"Mac's here!" Schmitty calls from his window seat. "Now we can finally fucking take off."
"I'm three minutes late," I say, shoving my bag overhead.
"Three minutes of staring at your phone in the parking lot," Benny chirps from across the aisle. "Saw you sitting there like a teenager waiting for a text back."
"Fuck off."
The plane fills with these overgrown teenagers arguing over movie choices, complaining about seat assignments, cracking beers before we've pushed back from the gate. We have a green light to do some team bonding because we don’t play until tomorrow.
"Gentlemen!" Tuck stands in the aisle, deck of cards raised. "Mac took eight hundred off me last trip. Time for revenge."
"Deal me in." I drop into my usual seat up front. "Your money spends the same in LA."
Schmitty slides in across from me, Kovy takes the diagonal. Within minutes we've got drinks on tray tables, chips scattered between us.
"Heard mini-Mac's been a whiz with dinosaur facts," Schmitty says, touching his wedding ring—his tell when he's got shit cards. "My sister's kid went through that phase. Everything was T-Rex this, velociraptor that."
"Tyler's convinced we need a triceratops for defense," I say, raising fifty. "Asked if they make hockey helmets with horns."
"That's fucking adorable," Kovy says, then grimaces. "Don't tell anyone I said adorable."
"Too late," Benny calls out. "Kovy's gone soft!"
"I will end you."
My phone buzzes after we’ve been playing for about an hour—Reese sending a photo from her classroom. Fourth graders covered in glitter, construction paper chaos everywhere.Holiday concert prep. I may never get the glitter out of my hair. How's the flight?
I type back one-handed:Kovy just said 'adorable' about Tyler. Marking it on the calendar.
"Saw that article about you," Tuck says casually, studying his cards. "The one about hockey players with kids. You're mentioned."
My shoulders tense. "What article?"
"Some blog thing. Nothing bad, just noted you've been playing better lately. Speculation about why."
"All in," Schmitty announces, pushing his chips forward, still scratching that ring.
"Either I get it all back or I'm done."
"Call." I flip my cards. Full house.
"Motherfucker!" Schmitty throws down his pair of jacks. "How do you always know?"
"Dad instincts," Tuck suggests. "Can sense bullshit a mile away now."
I pocket the cash—just over a thousand—and lean back as the game breaks up. Outside the window, clouds stretch endlessly below us, painted gold by the setting sun.
"Mind if I sit?" Sully asks, loosens his tie, while dropping into the vacant seat.
"Nice win," he says. "Though I bet you weren't even trying."
"What?"
"Your head's in Chicago, but somehow you're playing cards and hockey better than ever. Seen it before."
He studies me. "First road trip after my oldest was born, I played like garbage. Kept thinking about everything I was missing. Then my wife told me something—'You don’t have to choose between hockey and family. They’ve both chosen you. All you have to do is show up and do your best.'"
He lets that sit.
