"Let's find our table first, buddy," I tell him, spotting Tuck waving at us from across the room. He's at a table with Sully, their chairs angled toward the dance floor where younger kids already chase each other in circles.
Reese squeezes my hand. "I've never seen so many hockey players in suits at once."
"Enjoy it while it lasts. Most of them will have their ties off before dinner's even served." I guide them through the crowd, nodding at coaches and management. Our PR Director catches my eye, her professional smile warming when she sees Tyler. The GM's wife stops us to introduce herself to Reese, complimenting her dress.
"Daddy, look!" Tyler points at Petey's twins, who are building a tower with water glasses. "Can I go play?"
Before I can answer, Schmitty's daughter Maddie—eleven going on thirty—appears at my elbow beside us. "I can watch him, Mr. McCoy?" she offers, already reaching for Tyler's hand. "We've got coloring books and the twins have LEGOs."
I hesitate, scanning the distance to the kids' area, calculating sight lines.
"I'll keep him right where you can see him," she adds, reading my expression perfectly.
"You remember what we talked about, T-Rex?" I crouch to his level. "Indoor voice, gentle hands, and?—"
"Stay where you can see me," he finishes, bouncing on his toes. "I know, Daddy."
"Okay then. Have fun."
Tyler races off with Maddie, who immediately introduces him to the other children. Within seconds, he's been handed a crayon and is scribbling with intense concentration.
"He's fine," Reese says, reading my thoughts. Her hand finds the small of my back, warm through my suit jacket. "And we can both see him perfectly."
"I know, I just?—"
"—worry. It's what parents do." She brushes a strand of my hair into place.
We find our seats, and I'm immediately pulled into conversations about our upcoming road trip, the standings, Kovy's injury timetable. Reese slips easily into conversation with Sully and Tuck's girlfriend, laughing at something I can't hear. The room presses in—champagne flutes clinking, bass notes thrumming, children's shrieks punctuating it all.
Every few minutes, my eyes find Tyler. He's showing his dinosaur to a younger boy, then helping Maddie buildsomething with LEGO blocks, then getting his face painted with a tiny hockey stick on his cheek.
"He's thriving," Sully says, following my gaze. "Stop hovering, Dad."
"That obvious, huh?"
"Only to someone who's been there." His eyes crinkle. "Good to see you happy, Mac."
Before I can respond, the team's social media photographer approaches our table, camera already raised. "Family photos for the New Year's post! Just a few quick shots of everyone."
She starts with Sully's family—his grown kids with their partners. Then Tuck's group, his girlfriend still looking slightly shell-shocked at being thrust into team functions. When she turns to us, I feel a flutter of anxiety. This will be the first official team photo of the three of us.
"Let's get the McCoy family," she says, waving us together.
Family. The word floats between us, uncontested.
I catch Reese's eye as she stands. She's wearing her kindergarten teacher smile—warm and approachable—but I see the question in her eyes. Are we ready for this?
"Tyler, come here buddy!" I call. He sprints over, crayon still clutched in his fist, face paint slightly smudged.
"Picture time!" He throws himself at Reese, who catches him with practiced ease, lifting him to her hip.
Tyler's arm immediately circles her neck, his other hand touching her cheek to turn her face toward his. He grins, gap-toothed and radiant, and whispers something that makes her laugh, her head tilting back. The photographer catches it—that perfect, unguarded moment of connection.
I step in behind them, my hand finding the small of Reese's back. Her dress is silky under my palm, her body warm and solid. Tyler reaches for me with his free arm, creating a circle, the three of us linked.
"Perfect!" the photographer says. "Just like that."
The flash catches us smiling, Tyler between us, Reese's curls brushing my cheek. Another flash. Another moment preserved—evidence of us growing stronger.
