Susan stands on the porch in a cardigan and slippers, ignoring Bill’s instruction to stay out of the wind with the serene defiance of a woman who has survived one major surgery and several decades of men thinking concern was the same thing as authority.
“Text when you get home,” Susan calls.
“I will.”
“And eat real dinner. Pie is not dinner.”
Bill appears behind her. “Depends on the pie.”
“William.”
“I’m not wrong.”
I laugh as I get into the car.
The sound follows me down the driveway, already a memory.
The drive back to San Antonio takes a little under four hours.
Long enough for the pie to slide twice on the passenger-side floor mat. Long enough for the twins’ drawings to curl at the edges in the back seat. Long enough for me to think too much about Ryan’s mother in slippers, Ryan’s father pretending not to hover, and the fact that a family can start making room for you before you know whether you deserve the space.
I set the pie in the refrigerator when I get home.
The twins’ drawings go on the counter.
One shows a hockey player with a giant C on his chest and a speech bubble that reads GO TEAM. The other shows me holding a microphone, except Lily labeled it TRUTH SWORD.
Monday morning, I file the concussion-funding follow-up and take two calls from sources who have suddenly decided the Stampede story made me either dangerous or useful.
I trust neither category.
At three, Sierra texts.
Sierra: Game five tonight. You watching?
Peyton: From my couch like a stable adult.
Sierra: Bold lie.
Peyton: I have wine and sweatpants. That is stability-adjacent.
Sierra: Text me if you start narrating faceoffs to yourself.
At seven-thirty, I am under a blanket with wine, the remote, and a level of self-respect best described as conditional.
Round One. Game Five. Frost Bank Center on national television.
Ryan is impossible.
Opening draw, clean win. First shift, pressure below the circles. Three minutes in, he bangs home a rebound and the arena comes apart through my television speakers.
I sit forward before I realize I have moved.
Then my phone rings.
Bill McAllister.
The wine goes cold in my hand.
