"Your contract runs through the end of the season. If everything holds—roster spot, health, no trades—you make it work. That's still a lot of ifs for a number this size."
"The deployment's real, Maggie. I'm on the top line."
"I know. I watched the clip everyone's talking about. You looked happy in that interview."
I didn't touch that.
"I don't want you making decisions at midnight because you think everything depends on the next game," she said.
"It doesn't depend on the next game."
"No. It depends on all of them."
"I'll send extra this month. Start building the buffer. When they schedule the surgery, we pay it."
"Okay."
"Maggie."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not leading with the number."
A light chuckle, barely audible. "I learned that from Mom. She says you always build the platform before you show someone the cliff."
I told Kieran when he showed up with takeout.
He set the bags on the counter. Same order as last time—pad see ew for me, green curry for him, and extra spring rolls because he'd figured out I'd eat them all.
"You look tired," he said.
"I'm always tired. It's January."
"Different tired. You checked your skates four times before practice today."
"I always check my skates."
"Three times is your baseline. Four means something's off."
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of being known this precisely.
We sat on the floor. Backs against the couch. Same positions as every time. His knee rested against my thigh. The contact was both incidental and completely deliberate, and after five days of sharing a bed, it wasn't nearly enough.
I ate two spring rolls. Held the third without biting into it.
"My dad needs surgery."
Kieran's chopsticks stopped moving.
I gave him the shape of the news but didn't mention the number. He set his container down and asked precise questions.
"Is it expensive?"
"Yeah."
"Insurance?"
"Classifying it as elective. Appeal timeline doesn't match the surgical window."
