“Listen up!” he calls, clapping his hands once. “We’ve got a tight turnaround this week. We’ve got a good shot this season, boys,” he continues. “But we don’t coast. We sharpen. That means today’s practice is heavy conditioning and special teams. Let’s go.”
Everyone groans collectively. Luka mutters something in Russian that’s definitely not a compliment. Hunter pretends he’s dead.
I push to my feet and start toward the ice tunnel, trying to shift gears. Husband mode off, hockey mode on. But my brain doesn’t fully cooperate.
The second my blades hit the ice, the world finally clicks back into place.
It’s always been like this for me. All the noise cuts out, and the static quiets. The intensity narrows into something sharp. I needed this, especially after my father’s accident, when I needed to step up and help the family as the oldest.
On the ice, everything is simple. There isn’t a father needing weekly physical therapy, a mother feeding and raising four more kids, not including me.
There’s no room for mafia fathers, or fake marriages, or the terrifying fact that my wife is the most breathtakingly flexible human I’ve ever seen.
I push off hard, letting momentum carry me wide across the rink. The cold air burns my lungs in a way that feels honest, like it’s scraping everything off my mind except the parts that matter.
Coach blows the whistle and calls out drills. I fall into rhythm effortlessly, body moving on autopilot with the rest of the team.This is our year to make the playoffs again, and this time we’re going all the way.
I hit a sharp turn too fast, blade carving deeper than necessary, and Luka nearly slams into me.
“Focus,” he snaps.
“I am focused,” I snap back.
He lifts an eyebrow. “On the ice, or on my sister?”
I glare.
He smirks because he knows he’s right.
We move into conditioning sprints. Sweat beads at my temples, soaking into the collar of my shirt. My legs burn. My lungs ache. But it feels good. And for the next hour, that’s exactly what I do. I let the ice take every messy, complicated feeling and quiet it until all that’s left is pure focus.
Coach blows the final whistle. I’m dripping sweat, chest heaving, every muscle buzzing, but for the first time all day, my mind is clear.
I shower and then head to Serendipity’s for brunch, grabbing Katerina a sticky bun for later… just in case. Because now it seems she’s on my mind all the time.
The city hums around me. Cars roll by in slow waves, the distant wail of a siren, people wrapped in coats marching past with coffees like armor. I shove my hands into my pockets and let my mind drift in the direction it keeps wanting to go. To her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I slow down, glancing at the screen.
Mom.
I wince. The wedding. Right… This was coming.
I tap the answer button, bracing myself.
“Scottie James Easton.”
My mother always opens with my full name when she’s either proud or furious. Today it sounds like the second one.
“Hi, Ma,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “How’s Montana?”
“How’s Montana?” she repeats, with an angry squeeze in it. “Don’t you ‘How’s Montana?’ me. My son got married on Saturday, and I found out from your sister’s group chat at THREE IN THE MORNING.”
Ah. Yes. The group chat. I wish there were a way to opt out of those damn things.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “So you heard.”
“Heard?” she yelps. “I nearly had a heart attack! I woke your father up out of a dead sleep screaming because I thought maybe you’d eloped with someone we’ve never met—which, apparently, YOU DID.”
