Chapter thirteen
Sean
I pulled in front of Mel’s house, engine idling low, headlights cutting down the street. The silence stretched, charged with the delightful awkwardness of a first (fake) date. She hadn’t unbuckled her seatbelt, and part of me wanted to lean in for a kiss. That would be the right end to a dinner that started fake but had too many real edges to ignore.
I put the brake on that impulse. Mel didn’t need a coach calling the next play right now; the last thing I wanted was to make her feel cornered. So I kept my hands on the wheel.
“We’re good?” I asked.
She nodded, eyes flicking to mine. “Yeah. Thanks for dinner.”
“I like that you came.”
She slipped out, shutting the door softly, leaving behind a faint scent of vanilla. I watched her disappear through the side gate, her hair bouncing with each step. No look back. Not that I expected one, but it stung a little anyway.
Back home, I walked toward the bathroom through a landscape of Cassy’s forgotten toys and a perpetually left-on light. I switched it off, then peeked into her room. She was starfish-sprawled with Pitou, the penguin, wedged under her arm.
I stood there a second, a soft smile tugging at my lips. I’d really miss her when she left. Abby and Jeff were getting close again, a happy ending finally shimmering into view for them.
Even if Abby’s “We’re taking it one step at a time” sounded light, and her eyes had that careful look of someone trying not to trip over their own hope. Jeff coming to visit next week was a win in my book.
That story was promising, unlike my dad’s endless “new beginnings” that always looped back to the same old mess.
Once, early in my playing years, a couple of sports blogs thought my dad’s drinking was a scoop worth chasing. I remembered the knot in my gut, the mix of dread and shame I didn’t want to name. Back then, I was protecting Abby and the little bubble of normalcy we had left.
Same as I wanted to protect Cassy now.
I pulled her blanket up, brushed a stray curl off her cheek, and stepped out, cracking her door per Abby’s instructions.
Walking to my office, my brain flipped a switch.
Round Three of the playoffs against the Vegas Golden Knights was tomorrow night. I took off my shoes, grabbed the lineup sheet from the table, and scanned it. Same guys, same system, different pressure. We were moving ahead, and this was thecritical stretch when players misfired on simple plays and coaches started to micromanage.
There was no room for that if I wanted to gun for the Cup. I had to keep the guys loose and trust them to keep doing what worked. Not overanalyzing the game and definitely not Mel. Which was a joke, considering my brain had already logged every detail of her in that dress and was still running the marathon replay.
The way she leaned in when she was listening, and her lips pressed together when I told her about my marriage—little things that said she was holding it, not passively hearing it.
I smiled, heading to my room to get ready for bed. It wasn’t until I hit the lights, plunging my room into darkness, that I let myself fully exhale.
Fake date or not, I was in it now. My grin widened.
The following day rolled along like any other game day, a blurb of light training and clocks ticking toward puck drop. Mel and I didn’t speak face-to-face, but after the final game buzzer, a text from her popped up on my screen.
Mel:Hey, nice win! I thought you should start filing info for Saturday’s walk-through fire: Sam aced her presentation.
Sean:Filed. I’m your favorite sponge, soaking it all in, no complaints.
Mel:Ew. That’s a gross nickname, SPONGE. But it fits. Filed.
Sean:Try me, and I’ll start collecting debt from you.
Mel: \*laughing emoji\*
Sean:Has your mom started measuring Vince for a tux yet?
Mel:Wow. Straight for the jugular.
Sean:Figured you could handle it. You’re the emotionally unavailable one in this fake relationship.
