He taps my shin pad with his stick and peels away. Two taps. Job to do.
By the time I hit the lot again, the sky’s gone dark. I check the cameras once then stick my phone back in my pocket before I start cycling through everything twice. I slide into the truck and sit there a second, just breathing.
At home, the porch light throws a dull glow on the steps. The door opens before I get to it, and a small, sleepy missile slams into my midsection.
“You’re late,” Aubrey says into my T-shirt.
“I’m three minutes early.”
“Same thing.”
Oakley appears behind her, socks sliding on hardwood, eyes soft. “She tried to power through her science vocab,” she says. “Made it to the fourth word before she knocked out.”
“Those science terms are brutal,” I mutter, lifting Aubs like she still weighs nothing even though she definitely doesn’t.
“Love you, Bubba,” she mumbles against my neck. She’s out cold by the time I lay her in bed and pull her blanket up. I wait a second, watching her chest rise and fall. Everything in me settles.
When I turn around, Oakley’s leaning in the doorway. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying to swallow three different emotions at once.
“Come here,” I say.
She steps in without hesitating. My hands go to her hips; hers slide up to my collarbone like she’s checking I’m really here. The kiss is slow and steady. Comfortable. Familiar. When she pulls back, her breath ghosts my lips.
“I like us like this,” she says.
“Me, too.”
I take Oakley’s hand and lead her to the table. There’s something I need to get done before I can call it a night.
“Alright, boss,” I say, sliding a notebook over. “Run the meeting.”
She raises a brow. “Didn’t bring my clipboard.”
“Good thing I brought mine,” I deadpan. She actually laughs—really laughs—and it hits something in my chest.
We start filling in the schedule. We talk through Aubrey wanting to try those drop-in youth league practices, my practice blocks, Kate’s new hours at the gym and the rink, my road games, the nights Noah can help out, and the mornings Hannah’s free. By the time we finish, it looks less like a battle plan and more like a normal life. I can actually live with that.
When the grid is full, Oakley taps the box for next Saturday. “Little Volts Day,” she says. “They asked if you’d ref the snowball toss.”
“That sounds like an abuse of power.”
“Think of the chaos,” she counters.
I pretend to weigh it, then nod. “For my girls, I’ll risk it.”
Her expression softens at the words. She doesn’t question it anymore; she takes it the way I meant it and tucks it somewhere safe.
I check the locks with just my eyes. The sensors blink steady. Outside, a car rolls past, tires hissing over wet pavement.
“You coming?” Oakley calls from the hallway, her voice low and warm.
“Yeah.” I turn off the kitchen light, and the room settles into an easy darkness. “Right behind you.”
I follow her down the hall and think about what’s left for us to do: finish smoothing out the edges, say the things we mean, show up the way we promised, and keep doing it. None of it is complicated. It’s just the work that matters.
This is our house. Our family. And the rest is ours to build.
Chapter 39
