I do.Over and over.
Later, after we’ve had a family dinner and said good night to Joey, we lie tangled together, skin damp, breaths gradually evening out.His fingers trace idle patterns on my hip.I listened to his heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure.
For the first time since the stories broke, my chest feels calm.
The storm is still out there.But I’m not weathering it alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SIDNEY
I barely made it.
Traffic was a full-out war.Some construction crew had apparently decided today, of all days, was the perfect one to tear up half the intersection outside the Nighthawks arena.My GPS kept rerouting so often it sounded like it was questioning its own life choices.
But I promised Joey I’d be here.And promises to that kid are non-negotiable.
I swing into the community rink parking lot, pull my cap low, and jog through the doors just as the first period is starting.Cold air hits me instantly, and there is something else too.That familiar, nostalgic bite of childhood rinks, where kids are always spilling in and out of locker rooms, parents clutching coffee cups like life rafts, and the buzz of preteen adrenaline gives the whole lobby a faint hum.
I scan the stands until I spot her.
Eddie.Hair tucked into a beanie.Hands wrapped around a travel mug.Eyes trained on the ice with laser focus.She glances down at her phone, and then her gaze flicks upward—and finds me.
And damn.The smile she gives me?I’d defend the net against fifty players just to earn that smile again.
I make my way up the steps, slipping into the seat beside her.
You made it,she whispers as she leans over and gives me a kiss.Her lips are cold, but instantly warm under mine.
Told you I would.
Her shoulder brushes mine a small, warm pressure that makes everything in me go quiet for a moment and settle.
Joey’s starting on wing,she says, nodding to the ice.They just finished the anthem.
Sure enough, the kid is buzzing around, tapping his stick against his teammates’, skates carving confident lines.
Look at him,I murmur, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face.He’s dialled in.
You’ve inspired a steel-like focus for him on the ice.He’s getting a bit intense,Eddie says with a laugh.
That’s nothing.Wait until I spill all my strategies when it’s playoff time.
She snorts into her coffee thermos.You’re impossible.
And you’re smiling,I counter.
Only because my son is happy.
Uh-huh,I say, letting the tease linger.She bumps my shoulder again.I bump hers back.
The puck drops.Parents cheer.Skates clack.Kids swarm like tiny, caffeinated bees.
Joey plays hard.The kind of hard that comes from wanting to prove something, especially after the bad day he’d had earlier that week.I can see it in his stride—focused, determined, and a little too eager.
Relax your shoulders, kid,I mutter.Let the play come to you.
He can’t hear you,Eddie whispers.
