Page 12 of Checking All Her Notes
“You’re good at this,” he says, not looking at me. “With people.”
“I like helping,” I say. “You just make it interesting.”
He laughs under his breath. Soft and surprised. “That’s one word for it.”
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him and I’m alone in the music room with the lingering warmth where his shoulder touched mine.
I sit at the piano bench, my hands still trembling slightly. The room feels different now. Warmer somehow. Like the temperature changed when he walked in and forgot to change back when he left.
I play a few soft notes. Slow and uneven. My fingers fumble on keys I’ve played a thousand times.
For the first time in my life, I don’t mind missing a beat.
Outside, I hear a truck engine start up. His truck, probably. The sound fades as he drives away, leaving me in the quiet community center with my racing heart and the echo of his voice sayingmaybe I just follow you.
I touch my fingers to my lips even though we didn’t kiss. The moment is gone now, but I really had wanted to kiss him.
four
. . .
The rink buzzeswith that particular electricity only small-town hockey can create. Cheap coffee, loud music, and everyone’s breath fogging in the cold air. I’m wedged between Ivy and Hadley halfway up the bleachers, our knees pressed against the row in front of us, our voices lost in the roar of the crowd.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to a game,” Ivy says, unwrapping a protein bar like we’re settling in for a movie.
“I’ve been to plenty of games,” I protest. “I grew up in this rink.”
“Watching from the penalty box while doing homework doesn’t count,” Hadley points out.
She’s not wrong. Dad used to park me there with my books when my mom wasn’t at the game. I’d read while the Zamboni made its rounds, the smell of ice and rubber ingrained in my memory.
But this is different. This is watching as an adult. Watching with purpose.
Watching for him.
Down on the ice, the Bobcats are warming up.
“Your guy looks grumpy,” Hadley observes, nodding toward the bench.
I follow her gaze and spot Jude tightening his gloves, head down, completely calm amid the chaos. He’s in his zone already. Focused. Unmovable.
“He’s not mine,” I say automatically.
“Yet,” Ivy sings, taking a sip of water.
I try to glare but end up smiling instead. “You’re both terrible.”
“We’re observant,” Hadley corrects. “There’s a difference.”
The horn sounds. Sharp and commanding. The crowd leaps to its feet. My pulse matches the beat, thundering in my chest as the teams take their positions.
When the puck drops, the Bobcats come alive.
Zane wins the faceoff, shoots down the ice. Finn and Jett flank him, fast and showy, weaving through defenders like they’re performing a choreographed routine. The crowd chants their names, a rhythmic pulse that shakes the bleachers.
But my eyes find Jude. Always do.
He’s not flashy. He doesn’t need to be. He reads the ice like he’s two moves ahead of everyone else, positioning himself where the play is going before it even gets there. Every check is deliberate. Every shift calculated. He’s the quiet force no one wants barreling toward them.
