“The second period one. Where you did that spin move thing.”
“Ah, the Michigan. Yeah, I can show you that move sometime.”
“Really?”
“Really. Though maybe we should work on basic stick handling first. That move’s pretty advanced.”
Tyson nods seriously, like I’ve just given him a training plan for the Olympics. It’s the kind of focused attention most kids his age reserve for video games or cartoon characters. But hockey—hockey makes him light up in a way that reminds me of myself at that age.
I finish my coffee and check the time. “I should get going. Need to shower and change before I face Barrett’s wrath for missing team dinner.”
“You missed team dinner for us?” Blythe asks, eyes going wide like I’ve made some massive sacrifice.
“It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“But what if Coach gets mad?”
“Then I’ll run extra suicides and pretend I like it.” I ruffle her hair as I pass. “I’ve survived worse.”
Golda walks me to the door while the kids debate the proper ratio of milk to cereal for optimal sogginess prevention. It’s a surprisingly serious discussion.
“Thank you,” she says quietly once we’re out of earshot. “For staying last night. For being here this morning. For handling the toaster crisis like it’s a normal Tuesday thing.”
“Maybe it is a normal Tuesday thing now.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “You say that like it doesn’t scare you.”
“Should it?”
“Most people would run screaming from a house where kitchen appliances go to die and eight-year-olds conduct breakfast experiments at dawn.”
“Good thing I’m not most people.” I lean down to kiss her, intending it to be quick since the kids are thirty feet away arguing about cereal science. But she rises on her toes to meet me, and something about the way she kisses me back—like she’strying to say something she doesn’t have words for yet—makes me linger.
“I’ll text you from the rink,” I say when we break apart.
“You better. And Dex?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful at practice. I have a feeling Barrett’s going to work you twice as hard if you’re late.”
“Probably. Worth it though.”
Her smile at that is soft and a little surprised, like she’s still getting used to being someone’s priority.
“Look who remembered he plays professional hockey,” Roman greets me as I walk into the locker room at the practice facility.
“Barely.” I drop my gear bag on the bench between my stall and his. “Sleep’s overrated anyway.”
“How are they doing? Really?”
The question’s casual, but Roman doesn’t do casual. When he asks something, he wants a real answer.
“Better than I expected,” I tell him, starting to change into practice gear. “Tyson’s tough—tougher than any kid should have to be. The bruise looks worse today, but he’s handling it. Blythe tried to burn down the kitchen this morning, so her spirit’s definitely intact.”
“Good.” Roman nods like this settles something in his mind. “Team wanted me to ask if there’s anything else they can do. Financial help, legal connections, whatever you need.”
The offer shouldn’t surprise me—hockey teams are families, and family takes care of family. But it still hits me somewhere deep that these guys have my back without question.
