Page 1 of Checking All Her Notes
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It’sa regular Thursday afternoon at the Briarwood Community Center, and I’m convinced my beginner piano group is staging a musical revolt.
Seven kids under ten sit crammed around the ancient upright, each one convinced that volume equals talent. Little Emma pounds middle C like it personally offended her family. Rusty treats the keys like a whack-a-mole game. And don’t even get me started on the twins who think playing in unison is a myth invented by adults.
Lily’s in her signature blue shirt today, Kayla in pink. Their mother learned early that color-coding was the only way anyone could tell them apart. Even I still squint sometimes to check which twin is sabotaging the melody.
“Softly,” I remind them for the hundredth time, demonstrating with one finger. “Like you’re telling the piano a secret.”
Emma hits the key harder. Then adds three more notes for good measure.
“That’s not a secret, sweetie. That’s a declaration of war.”
She grins up at me, gap-toothed and proud.
The smell of ice and buttered popcorn seeps through the wall from the rink next door. I can hear the muffled shouts of players and the sharp blast of a whistle. Dad’s whistle. Even after all these years, I recognize the particular pitch of Coach Kessler’s disappointment. Three short bursts means someone’s skating lazy. One long blast means someone’s getting a talking-to after practice.
Being home in Briarwood feels strange and comfortable at the same time. Everyone knows I’m Coach Kessler’s daughter, which is both nice and annoying. Nice because people smile at me in the grocery store and I can get a table at Mario’s without a reservation. Annoying because they immediately ask if the Bobcats will make playoffs this year.
“Miss Kessler, can we play the loud song again?” Rusty asks, bouncing in his seat.
“There is no loud song, buddy. That’s just you playing everything at maximum decibels.”
The kids giggle. Rusty slides off the bench and does a little spin.
“Back on the bench, buddy. We’re not done yet.”
I’m about to launch into my thousandth explanation of dynamics and why we don’t need to murder Beethoven when something crashes so loudly the floor rattles beneath my feet.
Glass explodes inward from the high window near the ceiling. I grab Emma by the shoulders and duck, pulling her down with me. The other kids shriek. Shards rain onto the linoleum like tiny frozen daggers, and a hockey puck rolls across the floor with the casual confidence of a smug little criminal who knows exactly what it just did.
For a second, nobody moves.
The puck rolls to a stop against the piano leg.
“Everyone okay?” I ask, still crouched, doing a quick head count. Blue shirt, pink shirt. Both twins accounted for. Emma, Sarah, Rusty. Seven total. No blood.
“That was awesome!” Rusty breathes.
“That was dangerous,” I correct, but my heart’s hammering and my hands are shaking a little as I stand up.
Then the door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
My dad storms in, whistle still dangling from his neck, face red from yelling or the cold or both. Following him is a six-foot-something wall of black hockey gear and what I can only describe as concentrated embarrassment. The man behind my father is enormous. Not just tall butsolid, like he was carved from granite.
Shoulder pads make him even broader. His helmet’s off, tucked under one arm, and his dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’s got that post-practice flush, all heat and exertion and the kind of presence that makes my small music room feel even smaller.
“This,” Dad announces, snatching the puck from the floor with the energy of a prosecutor presenting evidence, “belongs to Jude Blockton.”
Oh.
Oh.
I recognize the name instantly. The town’s been buzzing about the new defenseman since he arrived. The one who never smiles. The one who allegedly made a rookie cry during practice just by looking at him. The one who plays defense like he’s personally offended by the concept of opponents having the puck.
Jude Blockton looks exactly like the rumors suggested. Dark hair damp with sweat. Jaw set in stone, probably by a very determined sculptor. Eyes the color of storm clouds right beforeeverything goes sideways. There’s a small scar through his left eyebrow that somehow makes him look even more intimidating.
