Page 35

Chapter Twenty-Three

Emma

A s I hand out the coffee, Logan moves among the kids with confidence, crouching down to their level, asking names, complimenting light-up sneakers and dinosaur t-shirts.

He's a natural and so far, this is all going perfectly.

"Are you really a hockey player?" one little girl asks, staring up at him with huge brown eyes.

"I am," Logan says seriously. "I play defense for the Icehawks."

"Do you fight people?"

Logan's lips twitch. "Sometimes. But only to protect my teammates."

"Like a superhero?"

"Exactly. Like a superhero."

I melt. Literally melt into a puddle of ovaries and romantic feelings right there on the arena floor.

Grandpa Walt steps forward, clapping his hands. "Alright, parents! Who wants a tour of the arena while these rascals get their story? We'll see the locker rooms, the press box, maybe even peek at the ice if we're lucky."

The parents perk up immediately. Nothing like behind-the-scenes access to get adults as excited as their kids.

This is all working perfectly.

As they disappear with Grandpa Walt, I'm left with eight sugar-loaded children and Logan holding a copy of "The Hockey Sweater" like he's about to read the most important document in the world.

"Everyone find a spot on the blankets," I instruct. "Mr. Kane is going to read you a very special story. And the best listener, gets one of these!"

I hold up one of the signed kids jerseys, and the room erupts into high-pitched cheers and whoops. The tiny hockey fans bounce on their knees, eyes wide and fixed on the green-and-gray treasure dangling from my fingers.

"Is that real?" a freckled boy whispers, his voice filled with awe.

"It sure is," I say, turning the jersey to show off the signatures scrawled across the back. "Signed by every player on the Icehawks roster."

Logan clears his throat. "Including me."

This sends the kids into another frenzy. One little girl with pigtails actually falls backward from excitement, then scrambles up again, not wanting to miss a second.

"My daddy says you're the best fighter in the league!" a boy with a missing front tooth announces.

Logan's eyes find mine, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "I'm better at other things," he says, and something in his tone makes my stomach flip.

"Like reading stories," I add quickly, gesturing toward the book in his hands. "So everyone get cozy!"

The kids settle onto the plush blankets we've spread across the floor, their little bodies wiggling with anticipation. I tuck the jersey back onto our prize table and take a seat on the edge of the reading circle.

From here, I can watch both Logan and the children's faces.

Logan opens the book, his massive hands dwarfing the colorful cover. He clears his throat, and when he begins to read, his deep voice transforms into something gentler. Something that wraps around the room like a warm blanket.

"' The winters of my childhood were long, long seasons ,'" he reads, the children go perfectly still, captured by his voice. "' We lived in three places—the school, the church, and the skating rink. But our real life was on the skating rink .'"

I watch him read, this mountain of a man who fights on ice for a living, now completely focused on entertaining eight children with a story about hockey and childhood.

The kids are mesmerized. So am I.

His deep voice, usually gruff and intimidating, becomes animated. He changes his tone for different characters, makes sound effects for the hockey plays, even does a silly accent for the shopkeeper that has the kids giggling.

I watch on, supposedly monitoring the hot chocolate situation, but really just staring at this man I love reading to children like it's the most natural thing in the world.

" And that's when young Roch discovered that sometimes the best team isn't the one on your sweater ," Logan says, closing the book. " It's the one in your heart. "

The kids applaud, and I swear I see Logan's cheeks flush pink.

"Mr. Kane?" A boy with gap teeth and freckles raises his hand. "Are you and the hot chocolate lady married?"

My face goes nuclear. Logan's eyes widen like he's been checked into next season.

"We're..." I start, then completely blank.

"We're very good friends," Logan finishes, shooting me a look that's part panic, part amusement.

"My mom says you only hold hands like that if you're in love," the gap-toothed boy continues sagely.

"Well, kid… Your mom is very observant," Logan says dryly.

A little girl with pigtails pipes up. "Are you gonna have babies?"

I choke on absolutely nothing. "Okay! Who wants to try hitting some pucks at the target board?"

The kids erupt in excited cheers, completely forgetting about my reproductive plans. Thank God.

The next hour passes in a blur of mini hockey lessons, bookmark decorating, and enough sugar consumption to power a small city.

Logan shows the kids how to hold a stick properly, how to aim for corners, how to celebrate a goal without hurting anyone.

He's patient with every question, encouraging with every attempt.

I watch a shy little girl finally hit the target after twelve tries, and Logan's genuine celebration makes her beam like she just won Olympic gold.

The parents return from their tour with Grandpa Walt, who's clearly had the time of his life regaling them with stories about Iron Ridge hockey history.

"The kids having fun?" one mom asks, watching her son explain the finer points of hockey strategy to Logan.

"They're having a blast," I say. "Your son's got quite the shot."

"He's been skating since he was three. Dreams of playing for the Icehawks someday."

I glance at Logan, who's crouched down listening intently to the boy's excited chatter about his skating lessons.

"I bet he will," I say softly.

As families start to collect their children and bundled-up takeaway hot chocolate, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Big Mike stands behind me, Sophia at his side, both wearing expressions of approval that make my heart race.

"Oh. My. God." Sophia's eyes are sparkling as she looks around. "This has been wonderful, Emma! Truly. The kids all around the arena are talking nonstop about it to their parents."

But before I can respond, I spot two more figures approaching through the departing crowd.

