Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they're obsessed with their grandson and wanted him all to themselves.
But, hey—who am I to complain?
Caroline and I did take advantage of the"quiet time."
And by"take advantage,"I mean we spent forty-eight hours acting like two hormonally possessed rabbits who just discovered unlimited mating season.
Not my proudest analogy, but... it's honest.
Oh—did I forget to mention that Caroline and I already have our first kid together?
My bad.
But now you know.
Honestly, it shouldn't shock anyone. We've always been overachievers. Some people collect degrees by twenty-five. We collected... children. Two of them, apparently. One in a crib and one currently using my wife's bladder as a trampoline.
I'm grinning like an idiot until my eyes catch the empty seat right beside Caroline.
My smile falters—just a small, involuntary drop—because that empty space belongs to someone important. Someone who should've been here for this night.
And the ache of it settles in my chest, quiet but sharp.
Across the ice, Elijah's gaze flicks to the same empty chair. His jaw tightens. He looks away first, but the crestfallen drop in his face tells me he felt the hit too.
Coach barrels toward us, clapping his hands loud enough to wake the dead.
"Westbrook. Deveraux. Eyes here."
Elijah and I snap to attention. Sweat runs down my spine, my lungs still burning from the last shift, but adrenaline keeps every nerve wide awake.
"There's three minutes left," Coach says, tapping the whiteboard he's clutching. "That is alifetime in hockey. The Knights are gonna push hard—hell, they're gonna throw their whole damn roster at you. We're not letting them tie this game. Understood?"
We nod.
Coach points his marker at Elijah first. "Deveraux, they're going to try to isolate their top winger on the right side and stretch the zone. You stay glued to him. Mirror him. If he breathes, you know about it."
Elijah smirks. "Yes, sir."
Then Coach turns to me.
"And you—Westbrook. You read everything. You see the ice better than anyone out there. Don't get baited into overcommitting. Keep your stick in the lanes, force turnovers, kill time on the clock. If you get the puck, dump it deep, make them chase. Defense first, offense only if it's free."
I nod, tapping my stick against the ice. "Got it."
Coach grabs both our shoulders, squeezing hard.
"This is it, boys. One good shift. One clean three minutes. Let's bring another cup home."
We bump helmets, skate out, and the arena shifts into that low, vibrating roar—the kind that shakes bones.
Back on the ice, the Vegas Golden Knights win the draw and immediately push into our zone, their first line swarming like they smell blood. Our D-men back up, but Elijah intercepts a pass before it can cross the slot.
He snaps it to me. I tap it back.
We move in perfect, wordless rhythm, the same rhythm we've had since Ridgewater.
Vegas presses harder. Their winger fires a shot from the circle; Sergei blocks it with his shoulder, the rebound bouncing dangerously right in front of the crease.
