3. Harlow

CHAPTER 3

HARLOW

T he intense look Teddy gives me sends a little tumble through my stomach. Must be because his head was deep in the game and he had to switch modes on the spot, going from hockey life to civilian life.

He spins, the number fifty-eight on the back of his jersey a blur, then opens the hidden half door in the dasher board and takes off his helmet, shaking out his long, floppy hair. When it’s short, it’s curly like mine but lighter. Now, it’s past his shoulders in what hockey guys (and fans) call perfect flow.

Tugging on it, I say, “It’s longer than last time I saw you, Hot Shot.”

His pouty lower lip drops. “That means it’s been too long, Shorty.”

Arms wide, he pulls me to his chest. Even though he’s been working hard on the ice, I still get a tease of his clean cotton and man scent combo.

Teddy is a solid mass of muscle and tall at about six foot two inches. In skates, he towers over me, hence the nickname. The bear hug I get is the best. I didn’t realize how much I needed one.

When we part, he says, “My favorite Okla homie is here in Washington.” He emphasizes the homie part, meaning we’re friends from the same home state.

“I think we’ve met up in at least half the states,” I say.

“That reminds me, I have something for you. Don’t let me forget.”

“A present? You shouldn’t have,” I say flatly because he knows I’m not the greatest fan of gifts. I feel awkward and never know what to say. It’s his love language, not mine.

He flashes his trademark carefree, flirty smile. “I know. How was your flight? Did my favorite spitfire get anyone kicked off the plane?”

“In fact, a person in the seat in front of me thought it was okay to play their ‘therapy music’ at full volume.”

“Therapy music, like an emotional support squirrel?”

“Exactly. It was bass-heavy with lots of profanity and unkind sentiments. Turns out they recorded the tracks on their computer and wanted to introduce the passengers to Magma Rocket, what with the captive audience and all.”

Teddy nods, getting the picture. “I take it you weren’t a fan.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate music, but not at full volume while sealed in a flying tube for several hours.”

“Sounds like torture.”

“When the flight attendant was unable to get them to use headphones or turn it off, I turned it down.”

Teddy leans in, eyes widening. “Of course you did.”

“When they turned it back up, I rolled their speaker down the aisle to the back of the plane. ”

“You are the original old man, telling pesky kids to get off his lawn. Except for the man part. You’re definitely not that.”

I roll my eyes. “So good of you to notice.”

It’s probably because Teddy was just skating, but his ears are pink.

“They put the music louder. Meanwhile, two babies were crying at the top of their lungs because the sound was so aggressive. An elderly woman was in tears because the language was offending her sensibilities, and the flight crew were handing out earplugs.”

“Don’t tell me you?—?”

“I took their phone and turned it off. Not surprisingly, they demanded it back. I tried to play nice. Negotiate a peace deal. When they took a swing, I stomped that thing, shattering the glass. A small riot broke out with other passengers getting the courage to take action. The men took turns—and the elderly woman—stamping the phone to smithereens. The captain had to put a stop to it, but then thanked me because he thought there was a problem with the plane when the music first came on.”

“That’s my girl. Vigilante justice.”

I make a show of dusting off my shoulders. “That’s just how I roll.”

“That should be your roller derby name instead of Hurricane Harlow.”

“Then it wouldn’t fit with the Tulsa Twisters team name.”

Teddy sings the tune to our song. “Ice Ice Baby.”

I sing back and do a little shiver dance.

It’s an inside joke dating back to our freshman year in college—along with a deep treasury of Princess Bride movie references because yeah, I guess I can be chilly at times.

“You won’t believe it, but it’s also the Ice Breaker’s team song,” Teddy says.

Taking my hand, he twirls me under his arm like we’re dancing. Then he stomps his skate as if stamping on a cell phone.

I tip my head back with laughter. He’s such a goof, but so fun—blue sky and sunshine in my otherwise cloudy life.

Someone on the team hollers to him for an assist and he turns back to the ice. But first, he points at himself, then me, and mouths, You, me, and My Big Fat Burrito .

At least, I think that’s what I think he says. I can’t be sure because it’s pretty obscure and random even though it was our favorite burrito joint owned by Jenny and Eddy Perez back in Tulsa.

