10. Teddy

CHAPTER 10

TEDDY

I should’ve known it couldn’t work. At least Harlow didn’t storm off. However, considering all the snow from last night, it would’ve been slow going.

As we make our way back to Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin, the sun is strong overhead, melting the snow drifts, which is kind of how I feel.

Jill calls Harlow with a house-sitting update. This gives me a moment to think about the results of our risk: taking things a step further. I revealed my feelings. She rejected me, confirming my deep down fear that no romantic relationship can last, at least for me. Not even twenty-four hours, as it turns out. This might be a new record for both of us.

She’s never been with someone long-term either so why should I be surprised? I should’ve known better than to give in to temptation. To trust myself and show Harlow how I feel.

I could’ve pushed back and tried to talk her into us continuing to test these waters, but the truth is, I’m going along with the just friends status quo because I don’t want to completely lose my one person, the constant in my life.

Yeah, Harlow is my one person. I’m lucky to have her at all.

She gets off the phone with Jill and it instantly dings with a message. She flashes it in my direction. I glimpse an array of green leaves and vines along with Leo, her Leopard Gecko. “Proof of life. My plant babies and lizard are surviving without me.”

How would I survive without my best friend? I wouldn’t, so it’s time to forget all about the kiss.

Back at the cabin, Harlow drops onto the loveseat. Ordinarily, I’d join her. On her phone, she’d give me a photographic tour of her plant kingdom, complete with their names and little details only she knows, but I go into the bedroom and pack up my things.

There, I have a full-blown mental argument with myself about acting normal even after the kiss. Being myself. The same guy I’ve always been with Harlow—the fun goofball who suppressed his feelings for his best friend.

Calling from the other room, she asks, “I heard you zipper your bag. Is our romantic weekend getaway already coming to an end?”

I gather my Dopp kit from the bathroom. “I’m afraid so.”

She checks the time and yawns. “My flight doesn’t leave until tonight. But we have to clear out of here by three so Mrs. Cagle can clean.”

Like clockwork, I yawn too. Overcome with exhaustion—possibly of the emotional variety, but don’t tell anyone—I flop onto the bed. “That’s long enough to take a nap. ”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she says, her voice sleepy.

“I’m full of good ones,” I say, sounding rough but flirty. Before I can say more or set an alarm, I drift off.

When I wake up, Harlow is curled up on the loveseat. The little indent of her dimples suggests she’s having a good dream. Her soft brown curls fall against her olive skin, highlighting her freckles. Her full lips remind me that she can never be mine.

Someday, some guy is going to be very, very lucky. Too bad it won’t be me. I feel myself deflating, my blood and bones replaced with a longing for what I can’t have. Does that mean hope replaced my doubt that long-term romance is possible? No, it just means that I’ve been a fool.

It’s as if our kiss last night and skating together earlier today was but a fairytale, a fantasy. One I’ll never forget.

I’ll spend the rest of my life loving this woman even if we’ll only ever be friends. But what does that mean for my future?

It’ll be lonely. At least I have hockey.

I’ve been delaying my decision about the offer from the LA Lions, but if my injury is healed enough to play for the Knights again, it’s a no-brainer. Not only that, but I won’t find anyone like Harlow, so I resign myself to the single life. Coach Badaszek will be pleased that I’m not the cock of the walk with different women each season. The Nebraska Knights are a family-oriented team, and he’ll wonder why I don’t have one. That could come with its own pressures. But it’s a problem for another time.

What about Harlow? Will I be able to attend her wedding to someone with a better butt than mine? The guy that gets to spend the rest of his life with her? The one who’ll take my best friend crown ?

I want to be happy for the future she’ll have, but not being able to have it with her crushes me. Then I snort because I should know better. This proves what I’ve always known. Harlow’s and my relationship isn’t an exception to the truth: no romantic relationship can last.

But friendships can. We’re better off sticking to her plan, I guess.

She blinks open her eyes and smiles. “G’morning.”

“Afternoon,” I correct.

