He nods like that makes perfect sense and immediately drifts toward the living room, his fingers brushing the back of the couch.
“Wow! You can see the whole city,” he says, heading to the windows and pressing his forehead to the glass. “That’s so cool.”
Harper smiles at him, then at me. There’s something in her eyes—gratitude, nerves, affection—all stacked together so tightly it makes my chest ache.
“Shoes okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, of course,” I say quickly. “You’re good.”
Connor turns back toward me. “Do you really have a hockey stick rack?”
I blink. “I—yeah. In the spare room.”
His gasp is theatrical.
“Can I see it?”
“After dinner,” Harper says automatically.
Connor opens his mouth to protest but stops as if he’s visibly recalibrating. “Okay,” he says, pointing to me. “But I’m holding you to that.”
“Totally fair,” I tell him. “Come on, you want to help me make dinner?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” Then he spots my photo album sitting on the coffee table. Already reaching for it, he asks, “Is this yours?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was a gift from my mom.”
“Cool. It’s hockey stuff. Can I look at it?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Why don’t you bring it into the kitchen. You can look all you want while your mom and I do the cooking. I glance over at Harper, who is smiling warmly, and wink at her.
He’s already making himself at home and with that knowledge, my nerves start to settle.
We move to the kitchen, the smell of onions and garlic filling the space. Harper sets a tote bag on the counter, immediately slipping into motion like she’s been here a hundred times before, washing her hands and scanning the stove.
“This smells amazing,” she says.
“Give it ten minutes,” I reply. “I haven’t burned anything yet, which feels promising.”
Connor is seated at the island his legs tucked under him, my old photo album spread open like it’s a treasure map. He’s been quiet in the way kids get when they’re really paying attention, flipping the pages carefully, like the memories might spill out if he’s not gentle. The album is thick. It’s my mom’s pride and joy. Team photos, tournament shots, grainy rink pictures with bad lighting and worse haircuts. The album was a gift for me when I signed with the Anaheim Stars. She wanted to give me a way to look back on my entire hockey life.
I bring his attention to one particular picture. “So, that was the first year I ever skated,” I tell him, leaning against the counter while I dry my hands on a towel. “I didn’t get my first pair of skates until I was ten.”
Connor looks up fast. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I started playing before you did.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “That’s right you lucky duck. I was late to the sport. I borrowed gear for a while. I could barely stand up without falling on my ass.”
Harper snorts softly beside me as she washes the veggies and I start chopping an onion. “You still fall on your ass.”
“Lies,” I say. “All lies.”
Connor grins and flips the page.
I toss some of the chopped onion into the skillet when Connor says, “That’s weird.”
“What’s that bud?” I ask, continuing to cook while waiting for him to explain.
“Hey, Mom?” he says slowly. “Why am I in this picture? I don’t remember this day.”
