Footnote: Badaszek does not abide by puck bunnies, aka female superfans, intent on scoring a hockey star, flooding the locker room. Casual dating is a no-no, so we do it on the down low. Well, I did anyway. Then got my jaw smashed, so there’s that.
From here, my mind spins. What will my family think? Mom will be heartbroken when she learns it’s not real. She’s been pushing me to commit to someone for years, sending me pictures of her friends’ daughters. My brothers will take the snot out of me. Two of them are married and one is engaged—not to mention they’re all highly successful and respected in their particular fields. Meanwhile, I play with sticks all day. I mean, I’m really good at it, or I was.
A deep and unfulfilled longing for the surge of anticipation before a game and then showing up for my teammates by being my best, leaves me with a rotten and uncomfortable sense that I’m missing out.
I shift onto my side, careful not to disturb the pillow wall.
Bree’s breathing has settled into a peaceful rhythm. I wonder what she’s dreaming about—probably plot twists and character arcs, not the awkward reality of our situation.
After a restless night,I’m up before dawn, as usual.Years of early practice have programmed my body to rise with the first hint of light. But I’m not alone in my bed.
Bree sleeps soundly over the wall of pillows, meaning everything from yesterday wasn’t a vivid dream. We’re still married. It’s not like I was expecting to wake up andpoof, she’d be gone. Or for the scenario to be different, but part of me thought maybe I’d had a visit from the ghost of Christmas future, like inThe Christmas Carolstory.
I slip out of bed and change into my running clothes. After freshening up, the frigid morning air hits my lungs as I step outside, burning so good. My breath forms clouds in front of my face as I set off down the street.
Most everyone in town is still snug in their beds, decorative lights still twinkling on houses and storefronts without timers in the gray light before the sun comes up fully. My grin grows at each plastic or inflatable yard decoration I pass. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and even this strange situation can’t dampen my holiday spirit.
Nina mentioned that Bree may have been bitten by a bah humbug. I can cure that. I haven’t been Grinchy, just busy as I focus on returning to hockey. But it’s Christmastime and the festivities start now.
By the time I return home, the sun has crested the horizon. Bree is still asleep—drained from yesterday’s excitement or not an early riser. I should know these types of things about my wife. Though she did mention writing in the morning.
I shower quickly and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Coffee first—that’s non-negotiable. I set the pot brewing while I pull eggs and vegetables from the fridge for omelets and tune my music app to a Christmas channel and whistle along.
I’m just plating the food when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Bree appears in the doorway, already dressed in jeans and a fuzzywhite sweater. Her hair is pulled back, highlighting her smooth cheekbones, but they don’t lift with a smile. She looks put-together but slightly uneasy. Her broody gaze at the glowing lights strung up around the windows and my general air of festive cheer at this hour suggest she’s not a morning person. Nothing I can’t fix.
“Good morning.”
She mumbles something in response that sounds likeSo this wasn’t a bad dream.
Sliding a mug of coffee across the counter, I ask, “Why don’t eggs tell jokes?”
She grunts, accepting the hot beverage like she traveled across a desert all night and now that she reached an oasis, she is in no mood for bad dad jokes.
Getting to the punchline, I say, “If you’re dying to know why eggs don’t tell jokes, it’s because they might crack up.”
Her cheek twitches, but I don’t get so much as a titter.
“How do you take your coffee?” I gesture to the cream and sugar. Another thing I should know about my bride. I’m ready with another joke about lattes, but hold back.
“Just a splash of cream.” She takes a sip and looks surprised. “This is good.”
“You sound shocked. I do possess some domestic skills.”
She tips her head from side to side. “There I thought you were a caveman. Truth be told, I don’t. Nina, who makes everything from scratch, would be mortified if she saw my packaged food diet.”
“Unless you truly enjoy microwave meals, that changes today. I make the best sammies.”
Her forehead furrows.
“Sandwiches.” I share a bit about the team nutritionist getting me on track with healthier choices and swaps. “Though I never say no to homemade Christmas cookies.”
She takes a seat at the kitchen island, wrapping her hands around the mug. “We need ground rules.”
“I was hoping you’d say a weekly menu, but sure.”
“This is a business arrangement. For research and financial purposes only.”
“Agreed.” I set out some ketchup in case she wants it for her eggs.
