I glance at the screen and Theo’s right: there he is. He’s in navy and gold, skating like he was born on ice. Even on TV, he looks too big for how fast he moves, all smooth lines and sudden power, but he’s also easy to watch.
“Oh wow,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “He’s actually graceful for someone who could probably lift a car.”
Theo beams like he’s a proud mother. “I know, right?”
Sawyer takes the puck down the ice, dodging another giant man, who Theo calls a defenseman, like it’s nothing. The crowd roars, chanting his name, their cries following him as he flies down the ice. My heart does a weird, traitorous little hop.
Then someone slams into him. I can’t help it, I gasp as I reach out and grab Theo’s arm. “Wait—what happened? Are they allowed to do that?”
Theo’s eyes are glued to the screen. “That guy was trying to check him.”
“Check him like…a library book?”
“No, Mom. Like, smash him.”
“Oh.”
Sawyer pushes back up, shaking it off, jaw set. The next play, he steals the puck and fires it straight into the net. I don’t need Google or a translator for that move; I know he just scored.
Theo leaps off the couch. “YES!”
And wouldn’t you know it, suddenly I find myself smiling, too. Somewhere between bites of my sandwich and the rhythm of the game, something could be shifting. I look at my son, who I know loves this game, but I'm not just watching for Theo anymore.
I’m watchinghim. And that’s the problem.
Because this feels like the beginning of something I am absolutely not ready for.
CHAPTER 9
SAWYER
I’m walking down the street in the middle of Old Town Alexandria, whistling and grinning, a pink bakery box tucked under one arm. Brick sidewalks stretch out ahead of me, uneven in that charming, historic way, like they’ve been judging people for centuries and will continue to do so long after I’m traded. The buildings lean in close, red brick and white trim, shop windows already awake with plants, pastries, and hand-lettered signs promising things likeartisanandsmall batchwhether you asked for them or not.
In my other hand, I balance a cardboard drink carrier like it contains state secrets and sealed FBI files. The best donut place in Alexandria doesn’t mess around. Neither do I. If you’re going to show up somewhere with baked goods, you show up correctly.
A bell jingles as someone steps out of a café behind me, the smell of coffee chasing me down the block. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks with purpose. A delivery truck idles. Old Town is already fully alive, and somehow also pretending it’s not in a rush.
“Hey, Sawyer!”
I lift a hand without breaking stride. “Morning.”
“Good game last night!”
“Thanks!”
“Rough loss, man—still, go Dominion!”
I grin, reflexive and easy. “Always.”
Yesterday’s bus ride back from our away games was split between reviewing plays, breaking down tactics for the next one, and thinking about Juliette. The last part is deeply inconvenient, mostly because it has the ability to make my chest feel weird—and because no amount of film study nor any kind of distraction, really, seems to make it stop.
I’d tried to focus on footage, on mistakes, on what I could tighten up. But my brain kept wandering back to a plant shop that smells like soil and citrus, and the way the light catches Juliette when she’s busy with her plants—when she doesn’t know I’m looking.
By the time Leaf & Letter comes into view, I’m smiling like an idiot.
Using my backside, I push open the door and the bell rings above it, announcing my arrival like I’m being heralded by angels. “Happy one-week anniversary!”
Charlie looks up from a display of succulents, silver hair glowing in the morning light. “Thanks!”
