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This is going to be a great home for us and for as many little Hayes people as Beck and I want.

Home. Our Home.

Chapter twenty-one

Beck

Thegrassisfreshlycut, the scent of it still clinging to the air as I kick off my shoes and plant my bare feet on the cool earth. The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long golden streaks across the fields that stretch beyond the fence line. This land—myland, noourland—feels wide and quiet and good.

The old farmhouse behind me creaks as it always does when the wind shifts. I’ve lived here for a few weeks now, just me and the three cats who I find sprawled on windowsills or prowling the creaky floorboards like they’re patrolling a castle. I’m still getting used to the quiet. The kind that isn’t filled with shouting coaches, slamming locker doors, or the buzz of planes and press conferences.

This is the best of both worlds. I love the ice; it’s been my world for decades. But now when I get home, I can leave that behind and simply enjoy the quiet.

It’s a good kind of quiet to come home to. But it’s still alonelyquiet.

Today though, the place is alive. Voices float on the breeze—laughing, teasing, clinking glasses, kids shrieking with delight. For the first time since I signed the papers and moved in, this place feels like a home instead of just a house with potential.

I glance toward the oak tree in the center of the front yard. The picnic table is loaded with food—Quinn’s cinnamon rolls, Abby’s lemonade, a suspiciously overdecorated fruit salad that I’m guessing came from Jane. My mom has taken over the grill, swatting my dad away with a spatula every time he tries to flip something.

Abby’s sitting on a blanket with Jake, pointing out cloud shapes while Spotty tries to crawl directly into her lap. Jake’s already smeared chocolate across his shirt, and I’m pretty sure Spotty got ahold of a hot dog when no one was looking.

I can’t stop looking at them.That’s what a home really looks like.

Across the yard, Wes is pacing the edge of the fence like he’s trying to work up the nerve to go into overtime in game seven. Quinn’s watching him with that no-nonsense stare she reserves for patients and stubborn older sisters.

Then I hear it, her voice, clear and sharp through the early evening hush.

“Are you going to pace there all night, or are you going to say something to me, Wes Archer?”

He freezes like he’s taken a puck to the chest. I can’t hear everything from here, but I can see the tension in his shoulders shift when Quinn steps closer. Their silhouettes soften in the porch light. Then—finally—Wes moves.

The kiss comes like the break of a storm. Long overdue. Quiet at first. Then all-consuming.

I grin and shake my head.About darn time.

Nearby, Griffin whistles low. “Didn’t think Wes had it in him.”

He’s standing with Jane beneath the strings of hanging lights we put up yesterday. She has her arms folded, but there’s a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“People surprise you,” she says.

Griffin nods slowly, then glances sideways at her like he’s trying to memorize her exact profile in this light. There’s something different in his expression—less cocky, more careful. He starts to say something, but then just shrugs and looks away.

Jane doesn’t.She watches him. Really watches.

The slow burn between them flickers brighter for a moment.

***

The next hour brings scads of others: friends, acquaintances and so many hockey players I can’t keep count. For a few hours it’s bedlam in our house and yard. There are games and impromptu sport challenges, tours of the barns and grounds, a miraculous amount of food consumed, and finally goodbyes from most.

As dusk settles, Jake and I gather blankets and lay them out near the fire pit. I keep a mental checklist running—extra cider warming on the stove, cocoa packets within reach, marshmallows for the kids. I’m not used to playing host for such a huge crowd like this, and I want it to be perfect. For Abby. For Jake.

Because even if they haven’t moved in yet, I want them to know they belong here.

I still live here alone, and the upstairs bedroom has only my things. The guest room is made up, but empty except for Mom and Dad’s overnight things.

The walls still echo more than they should. But when Abby and Jake are here, the placefeels full.