This excerpt is Chapter One of Ringside, a standalone novella in the Forge Sparks universe. The full story—including the guaranteed HEA—is available on Amazon and free with Kindle Unlimited.
Chapter 1
“Dean, we need to talk.”
He didn’t look up. Margaret Henley’s voice had that pitch—the one that meant insurance forms and explanations he’d given three times already. Another festival, another crisis. At least nobody’s sued us yet.
Dean stood, brushing wood shavings from his jeans. The mayor wore her navy blazer like armor. Two council members flanked her. Bookends in khaki.
“Mornin’, Margaret.” He pocketed the wrench, already cataloging exits.
“Insurance called.” She held up a manila folder thick as a phone book. “They used the phrase ‘too much risk’ four times. Also ‘litigation-prone’ and ‘attractive nuisance.'”
Dean’s gut went cold. Had nothing to do with October. “Attractive nuisance. That’s a new one.”
“After Mrs. Patterson launched that pumpkin into the dunk tank—” Margaret paused. Watched him.
“Councilman Richards went swimmin’. Dignity got wet. Nobody bled.” Dean turned back to the stage, tested the bolt. Solid. Unlike his job security, apparently.
Margaret’s voice softened. “Look, the council likes you. But perfect isn’t optional anymore.”
The words landed like a wrestler taking the mat. Eight years maintaining Riverside Park—twenty-three acres of trails, playgrounds, open space he’d known since he was seven. His grandmother had taught him tree names here. After his shoulder injury ended college wrestling, this park had been salvation. Landing exactly where he belonged after failing at what he was supposed to be good at.
“How long?”
“Festival needs to be flawless. Show them we can manage large events safely.” She shifted the folder. “One more claim and they’ll start askin’ whether Parks and Rec needs a full-time supervisor at all.”
After the council left, Dean stayed by the stage. Red squirrel chattered from an oak. Traffic hummed on Maple Street. Joggers’ feet hit pavement in rhythm. The park waking up, oblivious to budget cuts and insurance actuaries.
His radio crackled. “Dean, you out there?”
“Here, Janet.”
“Vandalism at the playground. Spray paint on the slide.”
Perfect. Dean headed toward the playground, muscles moving on autopilot. His phone buzzed. Mom: Sarah’s back in town. Thought you should know.
Even better. Ex-girlfriend returning right when his professional life was hangin’ by insurance paperwork.
The graffiti was minimal—orange spray paint, amateur symbols that might’ve been gang tags if Maple Hill had gangs. Dean scrubbed at the letters, noting details his brain cataloged automatically. Rust-Oleum metallic orange. Not sold locally. Cigarette butt nearby—menthols, Seneca brand. Unusual.
He bagged the butt. Probably nothing. But probably nothing had a way of becoming something when you weren’t watching.
***
Dean had been noticing the runner for two weeks.
Seven-thirty every morning. Same route—Elm Street gate, main loop counter-clockwise, cut across the meadow toward the pavilion. Steady pace. Efficient form that spoke of serious training, not casual fitness.
What caught his attention wasn’t consistency. Plenty of people treated the park like their personal gym. It was the way she moved—always aware, always ready. Like she expected trouble and knew exactly how to handle it.
This morning she wore black leggings, gray hoodie. Dark hair in a ponytail that swung with each stride. Dean was replacing dock boards when she passed the pond close enough that he heard her breathing rhythm, saw vapor clouds in cool air.
She glanced his way. Quick look. But something in that glance made him pause, hammer raised. Her eyes were amber—sharp, assessing. Then she was past, continuing her circuit.
“You’re starin’.”
Janet Morrison stood on the shoreline, holding a trash bag, wearing a smirk that said she’d been watching him watch the runner.
“Just makin’ sure everyone’s safe.” He drove the nail home harder than necessary.
“Uh-huh. That why you been timin’ your morning rounds to coincide with her jogs?”
Had he? Dean considered. Yeah. Probably. Not consciously, but his internal clock had adjusted to ensure he was visible when she passed through.
“She seems competent.”
Janet laughed—sharp bark that startled a duck. “That’s one word. I saw her break up a fight outside Miller’s last week. Two guys arguin’ over a parking space, gettin’ heated. She walked up, said somethin’ I couldn’t hear. Suddenly they’re apologizin’ to each other.”
“Huh.” Dean hammered another nail, processing. “Local?”
“Stayin’ with her brother. Jim Walsh, works at the bank. She’s been in town maybe three weeks.”
Three weeks. Started running here right after arriving. Dean wondered what brought her to Maple Hill, why she needed daily exercise in circuits around his park.
His radio crackled. “Dean, situation at the north trail.”
He was moving before Janet finished. “What kind?”
“College kids day-drinkin’. Botherin’ the other users. Female jogger called it in.”
The north trail connected to residential neighborhoods—families used it for evening walks, older residents preferred its gentler grade. Drunk college students harassing people was exactly the kind of incident that’d give the insurance company ammunition.
He found them easy. Four young men in university sweatshirts, cooler full of beer, Bluetooth speaker pumping music that violated three noise ordinances. Two women stood twenty feet away—clearly wanting to pass, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.
