Page 19 of The Parent Playbook
“The plumbing in the guest cottages. The water pressure is less of a waterfall and barely a trickle,” she explains, a hint of humor finally breaking through.
As we reach her office, she turns to me, her eyes wide. “Really, Scotty, I don’t know what to say. With everything else going on, and being let down by thieves, the fact that you—a stranger—would lend a hand …”
She chokes up, blinking her eyes even as she lifts her chin high.
“No problem, Angel,” I assure her, feeling a swell of protectiveness. “And hey, if those goats give you any trouble, let me know. I’ve been known to wrangle a few hockey players in my day. How different can it be?”
She laughs, the sound genuine and lighter than before. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As I head to my truck, I glance back to see her watching me, a thoughtful look on her face.
Heading to the hardware store from Happy Horizons Ranch, I get wrapped up in the cozy, small-town feel of Maple Falls. The roads twist and turn in no hurry at all, lined with maple trees showing off their fall colors. I roll down the truck window to let in the cool air, and it brings with it the smell of leaves that have just hit the ground and a hint of wood smoke from someone’s stove heating up for the night.
As I pull into the hardware store parking lot, the gravel crunches under my tires, a sound that’s quickly becoming as comforting as the crack of a puck hitting the back of the net. I hop out, and the bell above the door jingles cheerily as I step inside, instantly hit by the smell of sawdust and paint—a hardware store’s perfume.
I’m browsing the aisles, ticking items off Angel’s list, when I hear a voice that’s as sharp as a fresh skate blade.
“Well, if it isn’t one of our new hockey folks!”
I turn around to see a woman of a certain age, petite and feisty, measuring me with her eyes.
“Scotty MacFarland,” I say, extending my hand. She shakes it firmly, tilting her head to the side as her short gray hair bounces.
“Call me Mrs. McCluskey. Because that’s my name and everyone in this town knows it. Strange to see a sportsman in the store doing such ordinary things … What would bring a star to our little hardware store?”
Pretty sure I’ve just met the mayor of rumor city.
“Picking up some essentials to help out Happy Horizons Ranch,” I say, keeping my tone light, my answers vague. “You know, the glamorous life of hockey extends beyond the rink—fixing fences, battling leaky pipes. Might trade my stick for a wrench at this rate.”
Her eyes narrow over her glasses. I don’t think she’s buying my story. “That’s quite a shopping list for simply some basic repairs. Something big going on we should know about?”
“Nah, all the excitement is on the ice,” I reply, steering a cart filled with everything from lumber to plumbing supplies. I have a feeling I should be very careful with everything I say to this lady.
Mrs. McCluskey nods, though it’s clear she’s cataloging every piece of information for future use. “Well, we’re all very curious about your team and the excitement you’re bringing to Maple Falls. Happy Horizons is lucky to have you all.”
Ah, small towns.
Everyone knows everyone, and news travels faster than a slapshot. It’s cozy, familiar, but I can see how it weighs on someone like Angel, who’s fiercely guarding her privacy while juggling the pressures of keeping Happy Horizons afloat. In a town where everyone’s watching and whispering, she’s standing on her own. It inspires me even more to give her a hand, not justbecause it’s the neighborly thing to do, but because she deserves a team behind her.
Now more than ever, Maple Falls feels like more than a stopover.
Dusk is settling in by the time I roll back into Happy Horizons Ranch, my truck’s bed a jigsaw of building supplies. I kill the engine and step out into the quiet of the night. The only light comes from the barn.
The crunch of gravel underfoot feels loud in the silence as I approach, drawn by the faint sounds of activity inside the barn. The rhythmic thud of a hammer punctuates the stillness, mingled with what could be quiet sobs.
My stomach drops.
Peering into the barn, I’m momentarily taken aback. Angel, clad in a practical ensemble of denim and flannel, is completely absorbed in her task. She drills into a wooden beam, her focus absolute, and it’s clear she has no idea I’m here. Stray wisps of hair escape a loosely tied bun, framing her face in a wild halo that glows under the single bulb’s soft light.
Her concentration, the set of her shoulders, the way she wipes away a stray tear with the back of her hand—I am transfixed.
I clear my throat, and she nearly jumps out of her skin, the drill clattering to the ground.
“Scotty! You scared me,” she gasps, a forced laugh that doesn’t quite hide how she was feeling a moment ago.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I step fully into the barn. The smell of sawdust and oil fills the air, grounding and real.
Out of nowhere, four hoofed feet come charging at me and I have to take cover.
