The apartment was in downtown Chicago—high up, with floor-to-ceiling windows and enough space to make it feel luxurious without ever feeling lived in. It was modern, full of cold finishes and sharp corners. I lived there because most of the other guys on the team did. It was close to the rink, the building had a private gym, catering was delivered right to your door, and the staff didn’t ask questions.
But it wasn’tmine.
It lacked warmth and softness. There were no signs of life scattered across the counters—no clutter, no leftover laughter, no one humming in the kitchen or stealing the blanket in the middle of the night.
I sighed, dragging a hand over my face as I sank deeper into the bed. I hadn’t moved since I got home. Because mybody might’ve been here, but my heart was still somewhere else entirely.
Eyes closed, I let the silence settle before my phone buzzed again. I glanced at the screen and exhaled. It was my mom.
We were from a small town in Minnesota, and I had a great relationship with my mom. She was the kind of woman who baked banana bread when she was stressed and texted me photos of her garden like it was breaking news. She and my dad had been married for over 50 years, and somehow, they still looked at each other like high school sweethearts. They were happy, good people.
I had one sister. Married, two kids, still living ten minutes from my parents in the same old town. Their weekends were soccer games and Target trips, the kind of suburban normal that would make a Hallmark card jealous. It washilarioushow basic bitch my family was—said with full affection.
I answered the phone with a groan, already bracing myself.
“Hi, honey. I’m trying out anewfrog eye salad for this weekend. Different dressing—less sugar.”
I gagged silently into the receiver, staring up at the ceiling. “You know I’ve told you for twenty years that stuff is a crime, right?”
“Oh, hush, you love it.”
“No,Dadloves it. I happen to be in the room when he eats it.”
She laughed, that light little sound that always made me feel like I was eight again and handing her wildflowers from the yard.
“We’re really excited for your last season,” she murmured. “We’ll come down for a few games, make a weekend of it.”
“Ma, you don’t need to do all that?—”
“We wouldn’t miss it.”
“Hi, champ.” My dad’s voice came through as he took the phone. “Mom’s already planning the tailgating menu.”
I chuckled. “She knows it’s a professional hockey arena, right? Not a high school football game?”
“She’s packing a Crock-Pot either way.”
“God help us all,” I muttered.
They asked how I was doing, and I told them about the farmers market. My mom laughed when I mentioned dragging Ledger and Auburn through vendor stalls for hours. My dad called me a “city hippie” for carrying a wicker basket like I was on my way to forage mushrooms.
“Alright, I’m gonna let your mom harass you now. Love you, son.”
“Love you too, Pops.”
There was a bit of fumbling as he passed the phone off, then Mom came back on the line.
“So... ” she said, stretching the word out, “any ladies?”
I groaned instantly. “Oh mygod, Mom.”
“What?” she laughed. “I’m allowed to ask. I gave birth to you.”
“Yeah, and that’s exactly why wedon’ttalk about this.”
“Dirks,” she said gently. “You’ve always kept that part of your life close to the vest. I’ve never pushed. I figured when you were ready, you’d tell me.” She sighed. “But I’m your mother. I can still hear it in your voice when something’s sitting heavy on your chest. So... is there someone?”
I stared at the ceiling, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.
