North Country(75)

I grab my keys. “I’ll follow you there.” And then I have to get home so I can break this news to my daughter.





The unmistakable scent of snack bar french fries hits me as I step inside the Cold River Arena. There’s already a herd of people hovering around the open window, impatiently waiting for their orders as the teenage girl working the counter scrambles.

All these years later and nothing has changed. The exterior walls are clad with metal siding; the narrow halls to the change rooms stink of stale sweat. Championship banners from as far back as the ’70s hang from the open rafters, though there are some new ones displayed from recent years. The wooden bleacher-style stands that I sat in to cheer on Isla during her games are the very same ones I sat in while cheering for Logan. Our initials are still engraved in them.

The only upgrade this place has seen in recent times is for a scoreboard three years ago. Dillon’s big dream is to build a shiny new facility, and he’s been busy tapping shoulders looking for funding.

I haven’t stepped inside Cold River’s arena since Isla’s season ended in March, and now I’m technically here as a parent from the visiting team. But I know most of these people, and they descend on me like the paparazzi on a scandalized celebrity.

“Emery! It’s so good to see you again!”

“How’s Isla liking her new team?”

“So, what’s going on with Holly Monroe’s case?”

“Who do you think took her?”

“Do you think she’s alive?”

I expected as much, which is why I waited until after the puck drop to sneak in. Clearly, I didn’t wait long enough. After a few smiles and nods and standard scripted answers, I manage to slip through the doors to the rink in time to see Isla lose a puck draw.

The stands are packed. Also not a surprise, given it’s a Friday night in November and families are looking for something free to do.

I spot Dillon halfway up on the visitors’ side, and my stomach tenses. I don’t normally go out of my way to avoid him at our daughter’s games, but the last thing I can handle is Mayor Sanders tonight, especially after the gut-wrenching conversation I had with Holly’s parents earlier. Thankfully, he hasn’t noticed me yet, too busy yelling plays at Isla that she can’t hear—and, even if she could, she’d ignore.

Donna sees me, though, and offers a delayed wave.

I respond with a nod—our standard “Let’s be civil for the children’s sake.” At least with her and Tanner here, Dillon’s less likely to hunt me down. Still, I’m not in the mood for conversation, and if I go up into those stands, that’s all it’ll be.

I veer to the left and around the various small clusters of dads who also prefer watching at ice level, aiming for the far end of the rink. It’s the perfect hiding spot.

That’s where I find Logan leaning against the glass.

I stop dead, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at me for an unnaturally long time.

I repeat myself. “What are you— ”

“Watching the game.” Intense eyes drag down over my winter coat and boots. It’s been weeks since I saw him. A thick layer of stubble coats his jaw. Is he growing a beard or is he lazy? Either way, it works on him. Dillon tried to grow a beard several times, but it always came in patchy.

But Logan might look even better, if that’s possible.

And bigger. Stronger. His shoulders even broader. How is that possible? Though I’ve been checking in with Annie regularly and she says the same thing—he’s out in the fields, all day, every day. I imagine home-cooked meals make a difference too.

He returns his focus to the players racing past, but I don’t miss how his chest rises with a deep, calming breath.

“My parents were coming, so I tagged along.” The corner of his mouth kicks up. “They even let me drive.”

“Holt and Annie are here?” I was so busy avoiding eye contact with people, I missed them.

“They are. So are Sarah and Thomas. You should go sit with them.”

If that isn’t a dismissal … “This is how it’s gonna be, then?”

His jaw tenses, his attention flittering behind me to the various game bystanders. “I’m trying to protect you,” he says quietly.

“I don’t need you to,” I snap, my anger flaring, quickly followed by hurt. And I don’t need this shit, especially not today. I turn to leave, to find another isolated spot to watch the game from.

“She’s really good.”

His deep voice stalls my exit.

“Isla.” He juts his chin toward the bench, where she waits for her next shift. “She’s fast. Smart. Aggressive on the boards, like you were.”

“I had to be. I was stuck playing with boys like you.” Girls’ hockey opportunities weren’t anything like they are now.

A player on Isla’s new team tries to rub an opposing player along the boards but comes in too hard, knocking her down. The ref’s hand flies into the air.

Logan smirks. “I don’t know. These girls seem to hold their own pretty well.”

The lines change and Isla hops back onto the ice to take the draw for the penalty kill. It’s a scramble, but she gets her stick on the puck, firing it down the ice. Cheers carry from the stands.