Page 21
Chapter twenty-one
Beck
The grass is freshly cut, 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— my land, no our land—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 a lonely quiet.
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 place feels full.
Jake curls up on one of the blankets, sticky fingers tangled in Spotty’s fur. The dog lets out a groan and stretches out, tail thumping lazily as Jake drapes a sleepy arm across his back.
As I settle beside Abby, I hand her a mug of cider. The fire crackles gently, sending sparks into the night. The sky above us darkens into a deep velvet, and stars begin to prick through the darkness.
Mom nudges my shoulder as she eases down onto the blanket between me and Dad. “You done good, son,” she says with her typical grin.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Dad lifts his mug in a mock-toast. “I always told you, kid—family’s not about blood. It’s about who you’d burn dinner for.”
“That explains your cooking,” Mom says dryly.
Laughter breaks across the fire circle, warm and real. It makes me so very happy at how my folks have taken to Abby and Jake. They are quite bonkers over having a grandson nearby, one that they get to talk with and invite for sleep overs. And even better, they don’t seem to mind the slobbering canine he brings with him.
I glance around. At the people I care about most. I see Jake, fast asleep, and Abby, who smiles like she’s holding something fragile and beautiful in her hands. At my friends—some of them are falling in love, some of them are just starting to figure it out.
I turn toward Abby, watching the way the firelight dances in her eyes. Her cheeks are pink either from the breeze or from being so close to the fire. Her curls are wild from chasing Jake earlier. She tucks her legs beneath her and leans into my side without hesitation.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
She nods, sliding her hand into mine. “More than okay.”
And it hits me—hard and simple and sudden.
This is it. Not just the place. This. Is. Home.
The quiet around us, the laughter close by, the feel of her fingers curling around mine.
I don’t just see a future anymore. I feel it.
Right here. Right now. It’s in the sleepy sighs of a boy who trusts me with his heart. It’s in the gentle chaos of a dog who thinks this place is his kingdom. It’s in the soft warmth of a woman whose love I never saw coming.
This farmhouse isn’t just somewhere I escaped to after years of noise and pressure and headlines. It’s home now.
Even if the bedrooms are still empty and there are boxes I haven’t unpacked. Even if Abby hasn’t officially moved in. Even if Jake’s toothbrush is still in her bag and not in the upstairs bathroom.
They fit here. She fits me. And I know I won’t be alone here for much longer.
The fire burns low, casting flickering shadows across the yard as more people begin to gather their things. Quinn is still tucked under Wes’s arm like she’s always been there. Jane and Griff are helping pack up leftovers, laughing softly about something I don’t quite catch.
Abby’s tucked her head on my shoulder. Jake mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to Spotty, who lets out a sleepy huff and guards him like a spotted pillow with a purpose.
“Are you tired?” I whisper.
She hums, not quite a yes or no. “Happy,” she says instead.
I nod, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Me too.”
The moment stretches. The stars seem closer tonight. Brighter.
I think of the little velvet box hidden in the drawer in my room. I haven’t told anyone—not even Wes or Griff. But it’s there. Waiting. Burning a hole in my soul every time I walk past it.
I’m not rushing. I want her to feel it too—this certainty. But nights like this? They make it really, really hard to wait.
I glance toward the porch where the others are heading in to get their things, slowly calling it a night.
“Stay,” I murmur. “Just a little longer.”
Abby’s smile is soft and sleepy. “Okay.”
And so, she stays, wrapped in a blanket of stars and firelight, surrounded by people who love us and animals who don’t understand personal space. And for the first time in a long, long time… I don’t feel like something’s missing. I feel full.
This is what it means to come home.