Focus.
I sauce the pass over the goalie's stick. Benny buries it.
3-1.
Coach catches my eye as I skate to the bench. A look that says he saw the hesitation. Brief, but he saw it.
In the locker room, while the trainer is wrapping my hand, I feel the game settling into my bones. Good game. Great game, even. But my knuckles throb, and somewhere in Chicago, Tyler's sleeping with my practice puck.
"You were locked in tonight," Petey says, unlacing his skates.
"Good night."
"More than good. You're playing like a man possessed."
The media floods in. Standard questions until one reporter asks, "You seemed to lose focus for a second in the third. What happened?"
"Hockey's a fast game," I say. "Sometimes you think, sometimes you just play."
But he's right. For one second, I was in Chicago instead of LA.
Later, on the bus back to the hotel, I close my eyes and see Tyler's face crumpling when I couldn't tell him when "soon" was. My knuckles pulse with each heartbeat. The hotel room will be too quiet again tonight.
The bus fills with post-game chatter. Guys making plans for the night. Five years ago, I'd be leading the charge. Now I just want to sleep.
Small victories.
More games to play. More goodnight calls to make. More nights in quiet rooms.
But Christmas is coming.
I've never given a shit about Christmas before. Another day off. Another excuse to drink too much at team parties. But this year I have a son, a son old enough to make Christmas memories with his dad. Old enough for it to matter.
I already ordered his present.
And Reese—I know what I'm getting her too. We were walking down Michigan Avenue when she pointed it out in a jewelry shop window. Been thinking about it all day.
The bus is quiet now. Everyone's asleep or watching movies on their phones. I close my eyes and for once, I'm not thinking about the next game or the next shift.
I'm thinking about Christmas morning. About being home.
Soon.
Chapter 17
Reese
I'm standing beside Logan's idling Range Rover, a glitter-shedding reindeer from Target buckled in back next to Tyler's car seat. Wind cuts through my wool tights as I stare at Jessica's brownstone, waiting for Logan to bring Tyler down. The sun's already low, December blue and pink slashing the icy sidewalk. Last week I joked to Elena about playing "Bonus Mommy" for Christmas, but now that the actual handoff is happening, my hands won't stop shaking.
The front window gleams with paper snowflakes, a sign reading "HO HO HO" in careful glitter pen. I imagine Jessica inside, zipping Tyler's coat with efficient precision, reminding him about indoor voices and gentle hands. The tension in that house must be thick enough to cut.
I'm digging through my purse for a chapstick when the front door opens. Jessica emerges first—white puffer coat hitting mid-thigh, hair pulled back severely. Her hand grips Tyler's wrist. Not holding—controlling. Logan follows half a step behind, hoodie under his jacket, shoulders tense. Tyler bounces between them in a green parka with dinosaur spikes, black snow pants covered in velcro tabs.
I shove the chapstick back in my purse without putting any on.
Tyler spots me and breaks free, arms windmilling. "Bonus Mommy!" His voice carries down the entire block.
I nearly trip over my own feet to catch him as he barrels into my legs.
