veterans to appointments. Fixed porches.
Showed up with soup. Refused praise. Accepted responsibility like it was oxygen.
And now the veterans center roof needed money.
And Marin loved Tom.
Not because Crew loved Tom.
Before that.
Separately.
Honestly.