He always wrote it in my birthday cards, but he used to say it out loud sometimes, too. Not often, but always when it counted. After school plays, hospital visits, the time I cut all my hair off in fifth grade and pretended I didn’t care.
My girl.
I press the card flat in my lap, one hand curved around the swell of my belly, and for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I really let myself feel it.
This daughter.
This girl, she’s mine.
Ours.
Uri ttal.
It hits something in my chest so deep and old, I forget how to breathe for a second, but I don’t cry. I lean into it. Sitting on the floor with the card in my lap, one hand curled around my bump, I let it ache.
It always catches me off guard, missing him more when things are okay than when they aren’t. But that’s grief, and I’ve learned to carry it.
Swallowing thickly, I finish unpacking the box and fold the flaps down, then slide it into the closet. The house still feels quiet, but shifting. Holding space for something new.
The baby nudges me, and I rest a hand on my stomach and exhale.
“He would’ve loved you, you know,” I whisper.
Gremlin blinks at me from the bed like I’ve said something monumentally stupid, and I smile anyway.
Chapter thirty-one
A name I carry in my bones
Reid
Ican already tell this is gonna be a fast one.
The Canucks are fast, but we’re faster. It’s two games into preseason, and we’re already humming off the back of two wins. Everyone’s legs are fresh and heads are sharp.
And I feel good. My knee feels good.
I track the first shot clean—wristed in from the high slot, a quick toe-drag release I’ve seen a hundred times. I butterfly down, seal the pads, and let it thud into my chest.
Whistle.
The ref skates in to collect the puck, and I hand it over with a small nod, then tap my stick twice against the post.
“Let’s go, Storm!” Eli bellows from the faceoff.
We win the draw clean, and Eli pulls it back to Logan, who rims it hard around the boards. Chase picks it up behind the net, pivots hard, and accelerates up ice. Viktor’s already streaking wide.
“Middle!” Viktor barks.
Chase threads it through to him, and we’re off. Up the boards, cross to Jake, who drags it between his legs to dodge a check and sends it across the slot toward Eli.
The puck bounces once, twice, then Eli hammers it off before it settles—but it clangs off the post.
“Goddamn it,” Jake mutters from the wing, peeling off on the change.
“Nice look,” Logan calls as the second line jumps over the boards.
The Canucks regroup fast, dumping it in behind me. I turn my head, scanning peripheral threats as Logan battles in the corner. Chase digs the puck out and reverses—a risky move, but it works.
