The Parent Playbook (Love on Thin Ice)

14. Scotty

CHAPTER 14

SCOTTY

W e shuffle over to the cider stall, sidestepping a giggling gaggle of kids enchanted by a magician pulling endless scarves from his hat while Lily and Andy wave from the top of a gladiator-style obstacle course.

We reach the cider stall, and it’s like stepping into an orchard after harvest. The air’s thick with the scent of apples, some tangy, some sweet. A grinning vendor hands us each a small cup. “Welcome to the Simmering Cider taste test. First up, classic apple,” he announces, as if presenting a rare vintage wine.

Angel takes a sip, her face lighting up. “Oh, that’s good. Tart, with a little punch at the end.” She’s not tasting, she’s savoring .

I’m glued to the spot as she takes another sip, closes her eyes and groans, “Mmmmmm.”

Caramel apple, cinnamon spice, even a pumpkin blend, which Angel declares is “an affront to both pumpkins and apples.”

I laugh, watching her face go through a spectrum of dramatic expressions with each new flavor. When we get to the spiciest cider, made with a hint of chili, I nudge her elbow. “Dare you to try it.”

She eyes the cider like it’s a challenge. “Only if you’re trying it too.” We clink our cups—a tiny toast to bravery or foolishness, I’m not sure which—and down the cider.

Her reaction is immediate.

“Oh, that’s—wow, that’s something.” She coughs a little, fanning her mouth while I laugh at her expense. Without thinking, I reach out, gently patting her back. Her laughter mixes with coughs, and there’s a closeness in this shared silly moment that feels more intimate than any candlelit dinner.

She wipes her eyes, still giggling. “Okay, that was hotter than I expected. Your turn now,” she says, nudging the next cup of cider toward me with a crooked grin.

I take a cautious sip, bracing for the burn. “Not too bad,” I lie through the heat, trying to keep my cool.

“Not too bad?” she repeats, eyebrow arched. “Your eyes are watering, Scotty. That’s the universal sign for ‘help me, I’m dying.’”

I laugh, surrendering to the burn. “Okay, it’s like swallowing a bonfire. You happy now?”

“Very,” she beams. Then she glances around at the families and laughing children. The noise of the festival seems to fade a bit as her expression grows thoughtful. She turns back to me, her tone shifting from playful to reflective. “Isn’t it great to see so much plenty?”

“Plenty?” I ask. “Like the horn of plenty?”

“Exactly.” She points to various stalls and tables. “Pies, sweet and savory. Corn on the cob. Apple, gourd, and cinnamon everything. There’s always something available for free to eat here, and no one asks a thing. Maple Fest was always special to me growing up. Mom and I didn’t have much, but here we felt like we belonged. Everyone did. It’s what inspired me to start Happy Horizons. I wanted every kid to have a place where they felt they could just be .”

I love that.

I really do, and not in the infomercial-that-grabs-your-heart way. When I look around this place, there’s such wholesomeness, such goodness, such heaven for these kids. I’m about to tell her so when she lightly slaps my arm. “Your turn. Try the next one—before I find another boot to throw.”

I pretend to shield my face, and she laughs, that sound that’s quickly becoming my favorite tune.

As we move to the next cider, our fingers brush subtly, a small touch, but it’s enough. Enough to send a little jolt up my arm. Not flashy, but unmissable. I sneak a quick look at Angel to see if she felt it too, and by the little hitch in her step, I can tell she did. There’s this moment, just a heartbeat really, where we lock eyes, and something passes between us, something that doesn’t need words.

We keep walking, our hands finding ways to stay close, fingers brushing against each other like it might be an accident. But we both know it’s not. Each touch lasts longer than the one before.

The path through the festival curves by booths offering everything from hand-carved wooden bowls to homemade jams, but I barely notice them. It’s like the whole world’s gone a bit blurry except for Angel. The sunlight plays in her hair, her slightly sardonic laugh mingles with the crisp air—man, it’s easy to get caught up in this dance of almost-touches.

