Page 26 of From Ice to Home
“Hannah?” Pastor Mark asks, straightening from where he’s leaning against the counter, his calm presence filling the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s nothing—“ she starts, shaking her head.
“Just talk to him and get it over with,” Essie cuts in from behind her, clearly as frustrated by Hannah’s silence as I am.
“Stay out of it, Essie,” Hannah whips toward her sister, her eyes sparking with frustration.
“How can I?” she asks, immediately defensive, her hands on her hips. She gestures toward me. “There's a giant hockey player in the middle of our kitchen.”
“Essie, that’s enough,” Pastor Mark’s voice cuts through the drama. “Why don’t you help your mom get the car ready, we’ll leave in a few minutes.”
“But—“
“Now,” Pastor Mark says, gently and firmly.
Essie groans and stomps toward the door.
“It’s nice to see you again Lucas,” Mrs. Sanders says before following her youngest daughter from the kitchen, trays of snacks in hand.
My gaze slips to Hannah, she’s chewing her bottom lip, momentarily torn.
“Dad,” she says finally. “I need a moment alone with Lucas, please.”
Pastor Mark glances between us, his brows furrowing with concern. It’s strange, unsettling even, to see him looking at me like that. He’s never looked at me like that before. Not even when I was a teenage boy who sat too close to his daughter on the couch.
He scratches his beard thoughtfully before nodding.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Then we need to leave.”
“That’s fine,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
He walks out the back door, giving us one last look before leaving us alone. The kitchen feels empty, quieter, save for the heavy tension hanging between us. Hannah steps closer, her presence overwhelming in a way I can’t describe.
Despite the frustration and anger I’ve felt this week, seeing her in front of me now brings comfort and a sense of relief. I’ve missed her this week and with her standing this close to me just cements the fact that I haven’t been dreaming about being with her. My skin burns with the thought that she’s my wife—something I’ve barely had a chance to process properly.
She’s beautiful—that’s always been true. And now, after everything, her beauty hits me differently. Her hair catches the morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and her green eyes, though clouded with worry, still hold the same kindness I’ve loved since we were teenagers.
God, please. I need Your help here. I need her.
“Let’s talk outside?” she says finally, her voice softer now, like she’s trying to hold back something deeper. She moves past me, her shoulder brushing against my arm so lightly it’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to ignite something in me.
I follow her through the house, toward the porch, where the morning air feels thick, heavier than it should. My stomach twists when she doesn’t stop on the porch to sit on the swing, but instead heads down the steps toward my truck.
This is not a good sign.
“Sanders—“ I finally find my voice. The need to intervene before she kicks me to the curb, beats strongly through me.
“Lucas, you can’t just come here unannounced.” Her tone isn’t angry—more exasperated, like I’ve complicated something she was desperately trying to avoid. “What did you thinkwould happen? I didn’t answer your calls or texts for a reason. You’re the last person I expected to show up at my doorstep.”
Her words hit harder than an unexpected check to the boards. My own ego and pride flare up. This time I’m not cushioned by a helmet or the roar of the crowd. I’m standing here alone, vulnerable.
“Really, Hannah? The absolutelastperson?” I huff, looking toward my truck and wondering if I shouldn’t just get in and drive away. Maybe I was wrong in coming here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things that need to be figured out. “I’m your husband. How could I possibly be thelastperson you expected to see?”
“Would you keep it down,” she says, her voice tight and low, glancing back toward the house.
I follow her gaze to the window, where Essie’s face is barely visible behind the curtain. The moment she realizes we’ve spotted her, she lets the curtain drop, but it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s still watching.
Hannah turns back to me, her voice a near whisper. “I haven’t told anybody about what we did,” her words hurried and tense. “I need to find the right words, the right time.”
