Page 126 of Well That Happened

Lexi perks up. “Nowthat’sa show I’d watch.”

I smile, a little more real this time. “You think they’ll go for it?”

She leans back, arms crossed, grin wicked. “Rilee, you live with three hockey players who worship the ground you walk on. If you suggest cooking them a full meal, they will marry you on the spot.”

I snort. “Tragic. Guess I better learn how to roast a turkey without burning down the house.”

She winks. “You better. On second thought, maybe grab a fire extinguisher.”

I lean back in my chair, warmth blooming in my chest.

Maybe this won’t be the kind of holiday I used to know.

Maybe it’ll be something new.

Something mine.

Which is why, when I get home, I immediately call a house meeting.

“You’re home.” Caleb grins, crossing the room in two easy strides and gathering me up in his arms like I’ve just returned from war instead of a casual bar night with Lexi.

“I was gone three hours,” I say, laughing against his chest.

“Felt like three days,” he murmurs into my hair, squeezing just a little tighter before letting go.

Grayson looks up from the couch, where he’s been sketching in that mysterious notebook I keep pretending not to be curious about. “What’s up?”

Hunter leans against the table, scrolling on his phone.

I settle onto the arm of the sofa. “House meeting. Right now.”

Caleb salutes and flops onto the couch beside Grayson. Hunter groans but joins us anyway, grumbling the entire way.

“I just realized Thanksgiving is next week,” I say. “And before anyone tells me they’re going home or flying off to some fancy family retreat—”

“We have a game,” Grayson interrupts. “That Friday.”

“Coach is keeping us in town,” Hunter confirms. “Scrimmage Thursday morning, light skate Friday.”

I blink. “Wait. So… none of you are going home?”

Three heads shake.

Caleb tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because,” I say slowly, “I was thinking we could do something. Like… I don’t know. A Friendsgiving?”

There’s a pause.

Then Caleb perks up like I just offered him a lifetime supply of pie. “With actual food?”

“And dessert,” I add. “Something casual—chill.”

Hunter squints. “You’re volunteering to cook for three athletes with bottomless stomachs?”

“Correction,” I say. “Wecook. Together. Or at least try to.” They don’t need to know I’m absolutely planning to buy microwave mashed potatoes, simply because I like them more.

Grayson smiles. “I’m in.”

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