She kisses me again, deeper this time, and I can feel her pouring everything into it—her fear, her hope, her trust.
“Okay,” she nods. “Yes. All of it.”
Morning hitslike a bad check to the boards. For a second, I’m completely lost—this isn’t my place, isn’t some hotel room after an away game. Then Golda shifts against me, and it all comes back.
Her bed. Her house. Last night.
My phone says 6:15. Early, but not crazy early considering the kids need to get to school and I’ve got morning skate at 10. I slide out of bed, trying not to wake Golda. After yesterday’s shit show, she needs the sleep.
I grab my pants from the chair and figure I can at least get coffee started while she sleeps.
The machine’s just finishing when I hear feet on the kitchen floor. Blythe appears in the doorway, hair sticking up like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket, eyes going wide when she sees me.
“COACH DEX!” Full volume, as usual. “YOU’RE STILL HERE!”
“Morning voice, remember?” I say automatically. “Yeah, I stayed over. Wanted to make sure you guys were okay after yesterday.”
She squints at me, clearly not buying it. I’m already regretting not grabbing my shirt from Golda’s bedroom floor.
“DID YOU HAVE A SLEEPOVER?”
Christ. “Something like that. You hungry? I can make toast. Maybe eggs if you’re feeling brave.”
“I WANT PANCAKES! WITH SPRINKLES!”
“Indoor voice,” Tyson says, shuffling in behind her. He stops when he sees me. “Coach Dex? Why are you here?”
Perfect.
“I stayed over,” I tell him, going for casual. “After everything yesterday.”
Tyson gets it immediately. His eyes widen for a second, then he just shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Cool. Can you make coffee? Mom’s impossible before coffee.”
“Already done.” I point to the full pot. “Pancakes are apparently happening. With sprinkles.”
“Mix is in the top cabinet,” Tyson says, climbing onto a stool. “Sprinkles are hidden behind the flour because Blythe would dump them on everything if she could reach.”
“I WOULD NOT!” Blythe protests, then immediately proves him right. “OKAY MAYBE I WOULD. SPRINKLES MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER!”
I laugh despite myself. This is... nice. Weird as hell, but nice.
By the time Golda appears—hair messy, looking like she’s not sure where she is—I’ve got a decent stack of pancakes going and both kids are settled at the table.
“Morning,” I say, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I’m shirtless in her kitchen after spending the night doing things that would make a hockey locker room blush.
The look she gives me—seeing me here, making breakfast for her kids—does something to my chest I’m not ready to think about.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says, taking the coffee mug I offer.
“Wanted to.” I steal a quick kiss, aware of our audience. “Apparently sprinkles are a breakfast requirement.”
“THEY’RE VITAL NUTRIENTS!” Blythe announces through a mouth full of rainbow pancake.
“Swallow first,” Golda tells her, settling at the table.
The next bit flows easier than it should—me packing lunches while Golda handles the usual morning chaos of backpacks and teeth brushing.
“Ten minutes,” Golda calls, checking the clock. “Tyson, you find your math folder?”
