Chapter Nine - Hollis
617 Words
Being friends with Rowan Beckett turns out to be alarmingly easy.
That’s the problem.
It starts small. Harmless. Coffee runs when meetings run long. Inside jokes about color-coded schedules and players who can’t follow simple instructions. A shared look when someone says something ridiculous, followed by an immediate effort not to smile.
We’re good at this.
Too good.
By mid-November, our rhythm is set. Rowan shows up early to planning meetings now—on time, even—and listens without interrupting. He asks questions. He remembers details. He doesn’t flirt. Not overtly. Not the way he used to.
Instead, he becomes… dependable.
That’s worse.
I’m reviewing sponsor contracts at a high table in the concourse when he appears beside me, setting down a cup of coffee without a word.
I glance at it automatically. Milk. One sugar.
I look up. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he says easily. “But you were scowling at that spreadsheet like it insulted your mother.”
“I do not scowl.”
“You absolutely scowl.”
I sigh, taking the cup. “Thank you.”
He leans against the table, close but not touching. Respectful. Intentional.
Friends.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just chasing down a missing invoice.”
He nods. “Want help?”
I hesitate—then shake my head. “I’ve got it.”
He accepts that without argument, which somehow makes my chest tighten.
Later, during a walk-through for the Winter Wonderland skate night, we end up side by side again, moving through logistics while the rink staff sets up lights.
“You’re going to hate this,” Rowan says, gesturing toward the center ice area. “But they want you to make an announcement.”
I blink. “Absolutely not.”
“They want a familiar face,” he continues. “Someone people trust.”
I narrow my eyes. “This feels suspiciously like a setup.”
He grins. “Friends support each other.”
I scoff. “Friends don’t throw each other into microphones.”
He shrugs. “Growth opportunity.”
I laugh despite myself—and then stop when I realize how easy it feels.
Too easy.
That night, I’m finalizing schedules in one of the smaller offices when Rowan knocks lightly on the open door.
“Hey,” he says. “Griffin’s looking for you.”
My shoulders tense automatically. “What for?”
He lifts a brow. “Relax. He just wants to know if you’re coming to dinner again this week.”
“I came once.”
“You were missed,” Rowan says, voice neutral. “Apparently.”
I close my laptop. “I’ll think about it.”
Rowan nods, then hesitates. “You’ve been doing a good job.”
I glance up. “That’s twice today.”
“What?”
“You complimented me earlier too.”
He considers that, then smiles faintly. “Guess I mean it.”
The air shifts.
I look away first.
“Friends,” I remind him lightly.
“Friends,” he agrees.
But the word doesn’t land the way it did before.
Because now it comes with shared routines and familiarity and the quiet awareness that we’re choosing each other’s company—again and again—without calling it what it is.
As he turns to leave, I notice something small and stupid and entirely unfair:
I’m already anticipating the next time he’ll show up beside me without being asked.
And that’s when the truth settles, slow and unwelcome:
This agreement isn’t keeping us safe.
It’s just making it easier to forget how close we’re standing to the edge.
- Writer