She goes still as if recollecting why we’re both waking up from naps in a cozy cabin in the mountains. “Oh, right.”

“We should get out of here soon,” I say more sharply than I mean.

She sits up and stretches. “I feel refreshed.”

“There’s another éclair if you’re hungry.”

“I should get ready to leave . . .” she trails off.

That one word leave cracks open something inside me. It’s more painful than the knock around that took me off the ice, left to collect dust on the bench.

I haven’t yet turned on my cellphone, but I’m certain that if my brother texted Harlow, he’s not in a good way. For years, I tried to hold my family together, but I’ve mostly lost them. I’m afraid of the same with my best friend.

That’s how I have to think about her—no mood ring desires, no ulterior motives. We’ll just remain friends.

What’s the worst that could happen? Oh, I don’t know, just live the rest of my life with a fractured, pining, pitiful heart.

Then like the lamp lighting with a goal, I remember that I’m not a quitter. The only way to get me out of the game is to carry me—kicking and screaming or passed out—off the ice.

My resolve renews like a Zamboni over a rink, revealing a fresh sheet of glass.

“Where do you have to go?” I ask.

“The airport.”

“And after that?”

Harlow’s smile pinches. “Are you reminding me that I no longer have a job?”

My lips bunch up. “And suggesting that we have an opportunity to hang out a little longer. We’ve always talked about it—regretted that I get super busy with the season. All these years, you’ve been punching the clock at Preston & Lemieux Legal Logistics, keeping us from chilling as often as we’d like.” I’m doing everything I can not to use the words spending time together because that could have connotations she wants to avoid.

Harlow grunts as if considering. “Maple Falls is so quaint, and I hardly got to see it because of the storm. I could stay a few more days.” She looks around as if remembering Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin was for the weekend only. “Willa said the Hawk River Lodge is still booked though.”

“That’s not a problem.” An idea sparks. A wild, reckless one. “We’ve been long-distance friends since college. Consider it a vacation—with me gone during the day to play hockey. See? Business as usual.”

She sucks in her cheek, thinking.

“I have a SkyBnB waiting for me on the other side of town. It’s mine while I’m in Maple Falls. You could stay with me.”

“Is that wise? ”

“It has four bedrooms. We managed in here for two nights. I think we can make it work . . . and go back to how things were,” I add reassuringly.

Her eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Totally. It’ll give us a chance to prove to each other we can just be friends.”

My chest pinches because it feels like a lie. It’s something more to me. Much more, but I don’t want to lose Harlow, so I’ll do things her way.

“I’ll be busy all week, starting with practice, so you’ll have the place to yourself. I’m free during the afternoons and we could check out what Maple Falls has to offer and then meet up again for dinner.”

“We still have the gift certificate for The Glass Olive.”

“And I’d hate to dine there by myself.” I exaggerate a pout.

“There’s also the Maple Fest.”

“You can watch our games. High stakes charity competition,” I say in my best announcer’s voice.

“Okay, let’s do it.” She extends her hand to shake. “Friends.”

I do so and then force myself to ruffle her hair, “Of course, Shorty.” It’s hard to ignore how she fit so snugly in my arms and how perfectly our lips locked together, but I’ll take what I can get.

We load everything into the SUV and drive over to the rental house. I wish I could take credit for selecting the luxurious alpine-style home featuring a timber and stone exterior and a massive wrap-around deck. But my manager’s assistant gets full credit.

“Do we have Lacey to thank for this?” Harlow asks.

“You know me so well. ”

She truly does.

We go exploring and find that the property is spacious and has loads of amenities, including a basement theater complete with video games, ping-pong, foosball, and a state-of-the-art entertainment and sound system. There’s even a hot tub out back that’s bigger than the heart-shaped jacuzzi at the cabin.

“Looks like you found yourself a new home,” Harlow says, leaning in the doorway.

Not unless she’s with me.

After we kissed, I’d rushed to the edge and now I’m teetering. I have to do everything I can to avoid free fall. Because if I’m not careful, this could result in a big, fat splat .

“Yeah, but I don’t plan on staying long,” I say.

