Page 15 of Penalties and Proposals

“Am I boring you?”

“Not at all.” He chuckles, his tone genuine. “This is the least boring meal I’ve had in a long time. But I do need to excusemyself and head back now. I’ve got early practice in the morning.”

We sit for a minute watching each other while the busboy appears and clears our plates. I can’t tell if we’re in a staring standoff, or if he’s teasing me. We could also be playing a game of who blinks first. It’s all unclear, but I do know from my perspective, at least, things have changed.

The server slips past and drops off our checks. Reaching for my purse, I pull out my wallet, but I’m surprised when Noah grabs both bills and clutches them tightly.

“Please, allow me. I feel like it’s the least I can do.” He smiles at me and immediately throws me off my game yet again. It’s a loose, easy grin that feels intimate, as if we’ve shared something in a moment that is ours, and only ours. No one else’s to understand. Not now, not ever.

I wave my hand in the air, needing to come off as nonchalant. After all, I was the angry one when we sat down, right?

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Noah stands, his presence towering yet oddly comforting. “Well, Willa, it’s been … interesting.”

I can’t help but laugh softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

He extends his hand, and as I shake it, there’s a spark of something—hope, maybe? “Until next time,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

“Until next time,” I echo, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and uncertainty.

As Noah walks away, I watch his retreating figure, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and unexpected excitement. This dinner might have started with anger and unresolved tension, but it’s certainly not how it’s ended.

I gather my things and head out, the night air cool against my skin. The streetlights twinkle around me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a warming flicker of hope for what my time in Maple Falls might bring.

CHAPTER 7

NOAH

The arena is quiet,save for the occasional scrape of skates against ice and the soft thud of a puck hitting the boards. The overhead lights cast a bright and even glow across the rink, making the ice shimmer with a frosty sheen. The surface, once pristine at the start of today’s practice, is now marked with the telltale signs of our day: grooves and divots where we’ve skated, shot, and battled during the hours we’d been here. Pucks are scattered haphazardly across the ice, remnants of drills and shots taken.

In my corner of the rink, I push off and move with practiced ease, my breath visible in the cold air. There was an article in the local paper about me a day ago, the local reporter saying that my focus is unwavering: “Noah Beaumont is earning his place in ice hockey history as the Comeback King. It’s the story of a fallen hero who drags himself back to the top that we all seem to be in love with. It’s the bright light that we didn’t know we needed.”

It’s a word salad, but it’s also a compliment I take to heart as I weave through a series of cones, the sound of my skates slicing through the ice and echoing in the empty arena. My jersey clings to my body, damp with sweat, but I know my movements are both fluid and powerful.

Tapping my stick against the biscuit, or puck, my periphery catches the haunting emptiness of the space around me. Benches line the sides of the rink with sticks, helmets, and other gear strewn about, evidence of the earlier presence of my teammates. The smell of the ice—crisp and clean—mingles with the faint scent of sweat and rubber from the equipment. Above, the stands sit vacant, rows upon rows of seats waiting for the next game day.

As I come to the opposite end of the rink, I finish a drill and pause, leaning on my stick and catching my breath. I let my eyes scan the arena, my personal domain at this moment. I love sneaking in my time to practice without the others as it seems almost sacred in its stillness, a place where I can push my limits and refine my skills in solitude.

Movement in the stands catches my attention, pulling my gaze over. The tiny leap in my heart is telling. Ever since my dinner with Willa, I’ve been waiting for her to call to arrange our first meeting for the pictures. Or, surprise of all surprises, I’ve also found myself hoping I’d run into her again randomly as I had at dinner the other night.

When I see the familiar face of the arena’s janitor, Murray, I chuckle to myself as I wave hello. Not that I don’t like Murray, in fact, I enjoy chatting with him usually. We’re both from the East Coast and he shared with me he’s been sober for twenty years. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to look up and find Willa in the stands taking photos or finding a way to talk to me again.

I mean, she’s been here, in the arena, that’s the kicker. She was here yesterday taking some photos of Dan, and I saw her get a few shots of Ted, too. I get it. Dan’s the local hero and Ted’s got an ease about him that seems to attract anyone and everyone, even if he is a beast on the ice. Am I a little jealous of the ease with which she seems to chat with everyone else around here except me?

Totally.

Sighing, I make my way across the ice back to the bench. My body needs time to cool down, and I need to do some stretching before I hit the shower. Glancing at the time, I do some quick math, hoping to get out of here in time to take an end-of-day run through the park. Because I want to be in tip-top shape? Yes, but in reality it’s also because I saw Willa posting on her social media some pictures of otters at the park yesterday.

The post had caught my eye, and when I flicked back over some of her more recent posts, it looked as if she’s in the park daily and sharing images. She could be posting photos she just has on her phone for all I know, but the town’s small enough that I don’t mind trying to force an accidental run-in. What do they call it in the movies, a meet-cute?

“Beaumont!” A gruff voice pulls me from my reverie on the bench. I look up from unlacing the skates to find Coach Strickland meandering my way.

“Hey, Coach. Thought you’d be out of here and home by now?”

Coach Strickland shrugs. “No rest for the wicked,” he says, inclining his head my way. “I see you go by the same rule of thumb.”

“No better time to do drills and hone skills than after a full day of practice.” Apparently I’m also Dr. Seuss now, too.

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