Page 114 of Almost Ours
I set the scone down long enough to reach across the counter and hook a finger in the pocket of her flour-dusted apron, tugging her a fraction closer. “See you tonight,” I said, voice low enough that it wasn’t just casual.
By the time I climbed back into my truck, Harper’s smile was still stuck in my head. I was halfway through the drive home when my phone lit up on the passenger seat.
Shane.
“I’m sending you an address. Meet me there in an hour.” He said when I answered. No explanation. Just Shane being Shane.
I plugged the address into my phone. Forty minutes away.
An hour later,I pulled into the parking lot of a multiplex sports center that looked… tired. The building was massive, low-slung brick with a faded green roof, its sign missing two letters so it read “SRTS COMPLEX” in weathered black font. The lot was half-empty, dotted with patches of ice and snow that had been pushed into uneven piles. The kind of place that had clearly been thriving… about fifteen years ago.
I shot him a text.
Ryan: I’m here.
Shane: Come inside.
The front doors groaned when I pushed them open, a blast of warm, chlorine-scented air hitting me in the face. The lobby was big but dated–tiled floors scuffed from years of skates and sneakers, the paint on the walls faded from too many winters. A half-moon reception desk sat in the center, the surface clattered with flyers for everything from “Learn to Curl” classes to local swim meets.
Flat-screen TVs lined the walls above, each showing a live feed of the building’s different corners–hockey rinks, pickleball courts, a shimmering blue pool, and what looked like a lacrosse box. It was a sports buffet, though the whole place had a run-down, echoing feel that screamedunderfunded.
I finally spotted Shane, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, standing near a vending machine that looked like it hadn’t been stocked since summer.
“What’s up?” I asked, coming to a stop beside him.
“C’mon.” He jerked his head toward a hallway, already moving. “You gotta see the rest.”
I hesitated a second before following, wondering what the hell I was even doing here. Shane had a habit of roping me into things that started with “just come check this out”and ended with me knee-deep in some half-baked project.
We walked through the building–past the rink with its tired boards and dim lighting, the cracked pickleball courts, the gym that smelled faintly of sweat and dust.
“It needs a lot of work done,” Shane admitted, sweeping a hand out in front of him, “but it’s got potential. I want to buy it.”
I stopped, blinking at him. Not the least bit surprised. This hadShanewritten all over it. “You want to what?”
“Buy it. Fix it up. Make it the kind of place this town and the next ten around it want to drive to every weekend.” Hewas grinning now, eyes bright. “I’m already talking to a couple teams about relocating here. Hockey. Lacrosse. Maybe even a junior swim program. The market’s there, Ry. We could build something big here.”
I let out a low whistle. “Shane, this is a huge job. You’re talking about a full gut, new equipment, new lighting, rebranding–”
“Exactly.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “So… will you help me? I’ve got the vision, but you’ve got the hands and the brain for the build. We’d make a hell of a team.”
I shook my head, half laughing. “You’re crazy.”
“Yeah, but I’m right,” he shot back without missing a beat. And the truth was, he probably was. For all his impulsive ideas, Shane was a smart businessman. He already owned more than a few properties, and they were all thriving. If anyone could turn this beat-up sportsplex into something worth driving for, it was him.
I looked around again, really seeing it this time–not the peeling paint or the outdated fixtures, but the potential. The place could hum with life again.
“You should do it,” I said finally. “And if you do, I’m in. Let’s make this dump look like your dream.”
Shane’s grin widened, and for a second, I could already picture the place alive again–full stands, bright lights, and that electric buzz of a game night.
The arena buzzedwith energy as Connor and I made our way inside. The chill in the air wrapped around us, but the lively chatter of parents and the faint clatter of pucks against the boards made it feel welcoming. Connor practically vibrated with excitement, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, nearly as big as he was. The older kids were on the ice for their practice before Connor’s game, and I could see him walk straight over to the glass, his eyes wide with admiration as he soaked in every move they made.
“Mom, I’m gonna score so many goals today,” he announced confidently, turning to head towards the dressing room, his steps quickening ahead of me.
“I believe it,” I said with a grin.
As we rounded the corner toward the dressing room, I spotted Ryan leaning against the wall. Dark jeans, a fitted charcoal henley, and a black jacket that hugged his broad shoulders made him look effortlessly put together–casual, but in a way that still made my breath catch. His clipboard was tucked under one arm, and he was watching the dressing room door like he was mentally preparing himself for the chaos about to unfold.
