Page 9 of The Love Comeback (Glaciers Hockey #3)

Chapter Nine

Kade

My grip tightens around the handle of my toolbox as I stand on Ella’s front porch, suddenly feeling like a teenager again.

It’s just a bookshelf.

I’ve faced down 100-mph slap shots with less anxiety than I’m feeling right now about helping my high school sweetheart put together some Swedish furniture.

But there’s something about the way Ella looked at me when she asked for help—a mixture of reluctance and need—that has me determined to be useful to her, even if it’s just for one evening.

I knock twice, shifting my weight as I wait. The neighborhood is quiet, peaceful—exactly the kind of place where a kid could ride his bike safely or play street hockey with friends. It’s not flashy by any means, but I can see why Ella chose it for Colton.

The door swings open a moment later, and there she is, wearing a faded university t-shirt and jeans with her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun.

A few stray strands frame her face, and there’s a smudge of what looks to be dust on her cheek.

Something inside me aches at the sight of her looking so much like the girl I used to know, yet undeniably changed by everything she’s been through.

“Hey,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

“I come bearing tools and moderate IKEA assembly skills.” I hold up my toolbox.

“Perfect.” She steps aside to let me in, closing the door behind me. “Sorry about the mess. I’ve been unpacking all day, and since we’re putting together the bookshelf, I went ahead and brought in my boxes of books from the garage…”

My eyes scan the space, noting the careful organization despite the chaos. There’s a method to the madness—boxes labeled by room, essentials already unpacked, a clear path through it all.

I set my toolbox down. “This is nothing to apologize for. Moving is a marathon, not a sprint.”

“Tell that to my back,” she jokes, reaching up to massage her shoulder. “I’ve discovered muscles I didn’t know existed.”

I resist the urge to offer to help with that as well. Instead, I nod toward a large, flat box leaning against the wall. “Is that our victim for the evening?”

“That’s the one.” She walks over to it and pats the box. “The instructions claim it’s a two-hour project, which in IKEA time, probably means a minimum of four hours.”

“Good thing I cleared my schedule,” I say, grabbing the box, careful not to bump into anything.

The living room may be cluttered, but I can see touches of Ella everywhere—a framed photo of her and Colton on the mantel, a stack of math textbooks on the coffee table, a worn throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch.

This place isn’t just a house; she’s making it a home.

“Nice neighborhood,” I comment as I lay the box flat on the floor. “Quiet.”

“That’s why I picked it,” she says, kneeling beside the box but keeping a careful distance from me. “Close to school, safe community, and the rent was … manageable.”

I catch the slight hitch in her voice, the careful way she phrases it. I’ve learned enough about Ella’s situation to know that finances must be tight. Single teacher raising her nephew on her own—I can do the math.

“Smart choice,” I say, not drawing attention to it. “Colton seems to be settling in well.”

“Better than I expected, honestly,” she admits. “But that’s partly thanks to you and the skating lessons.”

I wave away her gratitude as I open the box, but inwardly, her words warm me. “Happy to do it. That kid’s got natural talent.”

Working methodically, I group similar parts together, sort through the hardware, count screws and dowels, and make sure we have everything we need.

“You’re organized,” Ella observes, watching me from her position a few feet away.

I shrug, feeling strangely self-conscious. “Just how my brain works. I like to see what I’m working with before I start.”

“I remember,” she says softly, then clears her throat. “So, what’s first?”

I grab the instructions and quickly scan them. “First, we need to attach these side panels to the base. Can you hold this steady while I get the screws in?”

She nods and moves closer, kneeling across from me.

The base piece sits between us like a divider as she holds it in place.

I work the screws in one by one, hyper-aware of her presence just inches away.

Her hands are smaller than I remember, and there’s a small scar across her right knuckle that I don’t recall.

“Where’d this come from?” I ask, nodding toward the scar, trying to keep the conversation light.

She glances down at her hand. “Oh, that? I broke up a fight between two seventh-graders a couple years ago. One of them had a pencil.”

“Seriously?” I look up, catching her eyes. “You broke up a fight?”

“I’m a teacher,” she says with a small laugh. “We do more than just equations.”