“Have you decided between teams?”

I rough my hand through my hair, and answer, “Status pending.”

I’m not annoyed that she repeatedly asks about my future, but I don’t want to think about what shape it’ll take unless she’s part of it and that’s not happening in Tulsa—or anywhere else as it turns out.

Plus, there’s the issue with my brother. I finally listened to his messages and read a couple of the texts. It’s the same old thing. Once more, he got involved in shady dealings and is in trouble because of a sports gambling scheme. Owes people money. He’s dishonest, but at least he’s honest about being dishonest.

I’m always bailing him out. But this time, I’m going to ignore the situation, hoping it’ll resolve itself. I can’t deal with his troubles while I have my own. I should get an A+ at compartmentalizing.

The next day, I get up early for a workout and then head to the arena for practice.

Sweaty from grueling, over-speed and breakout drills, Coach Strickland grills us, runs plays on the whiteboard, and reminds us of the ABCs: using an apple (an assist), to get the biscuit (the puck), into the cheese (a goal in the top shelf of the net). Scotty doubles down, pushing us to be more cohesive. To play like a team rather than six all-stars showing off on the ice. Guilty as charged.

I feel like I’m twelve years old all over again, but these practices are on steroids because of the repetition. Strickland doesn’t want us operating on autopilot, but he does want certain plays driven into the marrow of our bones and muscle memory. Scotty knows his stuff and I respect him for it, but I’m confident we’ll show up and show out on game day.

My stomach growls as my attention travels to the main doors. Harlow walks in with her camera bag and a chai. I can practically smell it from here. My mouth guppies as I lose my train of thought, stopping what I was saying mid-sentence about driving the forwards to the outside during a four-dot play.

The other guys follow my gaze. A few of them chuckle as if they recognize that this woman leaves me speechless.

Sweaty and wrung out, I want nothing more than to peel off my practice gear because it’s suddenly hot in here.

“So, who was that? Your fan club?” Dawson asks .

“My best friend.”

“Hmm. Right. Sure. She’s been admiring the goods. Taking pictures,” Noah waggles his eyebrows.

It’s too much to explain that photography is part of her therapy. But is it still, considering we skated yesterday? That’s progress, right?

Dan puffs his lips. “Pfft. You’re just friends. Like I buy that.”

I prefer the typical locker room trash talk over how exposed this conversation makes me feel. Good thing hockey players wear thick pads and body armor.

Scotty drops his big mitt on my shoulder. “A few of us are heading to the Maple Fest this weekend. You and your girlfriend should join us.”

“She’s his best friend,” Dawson singsongs.

“Men and women cannot only be best friends without it becoming something more.” As always, Troy speaks with authority.

Exactly. Couldn’t agree more. Yet I’m trying.

They debate the guy-girl friends or more theory, making science-backed claims, trying to one-up each other with examples of how it fails.

Every. Single. Time.

But as the week passes, Harlow and I slide back into business as usual in our friendship. Except when we sit up late into the night in front of the fire chatting. But we’ve always done that. However, we never shared a blanket. It was chilly post-practice—sometimes the ice just gets into the bones. She was cold. I offered the fleece.

We also text throughout the day. Again, not entirely new, but the gifs and silly memes are next level like we can’t stand to be apart. And Harlow has gone shopping for me a few times—totally not her thing, but now I have a nice collection of flannel shirts and warm socks. Score!

I can’t help but feel like we’ve smudged the lines.

That night, when I get back from evening practice, the house smells like cornbread and chili. In other words, the scent of home.

Harlow is at the sink, washing a pan. She smiles brightly when I enter. Then her eyebrow pitches when she spots my duffel slung over my shoulder. Spinning her hand in a circle, I obey the no stinky hockey gear in the house rule, and stash it in the garage.

When I get back inside, she’s drying the pan and I fight the urge to rush close, slip my arms around her from behind, kiss a trail from her temple to her neck, and then spin her around for more.

I eye the meal spread out on the table. “It smells so good and looks delicious.”

