Page 9 of Checking All Her Notes
As everyone filters out, laughing and shoving each other, Jude lingers. He’s still at his table, tapping the triangle absently with the beater. Not playing a rhythm, just... tapping.
I walk over, start collecting the other instruments. “You’re better than you think. You just rush.”
“Story of my life,” he says quietly, still tapping.
I bite back a smile. “If you want, we can practice after hours. No audience. No Finn making commentary.”
He looks up, something unreadable crossing his face. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion.
“Why?”
“Because you’re trying,” I tell him honestly. “And it’s for the kids. Plus...” I shrug. “I think you might actually get good at this.”
His mouth tilts. Not quite a smile, but close. “Fine. But no triangle jokes.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Completely.”
He nods once, stands, and walks out without another word.
The triangle still hums faintly from where he set it down, the sound lingering in the air.
I gather the leftover instruments, still smiling. The Bobcats were an unruly mess, exactly as expected. But Jude Blockton was a whole different kind of chaos.
three
. . .
It’s justafter eight and everyone’s gone.
I check my watch again even though I told myself I wouldn’t. The community center has that particular quiet that only comes after hours, when the building settles into itself and the only sounds are the distant echo of someone closing up the rink.
Dad said Jude might not come. “He’s not the social type, Soph,” he’d warned me this morning over breakfast. “Don’t take it personal if he doesn’t show.”
But something tells me he will.
The music room smells like dust and lemon polish. I turned off most of the overhead lights, leaving just the lamp near the piano glowing. It’s cozier this way. Less like a classroom, more like a space where someone might actually relax.
When the door creaks open, I jump.
Jude stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway fluorescents. He’s in jeans and a dark hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, baseball cap backward. No hockey gear. No armor.
He looks different like this. Younger. Human.
He holds up a paper cup. “Peace offering.”
“Coffee?” I ask, standing up from the piano bench.
“Hot chocolate,” he mutters, stepping inside and letting the door close behind him. “Coffee makes me worse.”
I grin. “Impossible.”
“You haven’t seen me on coffee.” He hands me the cup. It’s warm against my palms, and when I take a sip, it’s perfect. Not too sweet. The good kind from the diner down the street, not the watery stuff from the gas station.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything.”
