Colton skated up, tapped his stick on the boards.
“Are we ready?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting into game mode.
Still, I felt her presence off my right shoulder. Not literally, more of a shift in the air. The type of shift you noticed, even when you tried not to, and I had to get used to it, whether or not I liked it.
Later that night, we lost the game. I dragged myself to my car, the sting of it hanging on my shoulders.
The house was dark when I got back, but the porch light was still on. I locked the door behind me and made a loop through the hall. No TV noise. My sister had probably crashed. And Cassy…
I peeked into her cracked door.
She was out cold, one foot hanging off the bed, blanket kicked to the side. A five-year-old tornado in unicorn pajamas. I stepped in, pushed her to the middle of the bed, pulled the blanket up over her, and brushed a curl away from her cheek.
Her breathing was steady, helping me fade out missed power plays and tonight’s game interview.
I sat on the edge of her bed for a minute.
Playoff losses sucked. They stuck in your chest, letting you know you let more than your team down, that you let your town down too. But Cassy didn’t care about ice time or press questions; she cared that her stuffed penguin was tucked by her side and that bedtime stories came with sound effects.
Since they moved in last month, this had become my routine, checking on her while she slept. There was something about it that reminded me of home. I knew it wouldn’t last. Abby and Jeff were talking again, and that was a good thing.
She left her marriage after too many solo dinners and too many “I’ll be out of town longer” calls from Jeff. She told me she was done carrying it all alone, done pretending that counted as a marriage. With Jeff’s business trips showing no signs of slowing down, she said it felt less like a partnership and more like single motherhood. That was why she held off on a second child; she couldn’t bear to watch another kid grow up asking why their dad wasn’t around.
When they reconcile, there won’t be any more rainbow coloring on the sidewalk, cereal won’t spill in the morning rush, and the whispered “don’t tell Mommy” snacks at bedtime will cease.
I’d miss those. I’d miss them.
I stood after a moment, easing out of her room into mine. One loss down, more games to go. And now, an iPad-wielding fast-tracked woman in small heels would be joining us on the road. This postseason wasn’t going to be boring at all.
Chapter five
Mel
The suitcase yawned open on my bed, exposing just how clueless I really was. Probably because my packing strategy involved bringing everything with me and hoping for the best.
“Whoa! You bought new luggage!” Sam said from the doorway, holding an aggressively pink smoothie.
“Yep. Zipperless, click and roll.”
She walked in and inspected the sleek matching set. “You didn’t want to be known as the back-office girl dragging our busted ones. Nice.” Then she leveled a look at me. “Now you getto wear leggings and look hotter than the hot athletes. Basically, my Pinterest board come to life.”
“This is a work trip,” I muttered, holding up two nearly identical pairs of black slacks. “And they’re not hot. They’re colleagues—sweaty, helmet-wearing colleagues—who are desperate to win the Cup.”
Sam snorted. “Mel, you’re flying with a professional hockey team. If that’s not the start of fun, romance, and a deeply questionable locker-room selfie, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s the beginning of an HR case study, if I listen to you.”
She flopped onto my bed without regard for the fact that I was packing with the precision of a neurotic flight attendant, having only had two hours of sleep and a deep-seated fear of wrinkled blouses.
“You’re overthinking again. It’s not like the Oscars called to hand you a lifetime achievement award for packing.”
“I’m being prepared. There’s a difference. One avoids public humiliation; the other earns me an Oscar with a smile and a perfectly folded sock.”
Sam picked up my carry-on and gave it a shake. “Okay, well, you’ve packed three identical pairs of slacks and enough granola bars to survive an avalanche. So far, your ‘fun sponge’ aesthetic is working.”
I shoved a fourth blouse into the bag, ignoring her entirely valid point.