“I thought my Okla homie might like a taste of home after a long day.”

“Chili and cornbread. The only thing missing is Francine Willoby’s peach and pecan cobbler with fresh cream.”

Harlow’s eyes flutter. “I lived for that stuff in the summer.”

I tell a story about how Jonah Wilson and I tried to sell Mrs. Willoby a tall tale about how we needed it for medicinal purposes because of food allergies.

She giggles. “I thought I knew everything about you. I don’t think you ever told me that story.”

“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” I wink.

“Speaking of tricks . . .” She slouches in the chair. “I need a miracle. The last week has been great, but I can’t stop thinking about the wreckage that’s become my life.”

“How so?”

“No job, for starters.”

“Anything else?” I’m afraid she’s going to comment on no boyfriend, as in she’s lamenting the loss of Chad-Phoenix, or worse, no best friend.

“No. I suppose not. But what am I doing with myself? I can’t only explore Maple Falls all day and watch you play hockey.”

“And take photos.”

“I don’t foresee myself becoming a professional photographer.”

“What about your book?”

“I wrote a scene yesterday, but that’s for therapeutic purposes. I have to admit, it’s gotten a lot better. Still, I have no aspirations to become a writer.”

“And your dream?”

She waves her hand dismissively.

“Loose leaf tea merchant by day, roller derby queen by night. Sounds good to me.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“The team? I’m still debating.” Wavering is more like.

“I liked our romantic getaway weekend bliss bubble better than real life.”

Hope surges like an ice-white flame. “Yeah. Me too.”

I definitely don’t want to think about real life, especially not about the repeated messages my brother has left me. He’s in trouble, but I can’t keep bailing him out. I expect my mother will call any day, asking me to help. That’s code for giving him a large sum of money because he spent his on something stupid and probably illegal .

But if I want a future, especially with Harlow, I can’t keep enabling him, draining my account, and then having him repeat the whole ordeal several months later.

But I’m not sure what’ll happen if I don’t. The whole thing makes my gut churn.

The snow is gone and autumn is back in full force with colorful leaves, and crisp air scented with wood smoke and pine. Harlow and I drive into town.

“I’m loving this sweater weather. Maple Falls, you’re cute.” She scrunches her nose with delight at the pumpkins on the stoops of houses and dried corn wreaths on doors. Even the lantern posts along the main street Maple Road sport autumnal banners.

“Did you catch the sign on the way in?” I ask.

She bumps my shoulder with her head. “I guess they’re right. I never want to leaf.”

We laugh and for an amount of time I can’t quite measure, I see our lives, knit together in a way that makes us more than friends.

After we park—Maple Fest is packed—Harlow waits for me on the sidewalk and it’s like I see her for the first time all over again. Who’s that beauty wearing a slate gray off-the-shoulder sweater, dark jeans, her usual lace-up boots, and a few layers for later if it gets chilly? Oh, right. My Okla homie .

Yes, I’ve started noticing everything about her like a love-sick teenager. But I tell myself that we’re just friends meeting up with other friends for a festive afternoon and evening. We find some of the guys from the hockey team at the merch table for the Ice Breakers.

Standing next to his publicity person Blair, Cooper frowns like she just told him he can’t have any cotton candy.

Fans and a few women who’ve been making appearances at the rink more often clamor around. I also recognize Keira from the farmers’ market and Emmy from Falling into Books. We mingle and chat. I get wrangled into signing some gear and chatting with fans.

Coach Badaszek would have kittens over this team bonding and community-building activity. Half the time I’m convinced he has a crystal ball and knows what I’ll regret in the future, namely throwing my time away on cheap thrills instead of seeking things that are more meaningful and lasting. Yeah, I pay some attention to his locker room lectures.

After a happy hug, Harlow catches up with her cousin Angel and Willa.

When I’m done, I find myself by her side. Like a magnet. Glue. A moth to a flame. Combine the three and you get me.

“There you are. Thought I lost you to the Puck Bunnies. What’s on the itinerary first?” Harlow asks.

“Dawson said a hayride to an apple orchard might be fun,” Emmy says.