After the eventful flight, I catch the end of a kids’ skating class, reminding me of when I was a little girl. They call the woman Miss Ellie. I admire her smooth movements and the way she glides with immense talent. The other adult out there, whose playful attitude makes me think he’s a big kid, is Troy. I vaguely recall Teddy once mentioning he was a force to be reckoned with before retiring. He seems to have hung up his jersey and is making good use of his time here in Maple Falls.

After the Zamboni resurfaces the ice, I’m more than happy to sit back and watch the guys practice. I don’t know too much about this charity team, but it sounds like the proceeds will go to a good cause. Despite my dislike for loud music on airplanes—rude much?—I’m not a total grump. Okay, I probably am, but I’m happy to support Happy Horizons, a children’s charity.

Pulling my hat a little lower on my ears, I sit back and watch Teddy. I’ve seen tons of his games and observe that he’s taking it easy, holding back, and getting a feel for the other guys since they’re new to playing together.

But I know, and likely they do too, that when he’s on the ice, he has a berserk button. Though, he isn’t as much of an animal as his brother—the guy went full polar bear back in the day.

After a perfect deke—an evasive decoy move—he passes the puck to a guy with the name Roberts across the back of his jersey. Teddy skates toward me before stopping short, sending ice chips against the boards and plexiglass.

My instinct is to flinch, but I laugh and take out my camera. If he’s going to show off, I’m going to capture it.

I’m not a professional photographer or even an amateur. Taking pictures is part of my therapy program. For a while, I entertained getting a therapy animal but didn’t think Leo the Leopard Gecko would appreciate sharing my attention—which is spotty. Ha. I crack myself up. See? Grumpy people can have a sense of humor too.

Teddy must notice me snapping away because he hollers, “Aren’t you supposed to be taking photos of water with that thing?”

“Ice counts.” Ice was the start of the problem.

Looking through the viewfinder, I get a close-up of his face.

Trademark carefree, flirty smile, check.

Intense gaze, check.

Pouty lips, check.

Teddy is a Ryan Phillippe in his prime lookalike. When he turns, showing off with some slick skating moves, I get one of his hockey butt and tell myself it’s for Jill.

While I sympathize with the person on the airplane and their “therapy music,” because of my therapy photography, if they genuinely needed it to fly, they would not have traumatized the rest of the passengers and simply used earbuds.

Teddy stops in front of the boards, eyebrow arched.

My cheeks warm as if he caught me red-handed. “To answer your question about me taking pictures of ice, technically, ice is a form of water.”

“Fair point. How’s the book coming?”

“Same as last time you asked.” I twirl a curl.

“So it’s not.” His gaze softens when mine does the opposite. “You know I only ask because I want you out here with me.”

“I don’t think I’m authorized or skilled enough to be out there with you.” I gesture to the rest of the team, taking a water break.

“You know what I mean.”

I do, but it’s not something I want to think about, ever. Hence the ongoing therapy, over a dozen years later. Plus, I still skate, but on a wooden rink with roller skates rather than on blades and ice.

“Knock knock,” Teddy says.

I cock my head.

He winks. “Just play along. Think of it as a form of therapy so you don’t have an aversion to knock-knock jokes.”

Classic Teddy, doing his best to make me laugh after Chad-Phoenix’s not-so-artful method of telling me things were over between us. I know he’s not undermining my actual therapy modality, but doing what he always does—being the best of friends.

“Let’s try again. Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” I ask, my tone flat, feigning annoyance.

“Ice.”

“Ice who?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest and cocking a hip.

“Ice Breakers are here to crush it!” He lifts his stick and skates in a small circle.

The guys cheer.

Of course, I laugh. Let’s be real, any knock-knock joke about hockey coming out of the mouth of Ted “The Bear” Powell is hilarious because, to most of the world, it’s the last thing they’d expect from such a tough player. For me, it’s normal.

He returns to the team and I watch, letting my thoughts settle. Instead of rehashing everything that happened with Chad-Phoenix and then Penn—so not worth my time—I sit with why I won’t get on the ice with Teddy, not even during free skate hours.

