But as I lie in the dark, trying to fall asleep, all I can think about is the way his hands moved on that hockey stick. And how much I want to know what that might feel like directed at me.
The next week passes in careful normalcy. Tyson has practice Tuesday and Thursday—regular coaching sessions with Mike, no sign of Dex anywhere. I drop him off, watch from the stands with my laptop, pick him up afterward. Simple. Safe. The way it should be.
No coffee invitations. No dinner suggestions. No breakfast propositions.
Nothing.
It’s exactly what I expected after looking at those photos, after seeing the kind of women he actually spends time with.Whatever moment we had at the charity game—if we even had a moment—is clearly over. He’s probably embarrassed about his performance, about how the whole thing played out in front of the other parents.
Or more likely, he’s forgotten about it entirely. Moved on to his next charity obligation or model girlfriend or whatever professional hockey players do when they’re not humiliating themselves against firefighters.
“Mom, you’re doing it again,” Blythe observes Friday night over dinner.
“Doing what?”
“That face. Like you’re thinking about something that makes you mad.”
“I’m not mad. Just tired.”
Tyson looks up from his chicken. “Is it because Coach Dex hasn’t been at practice this week?”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“He always comes by during our sessions. Even when he’s not coaching, he usually stops to watch or give tips.” Tyson shrugs. “Mike said he’s been busy with team stuff.”
“I’m sure that’s what it is,” I say carefully. “Professional players have lots of commitments.”
“Yeah, but he promised to help me with my slap shot,” Tyson continues. “Maybe he forgot.”
The disappointment in his voice makes my chest tight. I knew this would happen—Tyson getting attached to someone who was never going to stick around.
“I’m sure he didn’t forget, buddy. He’s just busy.”
But as I watch my son push food around his plate, clearly deflated by the absence of his hockey hero, I can’t help but feel like this is my fault somehow. Like my awkwardness, my obvious unsuitability for his world, has somehow affected his relationship with my son.
Saturday morning arrivesgray and drizzly, perfect Seattle weather for wallowing in my own poor judgment. I drop Tyson off at the rink for practice, settle into my usual spot in the stands, and try to focus on the dental insurance script I need to finish by Monday.
“Excuse me, you’re Golda, right?”
I look up to find a woman I recognize but can’t quite place—dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, expensive athletic wear that somehow looks effortless.
“Yes?” I close my laptop, trying to figure out where I know her from.
“I’m Elliot. Brody Carter’s wife.” She gestures vaguely toward the ice. “I was at the charity game last week. That was you who sang the anthem, wasn’t it?”
“Oh. Yes, that was me.” My cheeks warm with the memory. “You’re married to one of the players?”
“Unfortunately,” she says with a grin that takes the sting out of it. “Can I sit? I was pretending to be very interested in youth hockey development over there, but I think I used the word ‘stick-handling’ wrong and now everyone’s looking at me funny.”
I gesture to the empty space beside me, immediately liking her honesty.
“That was incredible, by the way,” she continues, settling in with her coffee. “The anthem. I’ve heard a lot of people butcher that song at sporting events, but you actually made it sound like music instead of a patriotic obligation.”
“Thank you. I was terrified.”
“Really? You looked completely in control out there. Very professional.” Elliot watches the kids run drills for a moment.“So you’re obviously musically trained. Do you perform professionally? Not that I’m prying. I mean, I am prying, but in a friendly way. Brody says I have no filter.”
“Voice-over work, mostly. Commercials, some audiobooks. Nothing as exciting as singing at hockey games.”
