Then I called Maribel, told her what was happening, and asked her to put out feelers for someone to sublet my ‘space’. I don’t want to put out an ad because it wouldn’t be fair to them.With January paid, my emergency fund may cover February, but I hope that’s not the case.
Claudia texts me to ask if I can talk. I call her back immediately.
She answers, “Hi, Hildy, I’m just checking in to see how things are going, and if you need anything. I hope I’m not overstepping.”
“You’re not overstepping at all,” I assure her.
“How are you doing?” She asks softly.
“I’ve already made my first parenting blunder. I should have woken her, made her use the bathroom. Or at very least woke up when she stripped her bed and dragged the bedding upstairs, where the guys had told her the laundry was when they gave the tour.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. There will be plenty more moments you’ll second-guess yourself,” she laughs softly.
“I got up a million times to check on her, wondering if she needed Tylenol or food, a drink,” I sigh, “Which is probably why I crashed so hard. I’m going to sleep with her if she’s okay with that. She said she had a bad dream.”
We talk for several minutes before the app alert comes in that my items have arrived. Just days ago, I wouldn’t have dared waste money on delivery, but Lucy goes from hungry to tired to uncomfortable. Things she was hiding before, which Claudia says shows she trusts me.
There is nothing more I want than that trust.
I’m cross-legged on the braided rug in Lucy’s new bedroom, surrounded by the silent armies of her small list of possessionsfrom Elmira, and her new things. I read Matilda to her tonight with a purpose, and she seemed to connect.
The light from my laptop glows across the ceiling, painting everything in a faint blue. It’s past midnight, according to the digital clock at the corner of my screen. Lucy’s breathing is even and oceanic in the bed behind me, and I’m supposed to be familiarizing myself with my professor’s lectures for next semester, but instead I’m scrolling through New York–area daycare reviews with a gnawing sense of urgency I haven’t felt since I was waiting for acceptance letters for PhD programs.
A muted thud reverberates through the hallway—the front door closing behind them. I catch the low, familiar cadence of Hank’s voice, followed closely by Faulker’s, his tone barely above a whisper, as if they’re tiptoeing around the fragile tranquility of their home. The shuffle of their shoes echoes softly, rubber soles gliding over the polished hardwood, followed by the distant clink of a water bottle landing on the kitchen counter. I find myself holding my breath, an instinctive reaction to the realization that this is their space, and I’m merely a shadow in my own life.
I power down my laptop and slide it beneath the bed, taking care to tuck it away from any potential hazards that might come if Lucy or I get up. The blue glow of the screen is replaced by the gentle, golden light of the nightlight, casting soft shadows around the room. For a moment, I kneel beside the bed, my palms pressed against the mattress, gathering the scattered bits of courage I’ll need to re-enter the communal spaces. The temptation to remain here, cocooned in this new environment where Lucy’s rhythmic breathing fills the air, is powerful. Yet, I remind myself that this is my home now as well, and I’ve resolved to avoid making things awkward.
Counting to four, I inhale deeply and stand, slipping my feet into the warm slippers that have become a comforting presence. I pad quietly down the hallway, each step toward the kitchen andliving room feeling like a crossing—not merely of physical space but of intention and readiness to be seen.
The guys don’t notice me at first, so I sneak into the kitchen and start rinsing out a mug at the sink, the rhythmic motion calming my nerves. I tell myself that while this arrangement may be temporary, it needs to feel like home in the meantime. Still, the instinct to blend into the background runs deep, a survival mechanism forged from years of being the girl who always held her own cup and never had a ride home.
When I finally venture back out, I find Hank sprawled on the couch, his head nearly upside down, a broad, unguarded smile lighting up his face. “Look who’s still awake!” he exclaims. “Hildy! You missed the best game of my life.” Hank, the rookie goalie, has shown remarkable talent from what I’ve gathered about the sport.
I settle onto the arm of the sofa, crossing my legs and tucking one foot beneath me. “Congratulations,” I reply sincerely. “I watched the reels; that save in the first period really set the tone.”
Chapter 7
Tampa
Lenzin
Ishould be asleep, but sleep evades me. The Tampa hotel room is cloaked in darkness, pierced only by a thin blade of city light that sneaks through the gap in the curtains. Aleks lies sprawled in the other bed, one arm thrown over his face, a testament to the intensity he brings to every game. He plays like each match is a personal quest to bridge the distance from Sofie Fairfax, and it’s almost admirable—borderline heroic. I remind myself that I am genuinely happy for him, that he’s found someone who fits him well. His ‘soul mate’, if you believe in that kind of thing.
The TV hums softly on mute, highlights cycling endlessly. I’ve replayed every one of my saves from every angle; I know which were instinctual and which require deeper drilling into muscle memory. That part of my brain is always alert, win or lose. Yet, it does nothing to quiet the chaos in my mind.
My phone finds its way into my hand again. I tell myself it’s just habit, a side effect of post-game adrenaline, the waymy body remains in high gear. I check it anyway, my thumb hovering over the screen as if sheer patience might conjure something from the void. Nothing.
I let the phone slip back against my chest and turn my gaze to the ceiling. The room carries a mix of detergent and ice melt, with a faint metallic tang that lingers after a game—like the victory itself has weight and refuses to fade.
I think about the book—Custodians of Memory. I can picture it exactly where I left it on the counter, angled just right so it’s visible without making a fuss. Not hidden, not offered, just there—a breadcrumb that only Hildy would recognize for what it truly is. If she picked it up, she’d understand. Not everything, of course; I’m not delusional. But enough. Enough to know that I see her, and she sees me. We’re both adults who shared a fiery night, perfectly capable of coexisting without making it a federal case.
It doesn’t need to be awkward. It shouldn’t be. Aside from hockey, this is one of my favorite activities—no need to pretend otherwise. I refuse to believe she feels differently. She’s practical, composed, adept at filing things away and moving on. That’s all this is: filing.
If she didn’t touch the book, that’s fine. If she did but chose to ignore it, that’s fine too. Either way, I’ve made my intentions clear. I’m not confused, not ashamed, and certainly not pretending we didn’t recognize each other right away. I roll onto my side, facing the dark, my phone finally resting where I left it.
We’re adults. We can handle this. Even if I know, deep down, that I am undeniably memorable and will never forget the inner wild one she is.
The rink has a scent that feels fundamentally wrong. That’s the first thing that hits me as we step off the bus and into the arena for our so-called “optional practice,” which, in our world, is only optional if you enjoy showing up for the next game with legs that feel like they’ve been turned to decorative yard stakes. The air inside is cool, technically, but it can’t mask the reality. We’re in South Florida. The building is making a half-hearted attempt at winter, but the humidity has already snuck in like it owns a seat in the stands. At first glance, the ice seems normal, but it has that faint sheen, a subtle softness that you only recognize when you’ve spent your life treating frozen water like it’s some sacred ritual.
