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Chapter Sixteen

Natalie

W hatever heavenly pastry Clara’s baking this morning wraps around me the second I step into Summit Café. The air is warm, thick with espresso and cinnamon, the golden fairy lights twinkling above like always.

Outside, snow drifts past the streetlamps, fogging up the windows in a way that should make everything feel… normal.

My body still hums from last night. Hunter’s arms. His bed. The way he pulled me closer every time I tried—and failed—to retreat to the guest room because I felt like this was all some crazy dream.

I should be thrilled to be here.

A cozy girls’ brunch before the team fly out to Vancouver tonight. Normalcy. Sanity. A reality check after the absolute madness on the rooftop of Icehawk Arena last night.

But I don’t feel normal.

I feel like I’m floating. Like last night cracked open something inside me, and now I don’t know how to shove it all back in.

I spot Lucy and Mia in our usual corner booth, heads bent together in conversation. They wave me over, and I drift across, grateful for the distraction. I need to get my head on straight before I get to the airport.

I plaster a smile on my face and slide into the booth just as Mia’s eyes narrow at me.

“Oh my God,” she says, pointing a perfectly manicured nail at me. “You got laid.”

I choke on the coffee they slide my way.

Lucy gasps. “No.”

Mia’s eyes widen. “ YES. ”

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Can I please finish my latte before you start interrogating me?”

Lucy waves at Clara behind the counter. “Extra shot of espresso for our girl. She’s gonna need it.”

Kill me now.

I eye the mess of half-empty coffee cups and a notebook covered in chaotic scribbles. “What in the hell are you girls doing?”

Sophia appears from the bathroom and slides in beside me. “I've told them. It's a terrible , terrible idea.”

Before I can demand specifics, Lucy slams the notebook shut and grins like she’s just secured world domination.

“I've been put in charge of activities in Vancouver. So, team bonding as per the orders of Sir Gregory and Chief Big Mike.” She leans in, voice brimming with mischief. “Baking. Icehawk themed cookies. We’re doing it.”

I freeze, my entire body recoiling in horror. “I leave you guys alone for one hour, and you decide to let grown men near an oven?!”

Mia smugly stirs her coffee. “Technically, babe, you and Lucy are supervising. Sophia and I aren't even gonna be there. So… it’s your funeral.”

“Oh, perfect.” I drop my head into my hands as Lucy cheerfully starts listing ingredients.

At least they've moved past dissecting my love life.

My mind drifts to Hunter this morning. After our shower together, his hands started shaking while making coffee. Gameday mode had clearly kicked in. Who knew the fearsome Coach Brody could be so adorably anxious about a road trip?

“We’ll need icing, sprinkles, those little silver balls—”

Sophia cuts across Lucy without looking up. “Just so you know… Blake’s going to eat all the batter. So glad I’m skipping this trip.”

My stomach sinks.

“Oh, fuck . Connor is going to set something on fire.” I level a look at Sophia. “Did you check the team insurance, Soph?”

Mia hums into her mocha. “My money’s on Logan losing a finger.”

I groan, rubbing my temples as giggles bubble up in my throat. “Why are we like this?”

Lucy ignores us all and flips to another page of her notebook.

For a second, it’s just warmth. Laughter. The kind of chaotic, unhinged energy that makes me feel like this —these girls, these friendships—are home.

I glance out Summit Café's window at the snow-dusted streets of Iron Ridge. Even with my parents' constant bickering and my grandmother's apartment falling apart, this town is everything to me.

The way the towering peaks of the mountains rise against the morning sky, the way everyone knows your coffee order, the game-day excitement in the air - it's embedded in my bones.

And now? With Hunter's heated looks across crowded rooms and secret rooftop moments under starlit skies… Iron Ridge feels different.

Fuller.

Like maybe I've found someone who sees this place the way I do - not as a stepping stone to somewhere bigger, but as home.

For a split second, I almost forget what’s waiting for me at lunchtime.

Then, I check my watch and sigh. “Alright, I love this absolute shitshow we’re planning, but I gotta go.”

Mia gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Leaving us? For what, exactly?”

“Checking on my apartment. Then lunch at my parents' house before the flight.”

Hunter’s strange expression last night when I mentioned not checking on my apartment has been gnawing at me. And then this morning over breakfast, he casually suggested I probably should stop by before leaving for Vancouver.

I like that he cares. And hate that he's right.

Sophia grimaces. “Oh, yikes. Good luck.”

Lucy clasps my hand dramatically. “Bless your soul.”