Her hand brushes against my hand again, and this time her fingers tentatively curl into mine. It’s a quiet, bold move. I hold on a little tighter, enough to say I’m right here with you , and she gives me a smile—it’s all the answer I need.

We stop at another cider stand, still hand in hand, acting like we’re all in on the vendor’s talk about apple blends. But let’s be real, it’s not the cider that’s got my heart picking up the pace.

It’s holding her hand, the way she’s leaning in close, how right it feels standing here with her, in the middle of all this festival noise, feeling like we’re discovering something new.

As the sun dips behind the horizon, a loudspeaker announces, “Get ready for the grand finale! The lantern release will take place in front of the pumpkin exhibition in twenty minutes.”

“Shall we lantern?” Angel asks, her fingers tickling the back of my hand.

“I didn’t know it was a verb, but I think we should.”

Folks gather around, clutching those paper lanterns like they’re precious treasures. It’s a clear night, the stars making their appearance like they’re curious about what’s going down here.

Angel and I find a spot on the grass, slightly away from the hustle, and a volunteer hands us a lantern.

“Ever done one of these before?” I ask, fumbling a bit with the lantern as we try to get a grip on it together.

“Nah, this is a first for me,” she replies, her hands steady compared to mine.

“We’re rookies then. Let’s hope we don’t set anything on fire …”

“If we do, the fire brigade is right over there, and looking in fine form.” She points to a crowd of clean-cut, muscled young men.

“Let’s avoid fire at all costs. I don’t want any calendar pin-ups interrupting us.”

Angel tilts her head to the side. “Scotty MacFarland, was that a note of jealousy in your voice?”

Um, yes, it was. Because I want you all to myself.

Heat crawls up my neck and I’m grateful for the darkness of night. “Jealous? Nah. I bet I could skate circles around those young bucks.”

Angel gives me a knowing look, like I’ve stepped into the stereotypical shoes of every man reaching mid-life.

The crowd’s getting their lanterns lit, and then it’s our turn. The little flame flickers to life, casting an orange glow on Angel’s face. She’s all focus and soft smiles, her eyes fixed on our lantern. I can’t help but watch her, struck by how the simple light frames her face, throwing shadows that make this moment feel like magic.

“Ready to launch?” I nudge her gently.

“Let’s make a wish first,” she suggests. “It’s cheesy, sure, but isn’t everything about Maple Fest?”

“Not cheesy,” I whisper.

We lean in, and she closes her eyes first. My wish? More nights like this, more laughs, more getting to know every side of her.

When I open my eyes, she’s looking at me with crinkles beside her eyes. “Shall we?”

We release the lantern, and it hesitates like it’s not quite ready to leave. But then it catches the breeze and up it goes, joining the swarm of others, floating like dreams into the night sky. We watch in silence, only the whoosh of the lanterns rising into the darkness.

Her eyes, usually so full of spark and challenge, now shimmer with the lanterns’ glow, filled with wonder. It’s like seeing her for the first time all over again, and it knocks the wind out of me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice weaves the cool night air. All I know is that every light in the sky can’t hold a candle to the way she looks right now. I nod, words lost somewhere between my heart and my mouth.

“Yeah, beautiful,” is all I manage, but I really mean the beauty of her eyes lit with the reflection of hundreds of lanterns. It’s not the lanterns having this effect, though—they’re just bits of paper and fire.

It’s her.

She’s the view I can’t look away from. As I stand here, stealing glances while the world lights up around us, I realize this might be one of the best evenings of my life.

I can’t breathe. I’m afraid of this moment passing too quickly, as if holding my breath could put a pause on time.

“It’s so peaceful,” she says .

“You think they make it to the stars?” I ask, half-joking.

“With your shot? Definitely,” she winks, and it’s the perfect cap to the night.

The lanterns drift out of sight, and we’re left there, smiles on our faces.

Just as we’re about to turn back toward the festival’s brighter lights, the quiet bubble bursts with the sudden appearance of Andy and Lily, both sporting impish grins that are a bit too knowing for my comfort.

“What are you two doing?” Andy asks with mock innocence, eyeing the now distant lanterns with a smirk.

