“Daddy Deacon,” Claudia smiles at Savannah.
“That’s what Mommy calls him when you nap,” I tell her.
I expect her or one of the girls to scold me. That’s not what happens though…
“Big Daddy,” Claudia smirks.
“Oh my God,” I laugh.
“These Bears carry big sticks,” Noelle wags her brows.
“Always have,” comes from behind us, and we all turn, and Paul’s standing behind us.
Oh. My. God.
“They get rid of the ones who don’t measure up,” he murmurs as he passes us to take his seat.
We all look at each other and try not to laugh, because, yeah…
Deacon bends at the circle, gloves resting on his thighs, jaw tight but eyes steady. He looks locked in, the kind of focus you can’t fake and can’t teach. He taps his stick, a quiet signal of trust. The puck drops.
The opposing team presses early, testing him the way predators test prey. The first shot comes fast, low, glove-side. Deacon drops clean, pads sealing the ice, rebound smothered before it can even think about becoming a problem. No drama. No scramble. Just ownership.
“God,” Noelle breathes. “He’s calm.”
“He’s lethal,” I correct. “Calm just makes it prettier.”
The crowd swells with that deep, approving roar that means they trust him. Trust is currency here. Deacon has it in bulk. He sells so easily.
Another rush. Traffic in front of the net. Sticks clatter. Bodies crash. Deacon doesn’t flinch. He tracks the puck through chaos like he’s reading it instead of reacting to it. Glove snaps up. Whistle blows.
Lydia leans forward so hard I’m half convinced she’s about to faceplant into the glass. Gianna notices instantly and presses ahand to Lydia’s back, and the two exchange smiles. Camera two pans in on them.
Good.
“That’s leadership,” Claudia murmurs. “From the back.”
“And protection,” I say. “From every angle.”
Deacon resets, smooth and unhurried, scanning the ice like a chessboard. He gives a quick nod to his defense, silent communication, the kind you only get after years of trust. This is not a man who panics. This is a man who holds the line and dares the world to cross it.
The next shot is meaner. High traffic, deflection risk, pure nightmare fuel for goalies who hesitate. Deacon doesn’t. He blocks, absorbs, freezes the puck against his chest like it belongs there.
The arena erupts.
I feel that familiar click in my chest, the one that means the narrative just locked.
Kyle’s lawyers will see a goalie doing his job. I see proof. Stability. Control. A man who stands his ground even when things come fast and ugly and public.
Deacon rises, taps the posts, and glances once toward the box. Not searching. Just checking. Like he knows exactly where Claudia is, his family is, because he does.
I sit back, pulse steady, smile in place. This is what safety looks like on ice. And it’s going to play beautifully.
Paul Bronski’s name flashes on the Jumbotron as “special guest in the building,” bringing the house down.
“Aww,” Noelle says. “Look at Paul. He loves the attention and hates that he loves it.”
Nalani lifts her phone. “Do we want a story of the suite? Or is this a ‘we’re ghosts until the campaign drops’ night?”
