Chapter 18

Aaron

I grit my teeth as I watch them with their signs held high, squawking at anyone who dares to try and enter the Tiger's Den. My hands clench into fists at my sides. Enough is enough. Starla doesn't deserve this.

With every shout they hurl, the muscles in my jaw tick. Starla’s deflated green eyes flash in my mind. They think they're protecting some outdated virtue, but all they're doing is smothering freedom and love under the guise of morality.

I turn on my heel, the rage propelling me forward with purpose. I don't head towards The Penalty Box to drown my sorrows in alcohol, nor do I slink back to my apartment to brood. No, not happening.

Instead, I go home, my mind racing faster than my feet. As soon as the door slams behind me, I'm on the phone, rallying troops from every corner of our small town. I call the guys from the ice rink, the off-duty paramedics, even those who spend their days tending to horses at the Outlook Horse Ranch. Each conversation is a lit match, igniting the same fire in others that's burning through my veins.

"Starla needs us," I command.

So, plans are hatched, alliances forged in the late hours of night. I lay out a strategy, piecing together a coalition united for one cause.

Dawn breaks, and I stand alone in my living room, surrounded by poster boards and markers. There's no second-guessing, no hesitation. Today, we take a stand for Starla. Today, we show her that she's not alone. Then, I gather my sign and head out the door.

As I approach the Tiger's Den, I see them—just as I'd expected—the protesters are back, their picket signs waving above their heads as they march in front of Starla's shop.

I take up my position, holding my own sign high and proud for all to see.

"I love Starla" it boldly proclaims, my heart pounding in my chest as I stand my ground.

One by one, they appear – every hockey player and coach, off-duty paramedic, fireman, and policeman, all joining me, ready to show their support for Starla and her shop. The sight of them is touching.

"Hey Aaron!" calls out Mike, a fellow paramedic, as he walks up to my side, his own sign held firmly in his hands.

"Thanks for coming, man," I reply, truly grateful for his presence.

"Wouldn't miss it," he assures me.

As our numbers swell, we form a united front against the protesters, their signs that read, “We love Starla and Tigers Den.”

Soon, the taunts from the older women are drowned out by our collective voices blending together in a chant.

"Starla! Starla! We're here for you!"

"Starla! Starla! We're here for you!" We continue to chant, our voices growing louder and more powerful with each repetition.

The old ladies' faces frown as their own high-pitched yells are all but silenced by our unified support.

There’s a sense of satisfaction in seeing my plan come to fruition. I knew I had to take action – not just for her and our relationship’s sake, but for the entire community that benefits from her shop.

As our chants persist, I change my words to try to call for her to come outside. She needs to see this, to see how she is supported by so many.

The front door of Tiger's Den creaks open hesitantly. Starla peeks her head out, her green eyes scanning the scene from one end of the sidewalk to the other. I imagine she's trying to make sense of the spectacle out here.

"Starla!" I yell.

A hesitant smile forms on her lips, her expression shifting from wariness to something resembling hope. It's all I need to know that my efforts have made a difference for Starla and Tiger's Den.

"Come see this," I say with a wide smile.

She hesitates for a moment, gripping the doorframe tightly, as if afraid to let go. I reach out my hand, offering her both support and reassurance.

"Trust me," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the chants of our friends and neighbors.

Slowly, she takes my hand, letting the door close behind her. As we walk together down the sidewalk, I can feel her tension easing. Her grip on my hand tightens ever so slightly, a silent thank you that resonates deep within me.

"You're not alone in this, Star," I tell her, gesturing to the sea of familiar faces surrounding us. They hold their signs high in support.

Her eyes well up with tears. There’s a huge sense of pride, knowing that I've played a part in bringing our community together to support her.

"Thank you, Aaron," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I didn't know how much I needed this until now."

"Neither did I," I admit, feeling a knot form in my throat. "But I couldn't stand by and watch you suffer any longer."

“You’re not just a hockey hero, Aaron; you’re my hero,” she confesses.

I drop my sign and pull her into my arms. Our lips meet in a kiss that feels like coming home. The people gathered on the sidewalk break into applause so loud it rivals the sound of an arena during a championship win.