I focused on the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly lest I swerve into the nearest ditch.
And there it was again, that old feeling stirring up. The one that showed at college reunions and weddings, whispering that I was the one who hadn’t moved forward. Not Vince with his polished LinkedIn profile, not Sam, who was a walking medical journal, and definitely not Sean Murphy, blissfully coparenting with a woman who bought matching lemon napkins.
Chapter eleven
Sean
Saturdays without a game were rarer than a quiet shift at the local coffee shop this time of year. After morning drills with the guys, I headed home. Cassy was ready at the door, skates slung over her shoulder, backpack packed, and….
“What’s up with the stuffed penguin?”
“He’s going to watch me skate,” she declared, as if that was the most obvious truth.
Abby threw me a knowing grin and handed Cassy off. I’d obviously signed up for a half-marathon without training.
“Finally, it’s you and me today, Sweet. Are you happy?” I said as she bounced into the car.
She nodded vigorously.
We ended up at the arena. The place was empty, save for the refrigeration units’ hum and Cassy’s excited chatter filling the air. I laced up her skates and held her steady on the ice, guiding her small waist as she wobbled and giggled.
Her joy and little huffs echoed off the glass.
I’d done this before. Same stance, same grip, same gentle uplift. But not with a five-year-old. With Mel.
I’d planned to fly to Alberta this weekend for the game together. That would’ve been the excuse to smoothly get into conversation after the way she left the dropoff. But we’d won, stayed home, and my half-baked strategy vanished.
I hadn’t seen her since, and I didn’t know what I’d say when I did. One moment, I thought I understood my lines; the next, the script was missing its first page.
I was a guy who planned, who scheduled, who definitely did not wing it. Especially not with women, and certainly not in the middle of playoffs. But now I was stuck with a kiss that blindsided me.
After an hour of huffs and giggles with a five-year-old, I figured Cassy had enough stories to last a few months.
“Alright, one last thing,” I said, steadying her at center ice. “How about a picture for your big debut?”
She gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “Really?”
“If you can stand still for five whole seconds...”
“I can do it!” She planted her feet, squared off with the ice. “Pitou has to be in it too,” she declared.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Pitou.” The stuffed one I’d nearly tripped on earlier.
I skated to the boards and brought the plush toy to her.
“Don’t drop him,” she whispered, taking him with utmost care.
I backed up a few paces, pulled out my phone, and snapped shots.
Her arms wrapped around Pitou as if guarding a priceless treasure, cheeks pink, beaming, she looked like she’d just won a stuffed-animal trophy for cuteness.
“Did you get it?” she called, her voice echoing with triumphant glee.
“Yeah. You look like an adorable, penguin-loving pro.”
“I want it. Please.”
“I’ll print it for you when we get home,” I promised, already picturing a framed copy on my desk.
