Lane shrugs. “He dealt with grief by throwing himself into hockey even harder. Which meant Desi and I were on our own a lot. We basically raised each other. Can’t say I was successful, all things considered.”
I reach into my pantry and pull out a bag of homemade marshmallows, dropping a few into each of our mugs. “I made these earlier.”
He arches his eyebrow in question.
“You mean you have been processing life in the kitchen?”
Or avoiding.
“Some people journal. Some people bake. Those are my people.”
“But this is kitchen as catharsis.”
“Yes, but cooking rather than baking. Different category entirely.”
Lane laughs, and the sound fills my kitchen in a way that reveals it had been lonely despite how much time I spend here. “What’s the difference?”
“Stress-baking is productive. Stress-cookingis experimental. Sometimes it works, sometimes you end up with ‘confusion cookies.’” I glance at the plate on the counter.
“Those were actually pretty good.”
“You’re just being nice—plus, this is a new batch.”
“I’m really not,” Lane says, his eyes meeting mine over his mug. “I don’t do nice. I do honest.”
His tone is bold, self-assured. I study him more carefully. It’s like I’m witnessing the real Lane—not the guarded hockey player or the overwhelmed sudden-parent, but the man underneath all of that. Like there are layers to him, neatly stacked and hidden like a set of Russian nesting dolls.
Biting my lip, I say, “On the topic of Desi and Kai, I, um, kind of told your father and Sabrina that we—you and me—are intending to give him the kind of steadiness you mentioned.”
Because we didn’t officially discuss this or make a decision together, the confidence I had earlier when declaring it at the arena gives way to a halting delivery.
Lane’s eyes widen at each word. “You said that to my father?”
“Yeah. And I may have name-dropped.”
“Like a celebrity?”
I shake my head.
“Your father?”
Again, he gets a no.
“Who?”
“Suzie Bass.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“My mother.”
Lane chuckles and slaps the table. “I adore Sabrina. She’s the best thing that’s happened to him, but that name is going to give him a couple of sleepless nights.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father never forgets a face … or a name.”
“He claimed he didn’t know who I was talking about.”
