I freeze.
I blink at him like he’s started speaking fluent nonsense.
“Excuse me?”
He gestures toward Monty and Callaway, then back at me, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.“Your mother always said you three were close.Too close, sometimes.That you seemed to love each other in a way that didn’t fit into neat boxes.”His eyes soften when he saysyour mother,and for a second it looks like it hurts him to breathe.“Even when you grew up and went separate ways.”
His smile appears.“She waited for this,” Dad says, voice thickening.“The three of you finally admitting what you’ve been circling around for years.”
My eyes sting all over again.My chest feels too full.My mouth tastes like salt and panic and a future I didn’t know how to ask for.Mom was okay with this—us.Now I miss her even more than I did yesterday.How I wish she were here to ...I sob a little more because I really miss my mother.
Once I calm down, I have to ask again, “You’re ...okay with this?”
Dad nods.“I’ve watched them love you since you were a teenager.”His gaze drifts to Monty—who is still standing half a step behind me like a guard dog with a hockey player’s temper—then to Callaway, who’s watching my father like he’s willing to throw hands with God if necessary.“I never understood why you stopped being close, but ...”He shrugs, helpless in a way I’ve never seen him.“I’m glad you found each other again.”
His eyes drop to my stomach.
“And,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m glad we have a baby coming soon.This family could use new life.Something good.”His mouth pulls into that almost-smile again, grief threaded through it.“Your mother would’ve been so damn smug about being right.”
A laugh breaks out of me, cracked and wet.“She would’ve.”
Dad steps in closer, and I move forward and let my forehead drop to his chest the way I used to when I was small and the world felt too big.His arms come around me, awkward at first, then tighter, as if he’s remembering how.
“Love you, Dad,” I sniff.
“Love you more, Vessy.”He kisses the top of my head.He looks at the guys.“Why don’t we go inside and have something to eat?Then you can be on your way home so you can rest for tomorrow’s game.”
And it was this simple.I had no idea he would be supportive and loving and ...it turns out he’s been waiting for years to hear that we’re together.That’s unexpected and good.We just have to make sure that Cally’s family won’t destroy us.
ChapterFifty
Alberto
Third period.Tied game.And the Cobras have lost whatever thin excuse they used to call themselves “competitive.”
They’ve been taking runs at Cally since the opening faceoff—late bumps, extra slashes, sticks that somehow always “slip” up into ribs or wrists when the ref’s sightline is blocked.It’s not subtle, and it pisses me off in a way that makes my teeth hurt.
Because Cally is the reason we’re still alive in this game, and Colorado’s response to that is to try to break him like he’s a machine they can disable.
They used to be teammates.Now they’re trying to ruin him in front of a sold-out arena and a national broadcast.
I track the puck and I track the hits, my gaze snapping between the play and the cheap shots like I can will the officials into seeing what they’re ignoring.My hands flex inside my gloves, restless.My legs bounce with that caged energy goalies live on—half patience, half violence, all control.
The problem is: I can’t go do what my body wants to do.
I could skate out and rearrange someone’s face.I could.I’m big enough, fast enough, angry enough.
But I’m the last line.If I leave my crease, I leave my team.If I drop the gloves, I give Colorado exactly what they want: me in the box, my head out of the game, their shooters licking their lips at my backup.
And it’s not just a penalty.It’s a statement to the league.Goalies don’t get to be enforcers without paying for it later—fines, suspensions, headlines.
They fuck with me too, of course.That’s standard.That’s how teams try to crack you.They crash the crease harder.They shoot from angles that don’t make sense unless the point is to create garbage rebounds.They go wraparound just to force me to scramble, just to get my pads out of position, just to make me look human.
Their fans chant my name like it’s an insult.
Wade.
Wade.
