Page 102 of Pucking Forbidden

“Julian?”

I look up over my shoulder. Hadley is standing in the hallway, wearing soft grey sweatpants and a tight white tank top. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun. She takes in the tool in my hand and the disassembled latch. She just shakes her head, a soft, amused smile touching her lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” she chuckles, walking over to stand right above me. “Do you inspect every room you walk into for structural integrity?”

“Just noticed it was broken,” I mumble, tightening the screw with a twist of my wrist. I stand up, brushing the dust off my jeans. I look down into her wide eyes, and before I fully realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out of my mouth. “Come to Chicago with me.”

Hadley blinks, her breath catching. “What?”

“For Thanksgiving,” I clarify. My heart does a strange, violent thud against my ribs. “Come home with me. I want you to meet Mrs. Clay.”

I brace for the refusal I’m sure will come, but she stuns me by smiling brightly.

“Yes!” she exclaims, eyes shining. “I’d love to, Julian. I’ll go to Chicago with you.”

The trip to Chicago is long, but the moment we pull up to the modest, brick row house on the south side, the tight coil in my stomach relaxes just a fraction.

As we make our way up the front steps to the porch, the front door flies open. Mrs. Clay steps out onto the porch, her silver hair pulled back into a bun, her apron already tied around her waist. No doubt she’s been up since well before sunrise preparing food.

“Julian!” she calls out with a wide smile.

“Hey, Grams!” I reply, opening my arms for the hug I’m anticipating.

She totally bypasses me, her eyes locked on Hadley. With a delighted laugh, she wraps her thin arms around Hadley’s waist, pulling her into a tight, welcoming hug.

“Oh, look at you,” Mrs. Clay breathes, pulling back to cup Hadley’s face with her hands. “He told me you were beautiful, but he didn’t tell me you looked like an angel. Come inside, sweetie. Leave muscles here to carry the bags.”

Hadley laughs, a bright, clear sound that echoes through the cold Chicago air, and she lets Mrs. Clay lead her straight into the house by the hand.

By afternoon, the kitchen is a battlefield, and I am the undisputed commander. I take Thanksgiving seriously. Very seriously. I have a precise, calculated schedule for the turkey, the stuffing, and the homemade cranberry sauce. I move around the kitchen with the same aggressive discipline I use on the ice.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Clay makes it her personal mission to dismantle my authority.

“Look at him, Hadley,” Mrs. Clay teases, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea while I mash potatoes with enough force to dent the metal pot. “He gets that little crease between his eyebrows when he’s really concentrating. He’s been doing that since he was sixteen.”

“I’m just keeping a schedule,” I mutter, my cheeks tightening as I stir the pot. “If the turkey dries out, the whole meal is compromised. I had to step in and fix the disaster of a meal in January for Friendsmas. Those idiots tried putting it on a grill, I swear to God.”

Hadley giggles, sitting at the small kitchen table. Her eyes track my every move with a soft, captivated warmth. “Rylee told me Gizmo tried to steal the turkey, and nearly destroyed the tree.”

I snort and nod. “That little Gremlin did all that and more.”

Grinning, Hadley turns to Mrs. Clay. “Does he always cook like this?”

“Oh, always,” Mrs. Clay nods, winking at her. “You should see him at Christmas. Tell her about that, Julian.”

I exhale a breath through my nose, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “Beef Wellington is a complicated dish. It takes a lot of focus.”

“He pretends he hates it,” Mrs. Clay tells Hadley, her voice softening with affection. “But he’s always so proud of himself when he succeeds.”

I keep my back turned, locking my eyes on the stove, but my mind is hyper-focused on the subtle details of the room. Without even realizing I’m doing it, my eyes track Mrs. Clay’s movements. Every time she reaches for a cabinet, every time her breath hitches slightly, I’m looking.

“You okay, Gram?” I ask, my voice dropping as I notice her lean a little too heavily against the counter. “You need to sit down? I can finish the rest of this.”

“Oh, stop your hovering, Julian,” Mrs. Clay brushes me off, waving a hand at me, even if her face looks a fraction paler than it did this morning. “I’m fine. Just a little tired from the holiday rush. Stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

She smiles, but there’s a tightness in her jaw, a subtle splinting of her posture that she’s trying to hide from me. I want to press her on it, but she turns back to Hadley.

“He’s always been like this,” Mrs. Clay sighs, her eyes drifting toward the window. “Even when he was just a boy, sneaking through the backyard with bruises he couldn't explain. He’d still ask if I needed help carrying the groceries…”