I took a lap around the goal, thinking the very mature thought that maybe if I didn’t look at the bench, I couldn’t get pulled.
But I was an adult, and I had to face the music. A quick glance at the bench showed Coach waving me in and Cordero getting his helmet on.
I was pulled.
I skated to the bench and bumped Cordero’s fist on the way in.
“We all have games like this,” he said.
“Do better than I did,” I mused.
I didn’t know whether to feel encouraged or more embarrassed. I slumped down on the bench and removed my helmet. Our equipment manager put out his hand to take the helmet and offered me a ballcap, the standard for the benched goalie. I put it on and tugged it as low as it would go.
I’d been pulled but I wouldn’t hang my head, not with an arena full of people expecting me to do just that. I also wouldn’t look to see if Emma was still watching. I didn’t want to know. A new line went out for the post-goal faceoff at center ice, and Sorrento scooted down next to me. He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“That takes guts, man. You worked hard for us.”
I clamped my jaw as a rush of heat went to my eyes. I gave a slight nod but kept my gaze fixed on the ice. It was the nicest anyone had ever been to me when I sucked. My team had every right to be mad at me, but they just . . . weren’t. Not outwardly, anyway.
Okay, maybe I needed to know if Emma was still watching. And she was, one arm folded over her chest with her hand fiddling with her necklace. Her gaze met mine and she gave me a soft smile, then lifted her hand to pat the glass, a gentle sort of “it’ll be alright.”
Chef and I fought like cats and dogs, and honestly, I liked that aspect of our friendship. But her soft side really threw me off. With a single pat, she made everything inside me feel lighter again. Miguel appeared behind her and she turned her head as he got her attention. She grimaced and hurried toward the kitchen.
I don’t know how long she’d been there watching, but it didn’t matter.
Emma showed up for me.
And when I got back to my stall between periods, there was a piece of tape stuck to the wall.
The tape Chef used to label things in the kitchen.
It was her address.
I already had it. It was on the invoices she issued for our lessons. I’d used it to send Dave of Dave’s Pools and Spas her way and to check that Dave’s hot tub would fit on her patio. I could have gone there on my own with that knowledge.
But now, I had something new.
Permission.
FIFTEEN
EMMA
MARCH
Candles lit Liam’s face,the ghosts of every version of himself he’d been in his now eighteen years illuminated.
The baby who wanted nothing more than to be attached to me. A set of squishy cheeks bouncing in the stroller. The little boy who told me he loved me more than the stars, who still wanted to hold my hand in parking lots even when I thought he might be getting too old for it. The slightly older boy who told me to go away and stay out of his business, but silently came to sit next to me on the couch later and watch our favorite show. The boy who was considering one more year of junior hockey when it would have the added benefit of being under my roof just one more year.
Now, that boy could legally smoke cigarettes and buy lottery tickets.
My beautiful boy.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and his dad, Jeff, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. His wife, Michelle, pouted her lip at me when she saw me crying. I always cried onLiam’s birthdays, amazed at another year of keeping him alive, of watching him grow, of being proud of the man he was quickly becoming.
Since it was a school night on his actual birthday, we’d decided to have just a little dinner and cake hangout with Liam’s closest friends and Jeff’s family.
His friends and half-siblings carried the final notes of “Happy Birthday,” because I was too choked up to join in. But we all cheered after Liam blew out the candles, and laughed when he said, “Cake time!”