“Clearly,” I mutter, impressed. The Ella I knew in high school would have shied away from confrontation, especially physical confrontation. “ So you’re basically a superhero, huh?”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight flush of her cheeks. “Hardly. Just doing my job.”

We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the turning of screws and the occasional rustle of the instruction sheet the only sounds.

“Hand me that screwdriver?” I ask, pointing to the tool lying beside her knee.

She reaches for it, and as she passes it to me, our fingers brush.

It’s brief—the lightest of touches—but it’s like an electric current shooting up my arm.

Her eyes meet mine for just a second before she quickly looks away, withdrawing her hand like she’s been burned.

“Thanks,” I mutter, trying to ignore the way my heart is suddenly hammering in my chest. Is it possible she felt that too? Or am I reading too much into a simple moment of contact?

“So,” she says, her pitch slightly higher than before, “how’s the season going? I heard you guys won against Philadelphia last night.”

“Yeah, it was a good game,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “Defense really stepped up, made my job easier.”

“Colton’s been watching your games while I grade papers,” she tells me. “He’s glued to the screen whenever the Glaciers are on.”

Pride swells in my chest, though I try not to show it. “He’s a good kid. Smart, too.”

“Too smart sometimes,” she agrees with a laugh. “Asks questions I don’t always have answers for.”

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious, as I work on attaching the next panel.

She sighs, helping to hold the piece steady. “Like why Landon left. Why his parents had to die. Why we had to move.” Her voice softens. “Hard questions.”

My hands falter for a moment. “I’m sorry, El. That can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” she admits. “But it’s life. Our life, anyway.”

There’s a quiet strength in her words that makes my chest constrict. I want to tell her how amazing I think she is, how I admire the way she’s stepped up for Colton, how she’s rebuilt her life around him without complaint. But I’m not sure if those are words she wants to hear from me.

Instead, I focus on the task at hand, guiding her through each step of the assembly. She’s a quick learner—always has been—and soon we’re working in sync, me screwing pieces together while she holds them steady, passing tools before I even have to ask for them.

As we work side by side, attaching the backing to the frame, our shoulders almost touching, I find myself hyper-aware of her breathing, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way her brow furrows in concentration.

It’s intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for, this simple act of building something together.

We eventually reach the point where we need to stand the bookshelf up and position it against the wall. I stand to my feet, dusting off my hands on my jeans.

“Ready for the moment of truth?” I ask, offering her my hand without thinking.

She hesitates for just a second before taking it, allowing me to help her up. Her hand is warm in mine, soft. I hold on a moment longer than necessary before letting go, missing the contact immediately.

“Let’s do it,” she says, positioning herself on one side of the bookshelf while I take the other.

“On three,” I direct. “One, two, three…”

Together, we lift the structure, careful not to strain the newly assembled joints.

It’s heavier than it looks, and I watch Ella’s face to make sure she’s not struggling.

Her expression is determined, focused, and I’m reminded again of how strong she is—not just physically, but in every way that matters.

Together, we maneuver the bookshelf against the wall, and I step back to assess our work. It’s level and solid—a job well done.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad at all,” she agrees, standing beside me to admire our handiwork. “Thanks, Kade. Really.” Her gratitude is sincere, her eyes meeting mine with a warmth that makes my heart stutter.

“It’s no problem at all.” I smile. “So, what’s next?”

Ella dusts off her hands and turns to survey the room, her eyes landing on a cardboard box labeled “Books” in perfect handwriting.

“Might as well start filling this thing,” she says, gesturing toward the bookshelf. “Otherwise, it’s just going to be an expensive dust collector.”

She kneels beside the box of books and cuts through the packing tape.

“Just start grabbing them and we’ll sort as we go,” she says.

I reach in and pull out a handful of paperbacks, most with creased spines and dog-eared pages. Among them, I spot familiar titles—classics she’d talked about in high school, science fiction that had once prompted late-night debates, and a few newer novels I don’t recognize.

“Your collection has grown,” I observe, carrying the stack to the bookshelf.

She smiles, a genuine one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Books are the one thing I splurge on.”