1 Laces
I’m not ready,” Cassidy said, staring at herself in the mirror like it had personally offended her.
“I look like I’m—”
“—a gorgeous, functional adult woman?” Sara cut in from the doorway, arms folded.
Cassidy grimaced. “I look like I’m trying.”
“You are trying.”
“That’s the problem.”
The dress felt foreign. Cassidy O’Neill understood flannel, denim, leggings with school logos, and the precise break-in point of a good pair of skates. She did not understand soft fabrics that required posture.
Sara walked into the room and adjusted the strap on Cassidy’s shoulder. “You teach kindergarten. You manage twenty-five five-year-olds with glue sticks and feelings. You can handle one man over dinner.”
“That’s different,” Cassidy muttered.
“How?”
“Five-year-olds don’t expect chemistry.”
Sara’s eyebrow arched. “You’re not conducting a lab experiment.”
Cassidy exhaled slowly.
She had grown up outside Calgary, where hockey wasn’t a hobby—it was oxygen. She played through high school, earned a scholarship, played through college until the competition turned sharper and faster and her body started paying invoices it couldn’t afford. She’d walked away on her own terms.
Now she taught kindergarten. She tied tiny shoelaces. She read the same picture book seventeen times in a row with Oscar-worthy enthusiasm. She loved it.
Her life was simple. Intentional.
Blind dates were neither.
“Tell me again why I’m doing this,” Cassidy said.
“Because,” Sara replied, counting on her fingers, “he’s kind, he’s intelligent, he doesn’t treat women like accessories, and he once drove three hours to help a teammate move without telling anyone.”
Cassidy narrowed her eyes. “You rehearsed that.”
“Maybe.”
“And?”
“And he’s Canadian.”
“That’s not a selling point. That’s a baseline requirement.”
Sara grinned. “Fine. He plays hockey.”
Cassidy stilled. “Rec league?”
Sara hesitated.
Cassidy’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Like... beer league?”
“Professional.”
Silence.
Cassidy turned back to the mirror. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s a whole... orbit,” Cassidy said. “That’s cameras and interviews and women who own heels as a lifestyle.”
“He’s not like that.”
“They’re all like that.”
“He’s not.”
Cassidy folded her arms. “You went to college with him. That was before the draft. Before contracts. Before summer houses.”
“He got drafted out of college,” Sara said. “And he’s still the same guy. Quiet. Awkward at parties. Hates attention unless he’s on the ice.”
“That’s convenient,” Cassidy muttered.
“He spends his summers traveling,” Sara added. “Backpacking. Fishing. He sent me a photo last year from a tiny village in Norway because he wanted to see where his grandparents grew up.”
Cassidy paused.
That didn’t sound like a headline.
“He wants to settle down,” Sara said more gently. “He’s not into the scene. He wants marriage. Kids. A dog that sheds.”
Cassidy swallowed before she could stop herself.
“That’s... specific.”
“He told me once that the only thing he’s scared of is building a career and coming home to an empty house forever.”
The room went quiet.
Cassidy looked back at her reflection.
She didn’t want spectacle. She didn’t want noise. She wanted Sunday mornings and coffee and someone who understood what winter felt like.
“You’re overpromising,” she said quietly.
“I’m not,” Sara replied.
⸻
The restaurant was cozy without trying too hard—brick walls, soft lighting, the low murmur of conversation. Not flashy.
Cassidy arrived first.
Strategic.
She chose a table near the side wall. Clear view of the entrance. Habit.
She smoothed her dress and immediately regretted smoothing her dress.
The door opened.
He didn’t look like a brand.
He looked like a man who’d grown up shoveling snow.
Tall. Broad shoulders that couldn’t quite disguise years of training. Dark jacket. Dark jeans. His hair was slightly too long in front, like he’d forgotten to get it cut.
He paused just inside the doorway, scanning—not arrogantly. Assessing. A defenseman reading a breakout.
She recognized that.
His gaze landed on her.
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. And something warmer.
He walked over.
“Cassidy?” he asked.
His voice was low, steady. Softer than she expected.
“Michael?”
Up close, he wasn’t polished. There was no public smile. No performance.
He looked... nervous.
“I’m glad it’s actually you,” he said.
She blinked. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“I had a brief panic that this was a prank.”
She laughed before she could filter it.
His shoulders relaxed instantly.
Good, she thought. He’s human.
They sat.
There was a quiet beat where neither of them reached for their phones.
“So,” she said. “Professional hockey.”
He exhaled lightly, almost amused. “We’re starting there?”
“It feels efficient.”
He nodded once. “It’s my job.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
He tilted his head. “What’s your way?”
“High-speed, full-contact chaos with national broadcast commentary.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “That too.”
He didn’t lean into it. Didn’t embellish.
“You don’t seem like you love the spotlight,” she said.
“I love the game,” he replied. “The rest of it is just... part of the contract.”
There was no arrogance in it. Just fact.
“And you?” he asked. “Sara says you teach.”
“Kindergarten.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s braver than anything I do.”
She snorted. “You block slapshots.”
“Five-year-olds have no fear and unlimited glitter,” he countered.
Fair.
She studied him more carefully now.
He wasn’t scanning the room to see who noticed him. He wasn’t checking his phone. He was present. Fully.
“Why agree to a blind date?” she asked.
He didn’t deflect.
“Because I don’t meet people the normal way,” he said. “And I’m tired of guessing whether someone likes me or the version of me they’ve seen on TV.”
There it was.
Honest. Unpolished.
Cassidy felt something shift in her chest.
“I don’t watch much hockey,” she said evenly.
His eyes met hers.
“Good,” he replied.
She tilted her head. “Good?”
“I’d rather you meet me than the highlights.”
Silence settled between them—but not awkward.
Aligned.
“Okay,” she said. “Then tell me something that isn’t on your player profile.”
He considered that.
“I want a house near water someday,” he said. “Not big. Just quiet. I want kids who learn to skate before they can spell. And I don’t want to miss it because I’m chasing something louder.”
The air changed.
Cassidy hadn’t expected that.
She hadn’t expected the steadiness in his voice. The certainty.
“My turn?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I quit playing after college,” she said. “Not because I wasn’t good enough. I just... wanted something different. I wanted to stay in one place. I wanted to build something small and real.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“That doesn’t sound small,” he said quietly.
Across the restaurant, someone glanced at him twice. Recognition flickered.
He didn’t notice.
He was still looking at her like she was the only thing in frame.
And for the first time all evening, Cassidy forgot about the dress.
She forgot about the blind date.
She forgot about the noise.
Because the spark wasn’t loud.
It was steady.
Like laces pulled tight before stepping onto clean ice.