“Ladies, come on over! We don’t bite!” One guy raised his beer, words slurring.
Dean approached at an angle, putting himself between the women and the group. “Gentlemen. Need you to pack it up.”
“Oh look! Party police!” The leader stood up, swaying. Tall, broad-shouldered. Probably played football. “We’re just havin’ fun, officer.”
“Not an officer. Parks and Rec supervisor. You’re violatin’ several policies. No alcohol, no amplified music, and you’re blockin’ a public trail.”
The guy laughed. Friends joined in. The women looked around—trying to decide whether to retreat or push forward.
Then footsteps. Steady, controlled rhythm Dean had been unconsciously timing his mornings around.
“Problem here?”
The runner stood ten feet away. Hands loose. Weight balanced. Something in her posture made everyone turn.
“No problem, sweetheart.” The drunk student turned, attention shifting. “Just invitin’ some ladies to our party.”
She smiled. Wasn’t warm.
“Nice. But they look like they’d rather continue their walk.” She stepped closer. Movement eerily quiet for running shoes. “And you look like you might be more comfortable enjoyin’ your party somewhere that isn’t blockin’ a public trail.”
The guy laughed again. Less confident. “We got ourselves a tough girl. You gonna make us move?”
“Gonna ask nicely one more time.”
Something shifted in her stance—subtle change Dean felt more than saw. The college student must’ve felt it too. His smirk faltered.
“Look, lady—”
He reached out—probably worked fine in bars. Wrong move with someone who looked capable of dismantling him without effort.
What happened next took three seconds.
The guy’s hand never made contact. Instead he was on the ground, arm twisted, making sounds that weren’t words. Dean’s wrestler brain cataloged automatically: Hip placement like judo, follow-through pure jiu-jitsu. Cross-trained extensively. Maybe more.
Friends sobered up. Started packing their cooler.
“Get off me!” The guy tried getting up. The runner maintained her grip—minimal effort.
“Say please.”
“Please!”
She released him, stepped back. He scrambled up—face red with embarrassment and anger. Smart enough not to escalate.
“You crazy—”
“Stop talkin’.” Dean’s voice cut through. He stepped forward. Not as obviously dangerous as the runner, but bigger than any college student. Calm authority that suggested crossing him would be a mistake.
The group gathered their stuff. Left with muttered complaints and backward glances. The women thanked both Dean and the runner before continuing their walk.
When they were alone, Dean turned to his unexpected ally.
“That was impressive.”
She shrugged, pulled her hoodie straight. “Basic self-defense. They were drunk and sloppy.”
“Didn’t look like self-defense. Looked like complete control.”
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe. Wariness. Then she smiled. This time it reached her eyes.
“Leona Walsh. I’m Jim’s sister.”
“Dean Hollis. I run this place.” He gestured around. “Thank you. For steppin’ in.”
“Thank you for backin’ me up.” She glanced at her fitness tracker. “Should finish my run.”
She started to leave, then paused. “This happen often?”
“More than I’d like. Less than you might think.” He studied her face. “You handled it like you’ve dealt with aggressive drunks before.”
“Used to work security.” The answer came quick. Smooth. “You develop instincts.”
Security. Possible. But watching her move, seeing that takedown’s precision, Dean suspected there was more to Leona Walsh than club bouncing.
“Well, if you ever want part-time work, Parks and Rec could use someone with your instincts.”
She laughed—genuine sound that made him smile despite himself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
This time when she jogged away, Dean didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching.
***
The Early Owl Café occupied Main and Birch corner, wide windows offering perfect view of Maple Hill’s morning rhythms. Dean had been coming here since sixteen—first with wrestling teammates, then alone when he needed to think, now out of habit and genuine affection for Joan Haskell’s particular brand of caffeinated wisdom.
Bell chimed. Joan looked up from the espresso machine, eyebrow raised.
“Late. Usually here by eight-fifteen Saturdays.”
“Had excitement at the park.” Dean slid onto his usual counter stool. Familiar sounds surrounded him—steamed milk hissing, dishes clattering, conversations murmuring in variations that’d probably been happening since the place opened thirty years ago.
“Good kind or insurance-claim kind?”
“Drunk college kids botherin’ joggers. Got handled before it became a problem.”
Joan poured his coffee without asking. Dark roast, splash of cream, no sugar. “Handled how?”
“Jim Walsh’s sister was there. She de-escalated.”
“Ah.” Joan’s expression shifted to something between interest and speculation. “The mysterious sister. Been wonderin’ when I’d get a look at her.”
“Mysterious?”
“Jim’s tight-lipped about why she’s stayin’ with him. Says she’s takin’ time off work, but…” Joan shrugged, wiping the counter. “Somethin’ about the way he says it suggests there’s more.”
Dean sipped coffee, processing. Leona had mentioned staying “just until Christmas.” Temporary arrangement that usually meant running from something or waiting for something to blow over.
Bell chimed. Dean glanced up—saw Leona walking in, scanning the café with same awareness she’d shown on the trail. Changed out of running clothes into jeans and green sweater that made her eyes look more gold than brown.