Before I arrive at an answer, with a wide smile, my friend Willa Blackwell from college waves. It should be one of those out-of-context moments, but we already had one when we ran into each other at the park with an excited What are you doing here? No, what are you doing here? exchange. Willa has always been there when I’ve needed her and she’s been a key player in my healing journey and knows all about the accident.

We exchange a hug and she eyes my camera on the nearby seat.

I harrumph. “Still working through it.” But I don’t shrink from ice as much as I used to. Getting into the water beyond a daily shower is another story.

“Look at you over here, snapping away,” Willa says.

More like watching Teddy, but still. When he leveled up in college, I couldn’t very well skip his games. But being in an arena is a big deal and shows how far I’ve come.

“Ice is progress,” she says even though we both know my real fear is water in general.

Willa is well aware that I fell through the ice back in high school when Teddy, his brother, and a bunch of our friends were skating on a lake that we thought was frozen solid.

When I left home for college to study law, I started getting nightmares of drowning. My therapist said it was likely induced by stress, so we took a threefold approach. I take photos of water in all its forms, working my way toward ice—even if I never plan to ice skate again.

Rationally, I know I can’t drown in an ice skating rink. It’s the nightmares and fears that are the problem. I also write, working through what happened in fiction—fantasy, mostly.

Both of these methods create a layer of separation between me and my fear of water or drowning. The third is our now monthly meetings. Thanks to the support of friends like Teddy and Willa, I can cope much better than I used to when my appointments were weekly.

Since there was no time to fill Willa in on recent events when we ran into each other at the park, I tell all, including the breakup and leaving my job.

With an exaggerated dropping of her jaw, she says, “A text breakup? That’s cold. ”

“Those were Teddy’s words too.”

“But he’s hot,” she singsongs.

First, Jill now her? Sure, he’s hot in a conventional kind of way—if you’re attracted to guys with a chiseled jaw, full lips, muscles for days, and a certain glint in their eyes.

Pshaw. Not me.

“I heard you giggle earlier before I realized it was you over here, all bundled up. You giggle around him,” Willa says.

“I do not.” I slap my hand over my mouth to stop any traitorous sounds from escaping.

She laughs like the joke is on me.

“We’re best friends, and we made our vows.”

Her head snaps with a double take. “You made what?”

I belatedly realize what that sounds like. “Not those kinds of vows. We agreed that we’d never date each other’s siblings. My sister is a Trojan Horse wrapped up in head-turning beauty and his brother is nothing but brutish trouble. Obviously, that means we wouldn’t date each other either.”

Willa smirks. “Uh-huh. Right. So, tell me more about this romantic weekend getaway for two.”

We spend the rest of the practice chatting, catching up, and I hear about what brought Willa to Maple Falls. Unlike me, she still has a job.

She says, “The PR firm brought me in to shoot the events.”

I tip my head, not fully following. “The events?”

She draws an oval in the air, gesturing to our general surroundings. “The charity team, some big player comebacks, a hometown hero, and a cause that only a monster wouldn’t agree is near and dear to their heart. ”

We talk about Happy Horizons, an organization that supports children. It turns out my cousin Angel Davis, who very well may be an actual angel, runs it. I always knew she had a heart of gold, but this solidifies it with her doing such amazing work for kids.

“Teddy did this out of the kindness of his heart? Classic Teddy,” I mutter.

Willa’s eyebrows dip. “I’ve read the player profiles so I can capture who they are on film, and, um, Ted, seems like a real bear.”

I can’t help smirk. Not my Teddy. But I keep that to myself.

Willa and I talk some more about photography, catch each other up on life, including my recent disasters, and intermittently watch the guys. Despite her history with Noah, from what I’ve seen, the guy is a total cinnamon roll. We both know all too well that looks can be deceiving, but I can’t help but notice the sizzling little slant of her eyes when Noah glides by.

After Teddy’s ice time, I meet him outside the locker room. The arena is notable with its grandeur, but Teddy is a hockey-hunk sight to behold. I mean, you can’t help but notice his strong stature with firm muscles. Just saying.

I can’t even see his butt in his baggy shorts. Sheesh. Don’t hassle me.