“I did?” he asks.

Her cheeks tint as if she’s imagining a romantic scene in a book.

“It’s adjacent to the pumpkin patch,” Angel adds .

“There’s also a corn maze and a haunted house,” says Keira.

Ever so subtly, Scotty shifts closer to Angel. They’re both single parents and their kids goof around like they’ve known each other all their lives.

The other guys from the team banter while the ladies chatter. I tell myself we’re just a group of friends like back in college—except our high school and college friends are mostly married now.

Harlow and I defied the odds, proving that we’re just friends. Except when everyone pairs off for the carnival rides, it’s us clinging to each other on the Sizzler. We also share a churro. Then I sneakily purchase another one to give to her later—Harlow gets snacky at night.

“So how long have you two known each other?” asks Blair, a publicist, whose gaze rarely leaves Cooper.

“Since grade school,” Harlow answers.

“But we became better friends in high school,” I add.

“High school sweethearts?” Ellie chimes in.

We both balk, tucking our chins and shaking our heads. My ears heat. Harlow’s cheeks pink up. I tell myself it’s the setting autumn sun.

“No, we’re best friends,” Harlow says.

“Just friends, huh?” Noah chuckles.

“Yes, and guys and girls can just be friends. Why is that so hard for people?” Harlow mutters.

“Yep, just friends,” I repeat, hoping that if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.

We load up on apple cider doughnuts, pumpkin pinwheels, and warm cider. Basically apple cider everything at this booth—with flavors that are a close cousin to the churro, Harlow is here for it .

There are also brats, Italian sausages, pretzels with cheese, potato pancakes, and grilled corn on the cob.

Harlow says, “This maple cider rivals chai.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.”

She smirks. I know her so well.

“Who’s going in the haunted house?” Scotty asks.

“Everyone,” I say.

A few in our crew murmur dissent, including Cooper and Blair. But with Zach leading the way, the rest of us follow as dusk settles over Maple Falls, the quaintest little town by day. But this big field and the old farmhouse are eerie in the falling light even with the nearby carnival. Then again, I suppose that’s the point.

We buy tickets for admission and get in line. A few of the guys tease each other about who’s a scaredy cat. Turns out, I am of losing Harlow.

When we get to the front of the line, the group falls quiet. Putting on a brave face, I joke about zombies and tell the massage parlor horror story, leaving everyone in stitches.

Meanwhile, Harlow stares down the haunted house. Plywood covers some of the windows. Others are broken. The siding falls loose in some places, and I can count the shingles on the roof. Big cobwebs cover the rafters on the porch.

I’ll admit that it’s well done, but also kind of corny. Though there’s no denying that Harlow is spooked and sticks close as we enter to ghoulish sounds, odd clicks and clanks, and the buzz of a chainsaw. She’s never been a fan of horror movies, even though we all know it’s movie magic and special effects .

A woman dressed in black with stringy hair greets us, saying, “Enter if you dare.” Then she cackles.

Not going to lie, shivers run along my spine.

Something brushes Harlow as we pass through the main door. She yelps and clutches my arm. She doesn’t let go as we make our way slowly through each room, spookier than the last with strobe lights, coffins, creepy dolls, and flickering candlelight.

There are mummies and zombies, ghouls and werewolves. Dry ice wafts fog everywhere. Harlow grips my hand tighter with every turn we take. The rest is a blur because she’s so close and this might be the last time for a while.

But when we get back outside—thankfully, alive—she doesn’t let go.

The rest of our group is somber after the spooky experience until I say, “I challenge all of you to a pumpkin bowling contest.”

Everyone is game and we parade away from the spooky scene and toward the happier sounds of the festival.

I lean into Harlow, and say, “I hear there’s a lantern release later. You know, the glowing luminaries that look like a million stars in the sky.” Her expression eases slightly, and I add, “I’ll admit that I’m more of a fan of that than the murder house we barely survived.”

Cue the laughter and Harlow’s smile. It’s like she realizes she can always count on me. If only we were more than just friends.