Their gazes met. She smiled. “The Parks and Rec hero.”
“Just doin’ my job.” Heat climbed his neck. “Coffee’s good here.”
“So I’ve heard.” She approached the counter. Joan stepped forward with unconcealed curiosity.
“You must be Leona. I’m Joan Haskell. Own this place. Been makin’ coffee for your brother since he was sneakin’ out of high school to meet girls.”
“Pleasure.” Leona’s handshake looked firm, businesslike. “What would you recommend?”
“Depends. You a coffee person or one of those tea drinkers who wanders into coffee shops lookin’ lost?”
Dean expected something complicated. Most newcomers thought Joan’s straightforward menu was some kind of test. Instead she smiled.
“Tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”
“Like her already,” Joan muttered to Dean, then louder: “Comin’ right up.”
Leona slid onto the stool next to Dean’s. Close enough he caught a hint of her scent—clean, slightly spicy. Pine needles and fresh air.
“Thanks again for this mornin’.” She traced a pattern on the counter. “Though I gotta ask—bein’ Parks and Rec supervisor usually involve breakin’ up fights?”
“More often than you’d think. Parks bring out best and worst in people.” He turned, studied her profile. “You said you used to work security, but that wasn’t security-level conflict resolution. That was somethin’ else.”
Long quiet moment. She watched Joan prepare tea. “Competed. Long time ago.” She shrugged. “Reflexes stick around longer than the career does.”
“What kind of competition?”
Another pause. “Mixed disciplines. Didn’t work out.”
The way she said it—flat, final—suggested this topic was closed. Dean recognized the tone. Used it himself when people asked about wrestling.
“Joan, could I get one of those blueberry scones?” Leona’s subject change was smooth but obvious.
“Course, honey.” Joan wrapped a scone in wax paper, but her eyes were sharp with interest. “So you’re stayin’ through Christmas?”
“That’s the plan.” Leona accepted tea and scone. “Jim’s been generous, lettin’ me crash in his spare room while I figure out what’s next.”
“What might be next?” Joan’s question was casual. Dean had seen her interview enough people to know she was filing every detail.
“Haven’t decided. Considerin’ my options.”
Translation: running from something, hadn’t figured out where to run next. Dean recognized diplomatic deflection—gave them himself for years when people asked about plans, ambitions, why someone with his education and background was content managing a small-town park.
“Maple Hill’s good for thinkin’ things through,” he said. “Quiet. Not too many distractions.”
Leona glanced at him. Might’ve been gratitude.
“That’s what I’m countin’ on.”
“Though it’s not always quiet,” Joan interjected. “October’s festival season. Pumpkin Festival next weekend, then Halloween, harvest dance. You picked an active time to visit.”
“Dean mentioned the festival. Sounds like a big deal.”
“Biggest event of the year,” Dean said, catching himself before adding complications about insurance and budget cuts. “Brings in visitors from three counties. Food vendors, live music, activities for kids.”
“Might check it out” Leona sipped tea. “If I stick around.”
The way she said ‘if’ suggested uncertainty deeper than travel plans. Dean found himself hoping she’d still be here, then immediately questioned why it mattered.
“You should,” Joan said. “And you should probably talk to Dean about volunteerin’. He’s always lookin’ for extra hands festival week.”
“Joan—” Dean started.
“What kind of volunteerin’?” Leona turned toward him with interest.
“Setup, crowd control, cleanup. Nothin’ too excitin’.” He hesitated, thinking about insurance concerns, pressure to make everything perfect. “Though given your background, you might be good at managin’ crowds.”
“Could help with that.” She seemed to consider. “I’ll be honest—I’m goin’ stir-crazy just joggin’ and readin’ Jim’s back issues of Sports Illustrated.”
“You sure? Not glamorous work.”
“Not lookin’ for glamorous.” Something in her tone suggested glamorous had caused problems. “Lookin’ for useful.”
They talked for twenty more minutes—about the festival, the park, Maple Hill’s particular rhythms and traditions. Joan kept finding reasons to linger near their end of the counter, obviously enjoying the conversation.
When Leona finally left, Joan immediately turned to Dean with a grin.
“That one’s trouble.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Good kind of trouble. Kind that shakes things up in ways you didn’t know you needed.” Joan began wiping the counter with unnecessary vigor. “When’s the last time you looked at a woman like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you were actually seein’ her instead of just bein’ polite.”
Dean opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Joan had a point. He’d dated since Sarah left—few women, nothing serious—but those relationships felt like going through motions.
“She’s leavin’ after Christmas.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’ll find a reason to stay.” Joan’s smile was knowing. “Maple Hill’s got a way of growin’ on people. Especially people who think they don’t wanna be anywhere specific.”
Dean left the café with coffee taste on his tongue and memory of amber-flecked eyes. As he walked back toward Riverside Park, he found himself hoping Joan was right about Maple Hill growing on people.
He also wondered what exactly Leona Walsh was running from, and whether a small town in the middle of nowhere could possibly be enough to make her want to stop running.
