Page 32 of Checking All Her Notes
“You’re tough. You bruised my ego multiple times.”
I’m laughing again. Can’t help it. “That’s never going away, is it?”
“Not a chance.”
He stands suddenly, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“On ice?”
“Trust me.”
I take his hand. Let him pull me up. He slides one arm around my waist, the other holding my hand. We move in slow circles under the string lights, shuffling more than dancing, but it doesn’t matter.
The music shifts to something slower. More romantic.
“For someone who swore he had no rhythm,” I whisper, “you found mine perfectly.”
“Had a good teacher.”
He kisses me again. Longer this time. Sure and steady and full of promise.
When we finally leave, the fairy lights still twinkling behind us, my hand is warm in his. The truck heater rattles the whole drive back but I don’t mind.
Because for the first time since moving home, everything feels exactly right.
epilogue
. . .
Six monthslater
Apparently, dating a local hero means people stop asking if you’re single and start asking if you can get them tickets.
I’ve been totally immersed in Friday night games, Saturday morning pancakes, and Jude leaving his hockey tape on my kitchen counter despite having his own place. Just beingus.
The Bobcats are still winning. Jude’s still playing defense like he was born for it. But something unexpected happened after the fundraiser. He started coaching.
The youth league approached him first. Then Dad got involved. Then somehow it became this whole community initiative called “Blades & Beats,” combining hockey lessons with music rhythm training for kids. Jude teaches the skating and stick work. I handle the rhythm portion. It’s chaotic and loud and exactly the kind of thing that makes Briarwood feel like home.
We’re both thrilled about it. Love it, actually.
Until the league PR team arrives to film a promotional documentary called “The Heart of Briarwood.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Jude mutters, watching the camera crew set up lights around the rink.
“You literally signed a form,” I remind him.
“I thought it was a waiver.”
“It was a release.”
He looks like he’s calculating escape routes.
The PR director, a woman named Monica with a clipboard and entirely too much enthusiasm, claps her hands. “Okay, Jude! We’re going to get some footage of you working with the kids. Just act natural!”
“Natural,” he repeats flatly.
“Yes! Like you normally are!”
