I open my mouth, ready to interject, to tell Josh that Tuck has an away game to prepare for, but Tuck beats me to it.
“Of course, kiddo,” he says smoothly. “I was pretty good at geometry. It’s been a while, but I think I can figure it out.” He reaches for the bowl of carrots, and I catch the gleam in his eyes. He likes this, he likes helping out, being needed.
Josh beams at him, completely delighted, and my chest tightens with something deeper than gratitude.
“You could have asked me,” I say, feigning indignation as my heart canters in my chest.
“Yeah right,” he shoots back with a laugh.
I cock my head. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m good at geometry.”
Tuck’s hand lands on mine. “You have your own studying to do. He doesn’t want to take that away from you. Isn’t that right, Josh?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Plus I don’t really think you’re that good at geometry.”
Despite myself I laugh. We all do. Out of the mouth of babes.
“It’s okay, Maria. I’ve got this.”
I nod my pulse pounding. God, I love the way he steps up for my boys. Love that he doesn’t hesitate to open his home, to share his time, his patience, his quiet strength.
Honestly, I really love…Tuck.
21
Tuck
I sit behind the table with Rip and Roman, the three of us lined up like we’ve done this a hundred times before—because we have. Microphones crowd the edge of the table, logos shoved in our faces, reporters leaning forward like they might miss the quote that changes their careers.
Questions fly. We answer. Repeat.
It’s the usual post-game circus after a win, and normally I can run this routine on autopilot—smile here, joke there, give them something they can print without giving away too much. But tonight, for the first time in my life, I can’t wait for it to be over.
Why, you ask?
Oh, no big deal. Just the fact that I’m itching to get back to my hotel room so I can video call…home.
Home.
Yeah. That word hits different now.
Because ‘home’ isn’t just where I drop my bags anymore. It’s where a small ready-made family of three—or rather four if we’re counting Marbles and of course we have to count him—are living.
Temporary, of course.
But fuck.
Maybe I want to change that…
Another question gets tossed my way and I answer it, something about the third period, line chemistry, the usual hockey-speak, but my brain is not even here. Not even close.
It’s back at the house.
Maria had the WAGs over tonight to watch the game. I can picture it—her curled up on the couch, yelling at the TV, probably pretending she’s not emotionally invested while absolutely being emotionally invested. And I can’t wait to hear what she says about my goal.
My game-winning goal.
Christ.
