She squints at me like I’m a wizard. “How do you know things?”
“Dad math,” I say before I can think better of the word. It lands between us and doesn’t explode, just hums there—warm, risky, real.
Aubs yanks her sock free from exactly where I said it was, victory loud, and then she’s off again. Oakley watches me over the rim of her mug, something softer than fear flickering in her eyes.
“Text me when you get there,” I say, lighter than yesterday, trying not to make it sound like a rule.
“Humor you,” she echoes, same as on the porch. It makes my chest loosen in a way I don’t trust yet.
On the way out, I pause at the door. The new deadbolt is heavier, the edge freshly painted because Oakley Kate asked. My hand lifts on instinct. I don’t check it again. I just open the door and let the morning air cut through the kitchen.
“Go,” Kate says behind me. “Before we’re both late.”
“Right.” I look back once more, because I get to do that now and not feel like this is goodbye. “Proud of you.”
Her mouth tips. “Proud of you, too.”
“For what?”
“For not hovering. Mostly.”
I huff out something like a laugh then take the win and herd the whirlwind to the truck.
On the drive to the rink, my phone buzzes—Oakley.
My Girl: Parked. I did not fall on the way inside.
Silas: That's my girl.
My Girl: Tell Thorn I’m rehabbing faster so he stops using my ankle as a metaphor for your patience.
Silas: Already framing that quote for the room.
I’m smiling when I hit the lot. It’s small, but it's progress.
Inside, the ice smells like ammonia and tape. Relief, too, if relief has a smell. I lace my skates at the stall while the usual noise fills the room—rookies arguing over music, Colton mourning his broken stick like someone ran over his dog. Rooks shoulders in, drops his bag with a thud, and studies me like he's trying to solve for X.
“You sleeping yet?” he asks.
“Define sleeping.”
He snorts. “I’ll take ‘not pacing the yard with a flashlight’ for now.”
“Progress,” I admit, and it feels like an honest word in my mouth.
Thorn blows the whistle. “Circle up.”
When we gather, he looks at me a beat too long. The old me would’ve bristled. Now I just meet it.
“We’ve had a week,” he says to the group. “Some of it on the ice. Some of it not.” A few heads flick toward me. He continues, steady. “Our job is the ice. That’s where we put things. That’s how we move. Practice plan’s simple: tempo, retrievals, entries. Play your route. Trust the read. Harrison, you’ve got the kids for faceoffs after.”
“Copy,” I say.
The first rep, my legs feel like someone else’s—stiff, overthinking. Second rep, the breath drops lower into my ribs. Third, I stop drafting ghosts, like Thorn told me a lifetime ago. The noise dials down. The sheet is just the sheet.
Halfway through, I catch a pass wrong, let it bounce off my heel, and Rooks chirps me like it’s his religion. “Hands made of cinderblocks today, Cap?”
“Tell your sister she still passes better than you,” I fire back, and the boys hoot like hyenas. Normal is a language we all speak fluently.
