Page 6

Chapter Six

Sophia

I step onto Main Street, and for a second, I feel like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a holiday postcard.

The entire town square is lit up like something out of a Hallmark movie, with strings of golden fairy lights crisscrossing above me and everything around me covered in a warm, festive glow.

Delicate snowflakes drift down from the darkening slate-gray sky, settling like powdered sugar across the worn cobblestones beneath the clocktower. A gust of wind carries the aroma of chestnuts crackling in their iron pans from the stalls just inside the entrance, while cinnamon-dusted pastries steam on wooden vendor carts.

Kids dart between booths, laughing and tossing snowballs behind their parents backs, their mittens flying off as they pelt each other with no sign of remorse. Couples wander hand-in-hand, wrapped in oversized scarves and puffy coats, sipping from steaming cups of hot chocolate.

It’s perfect.

Too perfect.

A little too wholesome for a girl who’s spent her entire career in cold, high-rise boardrooms, where the only thing festive about winter is the overpriced champagne at corporate holiday parties.

This? This is over-the-top small-town magic.

And maybe… just maybe… I kind of love it.

“Overwhelmed already?”

I turn to see Natalie Hayes, Icehawks’ lead physical therapist, grinning at me from beneath the hood of her sleek, cream-colored puffer jacket. Her emerald green eyes practically sparkle under the glow of the winter festival lights, and she’s clutching a to-go cup of cider that smells incredible, looking completely in her element.

“Oh my… I’m so glad I ran into you today,” I say, flashing Natalie a grateful smile. “I was fully prepared to wander around this place alone like some lost tourist.”

I tuck my gloved hands deeper into my coat pockets, inhaling the crisp winter air.

She smirks, adjusting her grip on her cup of cider. “Yeah, no offense, but you totally look like a lost tourist.”

I huff out a laugh. “Not my fault this town looks like it was built for a Christmas movie."

Natalie looks at the scene in front of us. "It kinda is, isn't it?"

I smile, but the truth is, I really am relieved I ran into her earlier.

It had happened by accident. Natalie and I ran into each other where she was patching up bruises from last night’s game, and she’d casually mentioned she’d be heading to the festival. When she’d invited me along, I hesitated. Small-town events aren’t exactly my scene, but something about her easy, friendly energy had me saying yes before I could overthink it.

“Come on, corporate girl. First rule of the Frost & Fire Festival: You have to get a hot chocolate before anything else.”

We weave through the bustling festival market, dodging bundled-up families and groups of teenagers huddled together under strings of twinkling white lights.

Natalie steers us toward a wooden booth with a hand-painted sign that reads Maggie’s Famous Hot Cocoa , but the line is at least ten people deep.

She sighs dramatically. “Figures. Everyone loses their minds over Maggie's hot chocolate.”

I shove my gloved hands deeper into my pockets. “It better be worth it.”

“Oh, it is. Maggie puts something extra in there." Natalie looks me over, a studying gaze. "So, how is everything going? Everyone's been talking about you."

The line shuffles forward, and Natalie tugs off one of her gloves, blowing warm air into her palm.

I shrug, shifting my weight as I glance around the festival. “It’s different. I’m used to bigger markets, bigger budgets, bigger teams, a whole lot more red tape.”

Natalie hums knowingly. “Well, welcome to Iron Ridge. We do things a little differently around here.”

I arch a brow. “Like mandatory winter festivals?”

“Like embracing winter festivals.” She winks, then cocks her head. “I heard your mom’s a sports agent. That must’ve been cool growing up.”

I snort. “Cool isn’t the word I’d use. More like intense .”

Her eyes brighten like she's about to ask more, but before she can, our turn arrives at the counter and she downs the cider in her hand in one giant gulp.

"Wow, impressive," I laugh.

Natalie shrugs it off and grins. "Maggie, this is Sophia. She's new to town."

An older woman, bundled in a thick wool coat, beams at me, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Well then, you’re in for a treat. First-timers get the special cocoa.”

Before I can ask what that means, she pours thick, velvety hot chocolate into two heavy ceramic mugs, steam rising from the surface like something out of a dream. She tops them with an obscene amount of whipped cream, then dusts them with cocoa powder and shavings of dark chocolate. A drizzle of caramel follows, then, because apparently this town does nothing in moderation, a homemade marshmallow, toasted right there on the spot with a tiny blowtorch.

I blink at the masterpiece in front of me. “Jesus. This is a drink?”

Natalie laughs. “No. This isn't just a drink… This is a life-changing drink.”

We step away from the booth, cradling our mugs, and I take my first sip.

Holy. Hell.

It’s like drinking pure, molten bliss. Deep, rich cocoa, the kind that lingers on your tongue with just the right balance of sweet and bitter. The caramel adds a decadent warmth, while the marshmallow melts into the drink, making each sip creamier than the last.

I make a sound that would definitely get this festival slapped with an R-rating. “Okay. Okay . This is ridiculous.”

Natalie smirks. “Told you.”

I take another sip, my shoulders loosening. “So, how long have you been with the Icehawks?”

“Three years,” she says, licking a bit of whipped cream from her lip. “Started as an intern, then they hired me full-time after my physical therapy certification.”

“And you like it?”

She hums, taking another sip of her hot chocolate. “It’s a great team. Great people.”

The way she says it… like there's more she wants to say but doesn't.

Before I can press, the sound of cheers carries from a few yards away. We turn, spotting a small crowd gathered near a blazing hot firepit, where a couple of Icehawks players are chatting with fans, signing autographs, and drinking steaming cups of cider.

Ryder Scott, who I've quickly learned is the team’s golden-boy rookie, is perched on the arm of a wooden bench, laughing as he balances a kid’s tiny mittens on his oversized hands. Logan Kane, built like a brick wall in a parka, is standing with his arms crossed, nodding along as a group of older locals talk animatedly about "the good ol’ days" of Iron Ridge hockey.

