Inside the training room, everything smells like disinfectant and tape—predictable, grounding. Dan’s already setting up ice tubs, humming off-key to whatever’s in his earbuds. I grab my tablet and fall into rhythm: hydration check-ins, post-series recovery plans, a winger’s sore shoulder. My hands move automatically, but under it all there’s this quiet, glowing current of something new.
By early afternoon, the dizziness creeps back, so I step outside for air. The chill feels good against my skin, crisp enough to steady me. Two hours until my prenatal appointment.
I press a hand lightly to my stomach, just for a second, and smile. “We’re okay,” I whisper, echoing his words.
The breeze is cool against my face, sharp with the smell of ice drifting from the open zamboni doors. I scroll through my contacts, and before I can overthink it, I call Dad.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, kiddo. You working hard or hardly working?”
I smile, leaning against the railing. “Bit of both. A recovery day before the Final means more talking than taping.”
He chuckles. “Good. You were due for a breather. David says you’ve been logging overtime since the playoffs started.”
“Yeah, well, you know me.”
“I do,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Which is why I hope you’re remembering to eat.”
“Trying,” I say. “Coffee counts as breakfast, right?”
“You always did think coffee was a food group,” he says, chuckling. “How’s the team holding up?”
“Good. Better than good, actually.” I hesitate, then add, “And… there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
He goes quiet. “Oh?”
I take a breath. “It’s Declan. We’ve been seeing each other.”
There’s a pause, just long enough that I can picture the look on his face—the one he used to give when he was trying to decide whether to be Dad or Coach.
“Declan Tremayne?” he says finally. “My old center?”
I smile, already hearing the grin in his voice. “That’s the one.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. You and Tremayne.”
I laugh too. “You sound shocked.”
“Not shocked,” he says. “Just remembering all those mornings I had to pry you off the boards because you wouldn’t stop hanging around the rink. Your mom always said you’d end up with a hockey player.”
That makes my throat tighten in the best way. “She’d be happy for us, wouldn’t she?”
“She would,” he says quietly. “She used to tease that you were the sunshine he didn’t know he needed. Guess she wasn’t wrong.”
The silence stretches, comfortable this time.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “The anniversary of your mom’s passing is next weekend. I thought I’d drive down so you, David, and I could visit the cemetery together. Maybe get dinner after. I’ll stay at David and Erin’s while I’m there.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’d like that.”
“Good. I know the Cup Final schedule might make it tricky for you and David, but since the first two games will be at home, I’m hoping we can make it work.”
He pauses again. “And if Declan’s free, you should bring him. I’d like to see him—make sure he’s treating my daughter right.”
I laugh again, wiping a tear that sneaks out. “He is. Better than I ever expected.”
We talk a few minutes more about logistics—flights, the Final schedule, and when he’s coming—before he hangs up.
When the line goes quiet, I just stand there for a second, phone still in my hand. I could’ve told him everything right then. It was right there, sitting on my tongue.
