One more year is Scottie asking questions I don’t have answers for.
One more year is me standing here, holding everything together, while he lives in two worlds again.
By the time Scottie gets home from school, I’ve convinced myself that this is manageable. That we can be adults. That whatever this is between Dane and me can exist without becoming something that breaks us.
Then Scottie says, “We’re happy for Coach Dane, right?”
“What makes you ask that?” I ask carefully.
“He said his team wants him back next year,” she says, dropping her backpack and reaching for a snack. “That’s good, right?”
“It is,” I say. “Very good.”
She nods, satisfied. “Maybe he can come to my tournament this fall.”
My throat tightens.
“Maybe,” I say, hating how small it sounds. “But he might be pretty busy with his team.”
The disappointment on her face punches me in the gut.
That night, I cancel on Dane.
Not outright. Not dramatically. I text him something vague about being tired. About an early morning. About another time.
He responds immediately.
Of course. Rest up.
No pressure. No guilt.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I avoid him for two days.
Not completely. That would be impossible in a town this small. But I keep my distance. I don’t linger after practice. I leave early. I send Scottie ahead with friends.
I tell myself I’m being careful.
I tell myself I’m protecting my daughter.
I tell myself this is the mature thing to do.
By the third day, Dane stops letting me get away with it.
He finds me at the rink after practice, just as I’m stuffing water bottles into Scottie’s bag.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out too fast.
He studies my face. “You’ve been busy.”