My father in his customary button-down and khakis, and beside him… my mother, looking impossibly out of place in her cream cashmere sweater and pearls.

"Emma?" Logan notices my expression, following my gaze. "Everything okay?"

"My parents," I whisper. "I… I didn't think they'd actually come."

Logan's hand finds the small of my back, steady and reassuring as my parents reach us.

"Hello, Emma," my mother says, her eyes taking in the decorated space, the children's artwork, and finally settling on Logan's towering presence beside me. "This is quite impressive."

"Thank you," I manage, genuinely surprised by the lack of qualifiers in her compliment. "Mom, Dad, this is Logan Kane."

Logan extends his hand, somehow transforming from intimidating enforcer to perfect gentleman in seconds.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you."

My father shakes his hand enthusiastically. "That story you read earlier? The kids were captivated. You've got quite the theatrical talent, young man."

"You saw that?" I ask, startled.

"We've been here for most of it," my mother admits. "Your father insisted we arrive early to get good seats right over there."

She points beyond the door of the café to the corridor as my father smiles sheepishly. "Wanted to see my daughter in action without intruding. See what she's really like in the wild."

My mother's eyes drift to where Logan's hand still rests protectively at my back. I expect disapproval, but instead, she says quietly, "That's right. We've been watching. You two work well together."

I gawk like a goldfish with ear trouble, wondering if my brain just short-circuited.

Did my mother just give me a compliment? Us a compliment?

"Emma's the brains of this operation," Logan says, his deep voice warm with pride. "I just lift the heavy stuff."

"And read bedtime stories, apparently," my mother observes, a hint of unexpected humor in her tone.

Logan grins. "Only the good ones your daughter chooses for me."

As my father pulls Logan into a conversation about hockey, my mother steps closer to me, her thick perfume surrounding me.

"I didn't understand before," she says softly. "This dream of yours. I thought you were being impulsive."

Impulsive? That's a stretch.

"But now?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"Now I see you've built something real." She adjusts her pearls, and looks around the room. "Something I was too afraid to try with my flower shop."

It's not quite an apology, but perhaps something more meaningful than that.

It's recognition .

"Maybe it's not too late, Mom," I suggest. "For your dream."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling slightly. "Perhaps not. At any rate, I'm... proud of you, Emma. You've found your path. Found your path and you've followed it, dear. And now, it seems you have someone who walks it with you."

Her gaze shifts to Logan, who's laughing at something my father has said. "He seems to understand what matters to you."

"He does," I say simply.

My parents don't stay long, but before they leave, Grandpa Walt appears, puffing his chest with pride as he offers to show them "the inner workings of Emma's empire." He guides them around the space, pointing out features with theatrical flourish.

When they finally prepare to depart, my mother surprises me with a brief hug.

"We'll see you both for dinner soon," she says, and it sounds like a promise rather than an obligation.

As they disappear into the crowd, Logan returns to my side.

"Your mom's not quite what I expected," he says.

"Yeah, I know, right?" I reply, still processing what just happened. "She's... evolving."

Logan's smile is warm as he squeezes my hand. "Must run in the family."

My tummy flutters, but as we turn around, Big Mike stands behind me, Sophia at his side, both wearing expressions of approval that make my heart race.

Big Mike grins. "It's creative. Engaging. Good integration of both brands without it feeling forced."

I beam. "Thank you."

Logan fidgets nervously at my side. "How'd we do, boss?"

"Very well. Both of you."

But then, Big Mike's expression shifts slightly, becoming more serious as he steps in towards Logan and drops his voice.

"Logan, I've been trying to catch you all day. Just wondering, can you drop by my office tomorrow? We should chat in private."

"Everything okay, sir?" Logan asks, glancing sideways to see if I'm listening.

I hustle on the spot, pretending to organize already-perfect stacks of bookmarks, but Big Mike's "quiet" voice carries like he's using a megaphone.

"The trade talks are getting serious," he says. "It's time we had a chat. Seattle want you."

My stomach drops. Seattle . That's over eight hundred miles away.

I fumble with a stack of paper cups, sending them cascading across the table. Both men look over, and I force a smile.

"Sorry! Just... cleaning up." My voice sounds unnaturally high.

Logan's eyes meet mine for a split second, long enough for me to see the storm brewing there.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Big Mike says, clapping Logan on the shoulder. "Ten AM sharp."

When he walks away, Logan turns to help me with the cups, his movements mechanical. His fingers brush against mine, and I fight the urge to grab his hand and never let go.

"Emma—"

He starts, but Sophia immediately jumps in, chattering about something related to social media metrics and community engagement numbers.

But I've stopped listening.

We should chat in private. Seattle want you.

That's not "good job" language. That's not "hey, want to grab lunch" language.

That's "your contract status" language.

I keep smiling and nodding at whatever Sophia is saying, but inside, my chest is caving in.

This perfect day, this beautiful moment, this feeling that everything is finally falling into place… and now reality comes crashing back in like ice water.

Logan's hand finds mine, squeezing tight.

"Hey…" he says quietly, so only I can hear. "We'll figure it out, okay? Just enjoy today. You should be so proud."

I squeeze back, forcing my smile to stay in place as Big Mike and Sophia continue their rounds.

But as they walk away, I can't shake the feeling that our perfect day just developed a crack that might split everything apart.