Chapter Eighteen
Crew
Crew Donnelly had faced playoff elimination with less fear than he felt holding a pie.
Not because of the pie.
The pie was fine.
Probably.
It sat in a white bakery box on the passenger seat of his truck, secured by the seat belt because Marin Webb had handed it to him with both hands and said, “If this slides, I will remember it at your funeral.”
So the pie was safe.
The man carrying it was less stable.
Tonight was the donor thank-you dinner.
Technically, it was not a date.
Marin had been clear about that.
“This is not a date,” she had said in the bakery doorway, wearing a blue sundress under a white cardigan and looking like every good decision Crew had ever been too scared to make.
Crew had said, “Okay.”
She had narrowed her eyes. “Don’t okay me like that.”
He had not known what kind of okay was allowed, so he had nodded.
Bad choice.
Then she had put the pie in his hands and said, “Also, you are riding with me because Tom told both of us to bring pie and I do not trust this town not to turn separate arrivals into emotional symbolism.”
Crew had looked at her car.
Then his truck.
Then the pie.
“Do you want me to drive?”
Marin had stared at him like he had asked whether gravity needed a permission slip.
“I want you to transport the pie safely while I follow in my car because I need an exit vehicle.”
Right.
Not a date.
A convoy.
With dessert and boundaries.
So now Crew drove toward the veterans center with a blueberry crumble pie seat-belted beside him and Marin following in her car behind him.
Not romantic.
Not fake.
Not simple.
Definitely them.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder.
He ignored it because pie safety required focus.
Then it buzzed again.
At the red light near Main Street, he glanced down.
Wilder.
Wilder: Status update: donor dinner setup is calm. Suspiciously calm.
Wilder: Frankie has been given a job that does not involve microphones.
Wilder: Sutton says I should not describe anything as suspiciously calm because I manifest chaos.
Wilder: I disagree respectfully and quietly.
Crew smiled despite himself.
A second message came from Sutton.
Sutton: I have him. Continue safely transporting pie.
Everyone knew about the pie.
Of course they did.
Crew looked in the rearview mirror.
Marin’s car idled behind him.
She wore sunglasses even though the evening sun was low, probably because she believed sunglasses created emotional distance. They did not. Not from him.
He could still picture the way she had looked upstairs in her apartment after kissing him.
Hair slightly loose.
Mouth soft.
Eyes scared but choosing.
This is not fake.
He had replayed those words so many times he was worried they had become medically necessary.
The light turned green.
Crew drove.
The veterans center lawn looked different in evening dress.
The donor dinner had been moved partly indoors and partly under a rented white tent near the newly staged roof materials.
Long tables were covered in simple white cloths, with small flags in mason jars and Webb & Whisk cookies wrapped at each place setting.
The roof company’s equipment remained roped off in the side lot, visible proof that the fundraiser had moved from story to action.
No hearts.
No couple photos.
No #TheViralBet banners.
Just a sign near the entrance:
THANK YOU FOR HELPING SAVE THE HONEYbrOOK VETERANS CENTER ROOF
Under it, in smaller letters:
For the roof. Obviously.
Crew parked carefully.
Marin pulled in beside him.
He got out first and opened the passenger door of his truck.
The pie had survived.
Good.
One manageable victory.
Marin approached, sunglasses pushed into her hair.
“Well?”
Crew lifted the box.
“Safe.”
She inspected it.
Actually inspected it.
Then nodded.
“Acceptable.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be. That pie has emotional significance.”
“To Tom?”
“To me. I made it while Talia narrated my life choices.”
“Did that help?”
“No.”
“Sounds like Talia.”
Marin’s mouth curved.
The golden hour light caught her face, and Crew’s brain temporarily abandoned all responsible function.
She saw it happen.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do not stare at me in a parking lot while holding pie.”
He looked at the pie.
“Right.”
“You’re still staring, just at dessert.”
“Safer.”
“Marginally.”
A voice called from near the tent.
“Crew! Marin!”
Mrs. Paxton hurried toward them wearing a red dress, flag earrings, and the expression of a woman determined to be normal through force of will.
“Welcome,” she said, clasping her hands. “Everything is going beautifully.”
Marin frowned.
“Why would you say that out loud?”
Mrs. Paxton paused.
“Oh. Right.”
Crew looked around.
No camera crews. No Dotty with phone raised. No mayor hovering with note cards. No visible chaos.
That was suspicious.
Wilder had been correct.
Crew would never tell him.
Mrs. Paxton saw the pie and softened.
“Oh, Tom will love that.”
“For after dinner,” Marin said.
“Of course.”
“Not before.”
Mrs. Paxton opened her mouth.
Marin lifted one finger.
“Being honored is not protein.”