Unlike Chad-Phoenix with his lanky yoga bod, wispy man bun, and insistence on going barefoot because he had to “resonate with the earth,” Teddy with his damp hair peeking out from under his knit cap that matches mine is like getting an upgrade from the very last row in coach to first class—no therapy music on board. Not that my best friend is boyfriend material. But he and I vibe with each other rather than with the dirt on the ground.

Teddy casts his trademark carefree grin my way.

My breath stalls. Must be this high elevation.

“Ready to whisk me away to that romantic cabin?” he asks.

My laughter in response is dry and not at all giggly. Teddy does not make me giggle.

To be clear, I’m laughing as one normally would as we ride through town and he tells me about some of the guys on the team, how they’re already ribbing each other—standard bonding procedure for hockey players—and how a fan reported they recently put Teddy’s name down under his interests on a job resume. The good news is he was hired because the boss is a die-hard Rebels fan, a Knights enemy, and wanted to gloat when they win without The Bear playing this season. He laughs like it doesn’t bother him, but I know he hates being off the ice.

The town sign welcomes visitors with the tag line Maple Falls, You’ll Never Want to Leave . There are some maple leaves painted on it and I have a little chuckle.

After passing through the downtown area of Maple Falls, which I cannot wait to check out after city-living for so long, we reach a more residential street with houses spaced relatively closely together before spreading out as we approach the foot of the mountains.

“You sure this place is up here?” Teddy asks.

I check the email from the getaway booking company. “They said it’s a quarter-mile walk to town.”

“Must be the very edge of town.”

This far north, autumn is underway and a gust of wind sends red maple leaves raining down around us. Just on the other side of the leaf shower, I spot the sign leading to a small A-frame building perched among evergreens.

“The Heart Haven Cabin,” I read.

Teddy pulls up an inclined driveway and pulls the safety brake. A woman with tufty gray-blonde short curls and wearing a brown sweater with a heart on the front waves from the front porch.

“That must be Kay Cagle, the owner. I was told she’d have the key and show us around,” I explain.

The second we open the SUV’s doors, she launches into an excited welcome. Her enthusiasm is too much for me at this time of day . . . or anytime.

“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Lemieux. I’m Kay Cagle and you’ve arrived at Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin.” She leans in. “The name The Love Shack was taken, and I like to think this cottage is a bit nicer than a shack. Carl and I used to spend summers here, but when he passed, I didn’t want to come up alone. The idea to rent it out to love birds like yourselves came to me in a dream. Can you believe that? I think Carl had something to do with it, but who knows how those kinds of things work.” She laughs.

“Chad-Phoenix would tell you,” I mutter.

“What was that, dear?” Kay asks.

“Oh, nothing.” I hope Teddy didn’t hear me either. I’m not hung up on my ex, not at all. More like bitter that I gave him one moment of my time. Why would I date someone I didn’t like? Another question surfaces, demanding answers. Why did I stay at a job I hated for so long?

The wind dusts up some dead, brown leaves, sending the truth dangerously close. Anything having to do with work is the one place in my life where I still obey my parents, er, parent, but that’s because my mother says it’s what Dad would want . . . and dating Chad-Phoenix was intended to strengthen the firm by uniting our families.

And the truth is, despite appearances or assumptions people have about me, I don’t want to be alone either.

Mrs. Cagle says, “I am so glad to have you stay here for the weekend. The cabin is also available as a long-term rental should you fall in love. Well, of course, you’re already in love, but I mean with the amenities, the view, Maple Falls?—”

Kay’s comment catches up with me. I point to Teddy and then myself. “Oh, we’re not in love.”

“But you’re our romantic weekend getaway guests, staying in Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin. There’s a jacuzzi.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“We’re friends,” Teddy says with a little more force than seems necessary.

“Just friends. Best friends,” I reiterate.

Kay looks at us for a long moment as if trying to figure out whether we’re teasing. Then, wearing a smile I can’t quite read, she chuckles. “We’ll see how long that lasts. But what do I know? I married my high school sweetheart, and we were together for fifty-two years.” She turns to open the door.

This ordinarily would be an instance when Teddy and I exchange a knowing look—my gaze would dart in his direction, his eyes would sparkle, and we’d stifle laughter. Probably he’d start coughing to cover it up. I’d choke mine down.

But we avoid eye contact entirely.