Then I spot Mia bouncing down the steps, her unicorn backpack as big as she is, sequins attempting to flash in the winter light. She's talking to another girl, hands gesturing wildly the way she does when she's excited about something. A few weeks ago, she lost her first tooth in my classroom and was so proud she showed everyone, including the janitor.
And there's Lily, scanning the crowd of adults for her mother who is perpetually late. I used to let her help organize the bookshelf while we waited, turning the extra minutes into special time rather than abandonment. Today she stands alone at the top of the steps, shoulders tense under her pink coat. I grip my steering wheel, fighting the urge to go to her, to tell her it'll be okay, that her mom will come.
A flash of blonde curls catches my eye—Vanessa, the little girl with a lisp who tried so hard to say my name correctly. "Mith Thompthon," she'd say, face screwed up with concentration. I taught her to say "Ms. T" instead, and her relief was immediate and beautiful.
The pain is sudden and sharp. These aren't my kids anymore. I'm not their teacher. I'm basically just a stalker sitting in a cold car, longingly watching people's lives play out.
A tap on my window makes me jump. It's Mr. Chen, father of the twins in my class, peering in with concern. I roll the window down further, trying to make it look like I’m not doing what I’m actually doing.
"Ms. Thompson? Are you okay?"
"Hi, Mr. Chen." My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Yes, I'm fine. Just... passing by and couldn’t resist."
His eyes are kind but cautious. "The kids miss you. Michael asked about you just yesterday."
The lump in my throat makes it hard to respond. "I miss them too."
He nods, glancing back at the school where his sons are now racing down the steps. "They told us it was a leave of absence. Will you be coming back?"
"I don't know yet," I say, because it's easier than explaining the complicated truth. "I hope so."
He smiles uncertainly. "Well, we hope so too. Take care of yourself."
As he walks away to collect his boys, I start my car. I've seen enough. Being here hurts more than helps.
At home, my apartment is still a mess, though less apocalyptic than when Elena visited. In the few hours since I was at the school, I've managed to wash some dishes, throw away some of the junk mail, and I even took a shower. Small victories.
Before heading to bed, I open my laptop, telling myself I’ll take 30 minutes to look at job postings, maybe I can find some tutoring positions. Instead, my fingers type "Chicago Blades playoffs" into the search bar.
The headlines are immediate and brutal:
"Blades on Brink of Elimination After Game 5 Loss"
"McCoy's Playoff Nightmare Continues: Zero Points in Five Games"
"Captain's Personal Problems Sinking Blades' Cup Hopes"
I click on the last one, stomach clenching as the article loads. My name jumps out from the text almost immediately:
"...amid custody battle and recent breakup with his girlfriend, Reese Thompson, sources close to the team say McCoy has been 'distracted' and 'not himself' in the locker room..."
I close the lid of my laptop so forcefully it makes a sound protesting. It doesn't help. None of this helps. Not watching the school, not checking up on Logan, not sitting in my apartment pretending I'm dealing with any of this in a healthy way.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. A news alert. Despite myself, I look.
"BLADES FORCE GAME 7: Kovalchuk's OT Heroics Save Season After McCoy Benched in Final Minutes"
I stare at the headline. They won. Without him. Game 7 will be here in Chicago. The winner goes to the Stanley Cup Finals. The biggest game of his career, and his team had to bail him out to get here.
Chapter 27
Logan
The practice rink feels colder at five-thirty in the morning, no music, no voices, just the hum of refrigeration units and my skates cutting ice. My blades crunch through the ice as I push off, the sound echoing in the space. No coaches. No teammates. Just me and my thoughts, growing louder with each lap.
I've been coming here before dawn, trying to find a ritual that might fix what's broken. But my body's not responding—my crossovers are sloppy, my edges uncertain. I've had this muscle memory since I was a boy, but now it's just... gone
I dump out the pucks from the bucket on the bench, scattering near the blue line. Simple shooting drills. The kind I've done my whole life.