Mrs. Paxton closed her mouth.
Crew pressed his lips together.
Marin looked at him.
“You laugh, you carry all the pies forever.”
He sobered immediately.
“No laughing.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She looked annoyed that he knew.
Good.
Annoyance was familiar ground.
They walked toward the tent together.
Not touching.
Close enough that Crew could feel the awareness of her beside him like heat off pavement.
People noticed.
Of course they noticed.
But something had changed.
Maybe the apology post helped. Maybe the town had finally gotten tired. Maybe Talia, Sutton, and Mrs. Paxton had formed a boundary task force with actual consequences.
Whatever the reason, the glances were softer now.
Less hungry.
More respectful.
A few people said hello. Thanked Marin for the bakery. Thanked Crew for the team match. Asked about Tom. Asked about the roof.
No one said couple.
No one said second chance.
No one asked about fireworks.
Mayor Halford stood near the buffet table, holding a revised note card and looking like a man trying not to improvise.
Progress everywhere.
Terrifying.
Tom sat at the front table, wearing a clean button-down shirt and his Marine Corps hat. Mrs. Bell sat beside him with water, a plate of food, and a watchful expression. Eddie occupied the chair on Tom’s other side, apparently serving as backup enforcement.
Tom saw the pie.
His face changed.
“Well,” he said. “Finally. The important guest.”
Marin set the box on the table but kept one hand on the lid.
“After dinner.”
Tom looked personally offended.
“I am a grown man.”
“You are a grown man who recently tried to survive parade week on half a muffin and stubbornness.”
Mrs. Bell pointed at Marin. “She’s right.”
Eddie nodded. “Medically and spiritually.”
Tom looked at Crew.
Crew lifted both hands.
“I support the pie restrictions.”
“Betrayal,” Tom muttered.
Marin sat beside Tom.
Crew did not assume the seat beside her.
He waited.
Marin looked at the empty chair on her other side.
Then at him.
“You can sit there.”
Simple.
Public.
Her choice.
Crew sat.
The chair was too close.
Or maybe he was too aware.
Marin’s elbow rested inches from his. Her knee angled slightly away. Her hands folded in her lap.
Tom watched them with the faintest smile.
Marin pointed at him without looking.
“Eat your chicken.”
Tom ate his chicken.
Crew loved her.
The thought arrived calmly.
Not as a burst.
Not as a crisis.
A fact, sitting down at the table with them.
He loved her sharpness. Her rules. Her softness she hated showing.
Her ability to walk into a hospital and make fear obey instructions.
Her bakery. Her laugh. Her fury. Her way of turning community pressure into fundraiser force without letting it swallow her.
Her stubborn insistence that the truth should arrive ugly if it had to, but it had better arrive.
He loved her now.
Not because he had before.
Because he had stayed long enough to see.
Dinner began with grilled chicken, pasta salad, green beans, rolls, and the kind of lemonade that tasted like someone’s grandmother believed sugar was a constitutional right.
The Spitfires occupied the second table in supervised formation.
Frankie had a napkin folded over her head like a hat until Sutton removed it.
Wilder was speaking quietly to Eddie, hands visible, no phone in sight.
Cooper helped Mrs. Paxton carry extra plates.
Hayes entertained Mason with a magic trick that appeared to involve stealing his own watch.
Beck quietly refilled water pitchers. Junie distributed cookies and tissues, labeling both as “allergy supplies.”
Crew watched them and felt something loosen.
This was his team.
His family, maybe.
They were strange.
Deeply.
But they showed up.
Marin leaned toward him slightly.
“Wilder is doing well.”
Crew looked at her.
“That almost sounded like approval.”
“Do not tell him. He’ll become emotional.”
“He already is.”
“Then he’ll become louder.”
“True.”
Across the room, Wilder glanced at them like he could feel himself being discussed.
Sutton gently turned his face back toward Eddie.
Marin’s mouth twitched.
Crew’s did too.
Mayor Halford stood after dinner with his note card.
Everyone went quiet.
Crew felt Marin tense beside him.
He moved his hand under the table, palm-up on his knee.
Not reaching toward her.
Just there.
If she wanted.
If not, nothing.
Marin glanced down.
Then at him.
She did not take it.
That was okay.
Then Mayor Halford spoke.
“Tonight is simple,” he said. “We are here to say thank you.”
Good start.
Crew watched Marin watching him.
Mayor Halford continued, “Thank you to our donors. Thank you to Webb & Whisk for turning a difficult week into an extraordinary act of service. Thank you to the Spitfires for matching donations and cleaning up more folding chairs than most hockey players probably expect to encounter.”
The Spitfires clapped for themselves.
Frankie whistled.
Sutton looked proud despite trying not to.