We took a well-earned post-playoffs break before getting to work turning the duplex into a single home. Over three intense months, two houses became one. During the most disruptive phases, we all moved into Arthur’s condo for a few weeks, living out of suitcases and takeout containers.
Now that the dust has settled—literally—we have our dream home. Larger bedrooms, each with an en suite. A kitchen that’s better in every way imaginable. A two-car garage. We even built an in-home gym.
“Where’s Coach?”
I have to fight a smile at Sam’s question. When Arthur moved in and officially became part of the family, Sam stopped calling him Mr. Stetson. He didn’t want to call him Arthur either, so he landed on what Ben and the players call him: Coach. Arthur has never said anything about it, but I can tell how much he loves it.
“He had to run an errand,” I say, carefully avoiding my son’s eyes.
Sam’s face lights up. “Are we getting our rings back?”
The rings in question are our Stanley Cup rings.
My eyes sting, like they always do when I think about that night. The deafening roar of the crowd. Stepping onto the ice with the other families, engulfed in pure joy and chaos. Sam sprinting straight into Arthur’s outstretched arms, Arthur’s grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in two as he hugged my boy.
Then Arthur’s eyes found mine.
Three long strides, and I was in his arms. He held me like we were the only two people in the building. Telling me he loved me over and over. I couldn’t hear the words over the noise, but I felt them in the press of his lips against mine.
“Mom?” Sam asks again. “Is he getting the rings?”
I blink away the moisture and clear my throat. “I’m not sure.” I know that isn’t the errand Arthur is running, but I don’t want Sam asking more questions.
The rings arrived months ago, but both Sam’s and mine were far too big. Arthur had insisted Sam receive one too, telling the owners he’d earned it through his ongoing work with the team. They agreed without hesitation.
Between buying the house and all the renovations, we only managed to drop the rings off to be resized two weeks ago.
Suddenly, Sam straightens. “I just heard his truck.”
He’s already moving for the door, and I follow close behind, not wanting to miss the look on his face when Arthur walks in.
The front door opens and Arthur steps inside—but not alone. The Labradoodle in his arms surveys the room with wide, uncertain eyes. Its hot pink collar stands out against the golden fur. When its gaze lands on a frozen, speechless Sam, its ears perk and its head tips to one side.
“I know there’s been a lot of change for you over the past year and a half,” Arthur says softly as he crouches and sets the dog, at least fifty pounds of curly fur, gently on the floor. “But how would you feel about one more?”
Sam doesn’t answer. He just inhales sharply, a quiet sniffle breaking the silence.
Pressure builds behind my eyes as I watch my son sink to his knees in front of the dog.
The dog hesitates, curious but cautious. It glances up atArthur, then back at Sam, as if waiting for permission. No one moves. No one speaks.
Slowly, Sam extends a hand.
After one last look at Arthur, her tail gives a tentative thump. Then another. She pads forward, sniffs Sam’s fingers, and gives them a quick lick.
Arthur looks over at me, grinning. “She’s a hand-licker. Just like your mom.”
“Oh, I did that once.” I laugh, swiping at the tears sliding down my cheeks.
I’m not the only one crying. Sam scrubs at his freckled face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, never taking his eyes off her.
“What’s her name?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid a louder voice might spook her.
“Goldie,” Arthur says. “But we can change it if you?—”
“Goldie’s perfect,” Sam interrupts, scratching gently behind her ear.
As if she understands, Goldie leans into his touch, her tail thumping happily against the hardwood floor.