Mia solemnly places a sugar packet in my palm. “For your journey.”

I snort, shoving it in my coat pocket like some kind of sacred offering before pushing up from the booth. “Pray for me, girls. Bye.”

The street is eerily quiet as I pull up outside my apartment building. Snow piles along the curb, untouched since the last storm.

It’s been over a week since I was last here. I’ve barely had time to think about it between work, the playoffs, and… well, Hunter. Not that I’ve been in any rush to step foot back inside. I quite enjoy living the high life up in the mountains.

I sigh, gripping my keys as I make my way up the front steps.

Please, for the love of God, let this place still be standing.

The last time I was here, the air was damp, the walls swollen from busted pipes, and my entire life smelled like moldy disappointment.

With dread lodged firmly in my throat, I twist the knob and step inside.

Then stop dead.

Something is off.

The air isn’t thick with humidity. It’s not freezing or damp. It’s… crisp . Dry. There is still mess everywhere , but it's a different kind of mess.

I take another step, my boots scuffing against the floor. And that's when I notice it.

The hardwood isn't just drying. It's almost finished.

My stomach twists.

I fumble for my phone, quickly pulling up the last contractor email. The repairs were supposed to be slow . Hell, they weren't even supposed to have started yet!

My fingers tremble as I scroll through the messages. Mike Peters, the contractor I spoke with last week when he called me out of the blue, had quoted me three months minimum for the work. He was adamant about supply chain issues and crew scheduling.

But the floor beneath my feet tells a different story.

The rich mahogany planks gleam under the afternoon light streaming through my windows. Clean windows. And the floor isn't just patched up—it's been completely replaced.

And it's gorgeous.

I spin in a slow, confused circle, taking in more changes. The water stains that had spread across my ceiling? Gone. Fresh drywall and paint have erased all evidence of the flood.

I exhale a shaky breath, taking another cautious step toward the kitchen where my amazement turns into confusion.

Because while the floor is perfect, the rest of the apartment isn’t.

Cabinet doors are missing. A stack of drawers sits haphazardly in the corner, screws and hinges scattered across the counter. A toolbox, one I don’t recognize, rests near the fridge that's been unplugged and sits at an angle.

A single can of paint sits open on the counter, rollers and trays lined up like someone had been mid-task… and then just stopped .

I rub my temples.

What the hell?

The kitchen was supposed to be untouched. The work order was clear—the flooding only damaged the floors and walls.

No mention of paint. And definitely no mention of someone fixing the window latch that’s been broken for the past three fucking decades .

I step closer, eyes scanning the half-finished work.

The quote Mike sent me had nearly made me cry as it was. Even with my savings and a loan, I was looking at years of payments. There was no way this much had been done in a week.

No way I could afford it.

I crouch down, running my fingers over the smooth new planks, my heart pounding. I know what the work order said. I know what my budget allowed for.

This? This was not supposed to happen.

Did Mike send the wrong crew? Was there some kind of mix-up?

But before I can even unlock my phone to call him and figure all of this out—

brRRING.

The sharp ring slices through the quiet, making me jump. I scramble to pull my phone out of my pocket.

Mom.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Hey, I—”

“ Where are you?! The lamb is getting cold! ”

I blink. “I'm on my way, Mom."

Dad’s voice filters in from the background, deep and grumpy as ever. “It was overcooked the second she said she was coming.”

“ Harold, if you say that again, I swear to God— ”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I do not have the energy for this right now.

The apartment is spinning around me, full of questions I don’t have answers for, but I really don’t have time to figure them out now.

I rub my forehead, already dreading this lunch before I have to leave for Vancouver.

“I’m on my way.”

I lock my phone, silencing my mother's complaints, and take another look around. The hardwood gleams beneath my feet, rich and warm and absolutely not what I can afford.

My stomach drops. The quote Mike gave me was already stretching my savings to the breaking point. This? This is way beyond that.

"I'm so screwed."

I lean against the counter, trying to breathe through the panic before I have to torture myself more with lunch at my parents.

Maybe there was a mistake. Maybe Mike got carried away. Maybe—

Wait.

Hunter's voice echoes in my head from this morning: " Make sure you stop by the apartment before lunch. Just... check on things. "

The insistence in his tone. The way he wouldn't quite meet my eyes when he said it and how he had distracted me with a surprise kiss on the lips.

I grab my purse and storm toward the door. The fancy new hinges don't even squeak as I slam it shut.

Oh, we're definitely having a conversation about this on the plane.