And right beside them, Coach Brody is listening intently, a cup of cider in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his coat.

Natalie’s eyes land on him, and for the briefest second, something flickers across her face. I watch as he looks our way and she immediately pretends to be very interested in her hot chocolate again.

My lips curl. Interesting.

"So, you really like working here then?"

Her entire face flames. "I- what? No. Oh god, no. He's my boss."

"Mmm." I lift my brows, playing innocent. "You sure?"

Her eyes dart around like she's searching for an escape route. And when the speaker sparks to life, announcing the start of the hockey game, she's found it.

"Ah! Come on, Blake's team is about to play!"

We drift toward the outdoor practice rink at the back of the festival, the noise of the stalls and conversations surrounding the firepits fading into the background.

Strings of white lights glow over the ice rink, where a team of kids in Icehawks jerseys dart across the rink, sticks clattering as they warm up opposite another team in red jerseys.

Laughter rings out, the kids breath misting in the frigid air as they look like they're having the time of their life.

But I don’t see them.

I see him .

The last time I saw Blake, he was wet, half-naked, and furious.

Now?

He's on one knee, adjusting a boy’s helmet with careful hands. He gives him a firm clap on the shoulder, saying something that must be encouraging, because the kid grins and skates off like he just got handed the Stanley Cup.

I swallow, shifting my weight.

This isn’t the arrogant, grumpy team captain I’ve spent the past week arguing with.

The game starts and Natalie cheers the Icehawks Youth Team from beside me. It's only a friendly game, but the entire town of Iron Ridge is on the side of the makeshift rink, cheering and clapping.

But all I can do, is stare at the man barking out instructions on the other side of the rink.

Blake's wearing a navy Icehawks jacket pulled tight over his broad shoulders, black gloves flexing as he gestures toward the kids, calling out plays in that deep, commanding voice that makes my legs squeeze together. A gray beanie covers his messy blond hair, but I know exactly what it looks like underneath… damp, disheveled from steam, from sweat, from frustration.

From me .

I take a slow sip of my hot chocolate, as if that will extinguish the memory of him stepping toward me last night, of the heat rolling off his damp skin, of his lips hovering so fucking close to mine I could taste his anger.

I tell myself I’m just watching him because it’s work. Because I came to see what this program is really about, just like he told me to.

That’s the only reason I’m staring.

Natalie hums beside me. "You should see him during a real game."

I force myself to blink, my fingers tightening around the paper cup until the cardboard creaks. "Oh, I can imagine."

And I can - all too fucking well.

Because the last time I saw him this intense, this focused, this sharp, he was staring right at me . Telling me to keep my hands off his team, his kids.

But watching him now? Seeing him be this good with them?

I swallow, pressing the rim of the hot chocolate to my lips to mask the way my pulse stutters.

I mean, I wasn't wrong. People would eat this shit up. A star hockey player adored by all his fans, but he's also a proper role model for the kids who love him?

Maybe there’s more to all of this than I realized.

The game flies by.

The kids are fast, darting across the ice with more energy than some pros I’ve seen. Their jerseys are too big, some of them barely keeping their balance, but they’re grinning, fearless, completely in it.

Blake never stops moving. He paces along the boards, calling plays, clapping a kid on the back when they make a good pass, grumbling when they miss an easy shot. He’s firm, but patient.

And somehow, watching him like this makes my chest feel weirdly tight.

"Blake's got ‘em running tight this year," a deep voice rumbles behind me.

I jolt, nearly sloshing what's left of my hot chocolate down my coat.

A broad-shouldered man in a weathered Ridgeview Tavern hoodie stands beside us, his gray eyes crinkled with amusement.

Natalie grins. "Eli! You sneaky old man."

Eli Thompson, Iron Ridge legend. Former Icehawks enforcer turned tavern owner, unofficial mayor of the locker room. I've seen his face plastered on nearly every wall around Icehawk Stadium this week.

He nods at Natalie, then turns to me, assessing. Not unkind, but sharp. Like he’s piecing something together.

"Sophia Hart, right?"

I blink. “Nice to meet you, Eli. I'm surprised you know who I am.”

"Small town, sweetheart. Everyone knows everything."

Natalie rolls her eyes. "Don’t let him scare you. Eli likes to pretend he's mysterious, but really, he’s just nosy as hell."

Eli smirks, then nods toward the rink. "Blake’s done a hell of a job with them, huh?"

Something in his voice makes me hesitate. “He clearly takes it seriously.”

"Yeah, well. He would."

My brows knit together. “Has Blake always run the program?”

Eli’s smirk twitches. "He took it on. I mean, it was basically his destiny to inherit the role that meant so much to him."

Meant so much to him? What's that supposed to mean?

But before I can ask, a loud whistle cuts through the air and a loud cheer goes up around the rink. Applause breaks out and I join in, snapping my head towards the rink and-

Blake's moving towards us, eyes locked onto me like a goddamn missile. "Alright, Ms. Hart. Time for your Iron Ridge initiation."

"Wh-what?"

Blake smirks, but before I can ask what the hell is going on, a snowball hits him square in the chest.

He barely reacts. Just shifts his weight, flicks a speck of ice off his sleeve, and meets my eyes with an unholy amount of smug amusement.

"Get in here! Hope you can dodge, sweetheart!"

Another snowball slams into Blake’s chest.

I swallow, glancing at the ice rink, where kids are already scooping up handfuls of snow that's been dumped in the center of the ice, their playful eyes bright with mischief.

Oh. Oh no.

" I don’t think so ," I say quickly, holding up my hands. "I’m wearing suede."

Blake just grins. A slow, cocky, downright dangerous grin.

"Not for long."