Between drills, my phone buzzes on the dasher again. I ignore it until water, then check—Oakley again.
O: Survived the men's soccer stampede. No one cried, including me.
Me: Hell yeah, baby
My Girl: Love you. Oh…sheriff’s office called. Papers will be served today or tomorrow.
Me: Good. Want me to meet you in the parking lot when you get off?
My Girl: No. I can do it. Meet you at home.
Silas: Copy. Proud of you, Katibug.
My Girl: Stop or I’ll cry and scare the college kids.
I tuck the phone under the towel and skate my next rep faster than I should. Thorn barks something about control, and I actually hear him this time.
After practice, I take three extra minutes with the kids at the dot, show them the shoulder fake I used to buy myself half a step in juniors, the way to watch a ref’s elbow instead of his mouth. Little things that add up. When they nail it, I tap their gloves like they just won Game 7. Rooks watches me with a look that says he sees the way I need to put energy somewhere it doesn’t blow a hole in my life.
In the locker room, Thorn corners me with a paper cup of bad coffee. “How’s home?”
“Quieter.” I wrap the tape around my stick blade like there’s a right number of turns for luck. “She went back to work this morning.”
His brows hit a line. “How’d you do?”
I consider lying. Don’t. “Hands wanted to shake. I let them.”
He nods like that’s the only answer that matters. “Sheriff texted me,” he adds. “Service is imminent.”
“Good,” I say. The word lands heavy and simple.
“You call the lawyer about the PO?”
“Filed. We’ll get a hearing date.”
“Okay.” Thorn sips, grimaces. “Harrison.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing the right amount of control,” he says, and the phrase is so Thorn I nearly laugh. “Don’t go backwards when you feel the next wave hit.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Because I need you Saturday. And because your girls need you to be the version of you that knows when to let go.”
“Working on it,” I say.
He taps my shoulder pad twice and moves on. That’s his love language: two taps and a job to do.
The afternoon runs smooth. I pick up Aubrey and endure a ten-minute monologue on why the book fair’s economy should accept stuffed animals as currency. We detour for milk. She waves at a deputy rolling past without even looking up from her snack, like patrol cars on our street are just part of the scenery now. I hate that. I love that she feels safe, anyway.
Five o’clock, my phone buzzes.
My Girl: On my way home.
Silas: Drive safe.
Five thirty, a car door shuts. For a second, the old alarm trips in my chest, then I hear her laugh—tired around the edges, but there. The front door opens. She steps inside with wind-kissed cheeks and a manila folder held like a victory flag.
