Chapter 28 Home Ice
December draped Evergreen Hollow in snow and fairy-light silence. The rink across the street glowed every night like a heart that refused to stop beating, and inside the Kane house, the new rhythm had settled into something soft and lovely.
Lily was coming home for winter break in four days. Her first college semester grades had arrived (3.9 GPA, Dean’s List, and a handwritten note from her entrepreneurship professor that read, “Lily Kane is the future of ethical business. Keep her.”) Her hockey team sat third in the nation, and she had started on the second line for the last six games. She sent daily photos: crimson practice jersey soaked with sweat, mountain sunsets behind the arena, her dorm room decorated with a string of Christmas lights and the old photo of her and Rowan hoisting the state-championship trophy when she was seventeen.
Holly read every text twice, saved every photo, and quietly booked two extra plane tickets so she and Rowan could fly out for Lily’s first home series in January.
Meanwhile, life at home moved in gentle waves.
Everett’s peewee team had made the holiday tournament finals, and Rowan spent weeknights at the rink coaching and weekends driving the minivan full of eight-year-olds who all wanted to be the next Lily Kane. Clara (two and a half now, red curls wild, cheeks perpetually sticky) had learned to skate with a tiny walker and insisted on “hockey” every morning before breakfast. Heartstrings Connections was closing its most profitable year ever, and Mia’s digital division (Heartstrings Spark) had just hit a million active users.
One Thursday evening, after a long day of virtual client consultations and spreadsheet reviews, Holly came home to find the house quiet. Rowan had taken the kids to the rink for Everett’s practice, and a note on the counter read:
Dinner in the oven.
Kids fed and exhausted.
Meet me in the backyard when you’re ready.
– R
Holly smiled, kicked off her heels, and padded through the house in thick socks. The backyard was dark except for the soft glow of the outdoor string lights and the faint shimmer of fresh snow. Rowan stood beside the portable firepit they’d bought years ago, two mugs of spiked hot chocolate steaming in his hands.
He looked unfairly handsome in a black knit cap and his old Bears coaching jacket, snowflakes catching on his lashes.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said softly, handing her a mug. “Thought we deserved a date night before the chaos arrives.”
Holly took the mug, took a sip (perfect, dark chocolate with a whisper of peppermint schnapps), and leaned into him. “You’re my favorite human.”
They stood in silence for a while, watching snow drift over the frozen pond they used to skate on when the kids were small. Rowan’s arm slid around her waist, thumb tracing idle circles through her sweater.
“Four days until she’s home,” Holly murmured.
“Four days,” Rowan echoed, lips brushing her temple. “And then two whole weeks of her stealing the covers, eating all the cereal, and beating me at Mario Kart.”
Holly laughed, turning in his arms. “I can’t wait.”
Rowan kissed her then (slow, warm, tasting of chocolate and winter). The kiss deepened until the mugs were set aside on the picnic table and Holly’s back met the soft cushion of the outdoor couch they kept covered all winter. Rowan’s hands slipped under her sweater, palms warm against her skin, thumbs brushing the lace edge of her bra.
“Here?” she whispered, half-laughing.
“House is empty,” he murmured against her neck. “Fire’s warm. Snow’s falling. I want you right now.”
Holly’s answer was to pull him closer.
They undressed each other slowly (scarves unwound, jackets dropped, sweaters peeled away) until they were skin to skin under the thick blanket he’d brought out. Rowan kissed every inch of her as it was revealed: collarbones, breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, the faint silver stretch marks that mapped the years they’d built together. When his mouth finally settled between her thighs, Holly bit down on her own wrist to stay quiet, pleasure rolling through her in long, languid waves. Snowflakes melted on her bare shoulders; the fire crackled beside them.
She tugged him up before she came a second time, needing him inside her. Rowan slid home with a groan that sounded like gratitude. They moved together under the blanket (slow, deep, perfectly in sync), eyes locked, breath mingling in soft clouds. When release finally took them, it was gentle and shattering at once, Holly’s quiet cry muffled against Rowan’s lips, his arms tightening around her as he pulsed deep inside.
They stayed tangled for a long time, watching the snow fall, hearts slowing together.
“I love this version of us,” Holly whispered.
Rowan kissed her forehead. “Me too.”
Four days later, the airport pickup was chaos and joy.
Lily stepped through the security doors in a Pioneers hoodie and ripped jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair longer and sun-bleached at the tips. Everett launched himself at her like a missile. Clara squealed “LIL-EEE!” and refused to let go of her neck for the entire drive home. Holly couldn’t stop touching her (hand on her arm, fingers in her hair, like she needed proof she was real).
That night the house smelled of pine and cinnamon and Lily’s favorite lasagna. They ate around the big table, everyone talking over each other: Everett’s tournament stories, Clara’s new obsession with Frozen, Lily’s tales of altitude sickness and dorm-room pranks and the teammate who taught her how to make authentic Colorado green chili.
After the kids finally crashed (Clara asleep on Lily’s chest on the couch, Everett snoring in his own bed surrounded by every piece of Denver merch Lily had brought him), Rowan and Holly stood in the hallway outside Lily’s room watching her sleep like they had when she was a newborn.
“She grew again,” Holly whispered, eyes misty.
Rowan’s arm came around her. “She’s supposed to.”
They slipped away to their own room, closed the door, and made love with the quiet reverence of parents who finally had their firstborn home safe. Rowan kissed her like he was thanking her for every miracle they’d made together. Holly wrapped her legs high around his waist and met every slow thrust until pleasure crested in soft, shared waves.
Afterward, tangled and warm, Holly listened to the familiar sound of Lily’s music drifting faintly down the hall and smiled into Rowan’s chest.
“She’s home,” she whispered.
“For now,” Rowan answered, kissing her hair. “And always.”
The next two weeks were pure magic.
Lily helped coach Everett’s team, skating circles around the little boys and making them laugh until they fell over. She took Clara to the rink every morning and pushed her around in the walker while singing “Let It Go” off-key. She and Holly spent afternoons in the Heartstrings office redesigning the Spark app for the spring launch, mother and daughter side by side, red curls and ideas flying.
One night, after the kids were asleep, Lily knocked on their bedroom door with hot chocolate and tears in her eyes.
“I just… I missed you guys so much,” she said, crawling into the middle of their bed like she was ten again. “College is amazing, but home is better.”
They stayed up talking until two a.m., the three of them under the covers, sharing one big mug, laughing and crying in equal measure.
Later, after Lily tiptoed back to her room, Rowan pulled Holly close.
“She’s okay,” he whispered.
“We’re okay,” Holly answered.
They made love again (slow, quiet, grateful), falling asleep to the soft sound of snow against the windows and the gentle certainty that home ice (wherever it was) would always bring their girl back to them.