“Sending signals to aliens,” I quip, trying to match his tone, but my face heats up, feeling caught like I’m back in high school getting busted for passing notes in class.

“ Daaad .” Lily sets her hands on her hips and pops them to the side, her eyes darting between Angel and me.

“Okay, you got us. We were making sure our lantern didn’t set a tree on fire,” I say, hoping my casual chuckle sounds convincing. Angel plays along with a theatrical nod.

“Yeah, very dangerous, those paper lanterns,” she adds. The kids seem pleased with their detective work as they tug at each of our hands and lead us back toward the festival’s hustle.

“Come on, Mom. You’ve got to share a funnel cake with me like we do every year,” Andy declares.

We walk back, the kids a few steps ahead. Angel hangs back slightly and reaches up to touch my cheek gently. “Thanks for tonight, Scotty,” she whispers and her touch sends a warmth right through me, like I’m a flame that’s been stoked.

I manage a nod, words failing me as my heart decides to do somersaults. “Of course, Angel,” I finally get out, my voice a little rough around the edges. I’m not ready for this to end. “I’ll swing by tomorrow, see if we can finish up that …” That what ? I can’t think of a single task on the two-page list. “That thing you need doing.”

An embarrassed laugh slips out. I’m caught .

“Yeah,” she replies with the smug smile that makes me want to drop everything and fold her into my arms. “Come on over and we’ll do that thing .”

She walks off, wraps her arm around Andy’s shoulders, and I know for sure now that I’m melting—and I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to.

In the early morning, Maple Fest is still alive in my bones, the memory of Angel’s face in the light of the lantern. But duty calls and the brisk rink air is a pleasant distraction from every other thought … especially since they’re all thoughts of Angel.

The arena is buzzing with the usual morning practice energy as I watch the team from behind the boards. The crisp sound of skates cutting into the ice, pucks clacking against sticks—it’s all familiar, comforting even, but there’s a restlessness in me today that’s hard to shake.

“Saw you chatting up the charity lady at the festival,” Noah says, sidling up beside me with a knowing grin. He nudges me with his elbow, the smirk on his face all too telling. “Guess you got over the boot smack.”

I roll my eyes, keeping my gaze on the ice. “I’m helping her out with the ranch. It’s falling apart,” I explain, trying to sound casual, detached. But the smirk on Noah’s face tells me he’s not buying it.

“Sure, sure. A bit of charity work , huh?” He winks, but I can tell he’s only half-joking. Before I can craft a witty reply, my attention snaps back to the ice.

“Hold up,” I call out, squinting toward the action on the ice. “Why aren’t the assists syncing with those shots? We’re off rhythm, guys.”

Noah leans on the boards, studying the players’ movements. After a moment, he turns to me, an analytical glint in his eye. “They need to read the play better. The puck carrier’s got to telegraph less and the wings need to find fragile spots in the defense quicker. Tighter, more intuitive passing will chain those plays together.”

I nod, giving him a sidelong glance, impressed despite myself. “That’s sharp. Ever think about swapping those skates for a clipboard?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Forget about me. Let’s talk about you for a second. Come on, man, you know you’d rather be out there on the ice than back here.” His voice lowers, turning serious. “Think of the comeback it would make.”

His words hit a nerve. Again . I gaze out at the ice, watching the players glide effortlessly, but with an undercurrent of energy and passion. A part of me aches to be out there, to feel that rush again, the adrenaline, the sheer thrill of the game.

Doubt immediately sneaks in and smacks me with reality. Four years away—it’s not a “break,” it’s a lifetime in hockey years.

Would I still have the edge? Would anyone even take a chance on me now?

“You’ve still got it, Scotty. Don’t sell yourself short,” Noah adds, clapping me on the shoulder as if he’s read my thoughts. “I may be the ‘Comeback King,’ but there’s room for both of us on the throne.”

I manage a half-smile, watching the practice continue. The idea of making a comeback, of reclaiming a part of myself that I thought I’d left behind on the ice—it’s tempting, more than I want to admit. It’s also terrifying.

Is there really a place for me out there anymore?