“I think he is not playing like he once did.”
They all stare at the screen as Johnson misreads another shot by a full two seconds. Two seconds in hockey might as well be a lifetime.
And when the game ends, so does the winning streak.
“You’re going to get busier,” Paul shakes his head.
It’safter midnight when my phone vibrates as I’m feeding Savannah, and I hesitate for half a second because I don’t want to keep her up, but I see Deacon’s name, so I answer. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “You still up?”
“Feeding Savannah. How are you?”
He avoids answering. “Thank you for the pictures, you two looked amazing.”
“How are you?” I ask again
“Doing okay,” he says simply.
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
“They sent Johnson down.” He sighs. “Kid just lost millions, and I hate that I feel bad for him.”
“You’re human, Deacon.” I remind him. “And a good one.”
“Mentored him,” he says. “He was really good once.”
When I don’t say anything, he chuckles, “I know you can’t talk about this but?—”
“I can talk about how it makes you feel,” I say softly.
“Felt good until I watched them walk him to a car, he looked scared.” He clears his throat. “You ever get scared?”
He’s changing the subject, and that’s okay, he hasn’t processed it all. “Scared?”
He exhales softly. “It’s Halloween. Not everything is about hockey.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me, but it’s small, tired as I look down at Savannah. “I was terrified,” I say before I can think better of it. “I walked across the stage on Graduation day. May tenth. Everyone had flowers and families. I had my cap, my gown, and a baby that wouldn’t wait much longer.”
“You were alone?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. I mean, Lydia and Maya were there.”
“When will you see them again?” He asks quietly.
“I think they’re coming to New York for the Holidays.”
“My folks are too. Tell me about that night.”
My throat tightens, and I clear it. “I went home that night and started getting cramps. I thought it was false labor — stress or dehydration. But then the contractions came fast, and I realized it wasn’t. I called 911 and then dropped the phone and couldn’t get it together to call Lydia.”
There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. Then his voice comes through, low and steady. “You did that by yourself?”
“Yeah.” I press a hand to my chest, remembering. “So, my answer, yes, I’ve been scared. I was scared I’d die before I even saw her. Scared she wouldn’t cry. But she did, and the second I heard her little voice, it was like everything that ever hurt me just—stopped.”
The silence on the other end isn’t empty.
“She was born on Mother’s Day,” I whisper. “The world’s weirdest gift.”
