We’re not paying for anything. I’m paying for everything. But correcting him will only start a fight I can’t win.
Fine.
Don’t be difficult about this, Golda. I’m their father.
I set the phone down with shaking hands. He’s going to be at the rink. Watching practice, watching me, cataloging everything he can use against me later.
“Mom, Tyson’s being mean about the movie!” Blythe appears in the kitchen doorway. “He says we can’t watch Frozen again!”
“We’ve watched it twelve times this month,” Tyson protests. “Can’t we watch something different?”
“Frozen is PERFECT and you have NO TASTE!”
Their bickering fades into background noise as I stare at my phone, considering how to navigate tomorrow. I’ll have to be completely professional at the rink. Can’t give Evan any ammunition about inappropriate relationships or poor judgment.
I pick up my phone again, to send a different message this time.
Kids will be with their dad Saturday night. Turns out I’m free for dinner after all.
I stare at the text to Dex for a full minute. Part of me wants to cancel, to avoid any complications. But another part of me is tired of letting Evan’s threats control every decision I make.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
That’s great news. Looking forward to it.
Simple. Professional. Like we’re discussing a business meeting instead of... whatever this is.
Saturday morning arrivesgray and drizzly, and I’m up before my alarm, anxiety twisting in my stomach. The kids are excited about practice, chattering through breakfast about drills and scrimmages, completely oblivious to my panic.
“I want to show Dad my crossovers,” Tyson announces. “Coach Dex says I’m really improving.”
My chest tightens. Coach Dex says this, Coach Dex taught me that. Everything with these kids comes back to their hockey coach, and in a few hours they’re going to be their usual enthusiastic selves in front of their father who’s coming to “evaluate the program.”
We arrive at the rink with time to spare. I help them with their gear while scanning the parking lot obsessively, but Evan’s car isn’t there yet. Small mercies.
Practice proceeds normally. Dex runs drills, offers corrections, high-fives good plays. I try to work on my laptop but keep glancing toward the entrance, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At 10:30, twenty minutes before practice ends, Evan walks in.
He’s in uniform—full police gear, badge visible, radio crackling occasionally. Not weekend dad attire. This is Detective Adler, here on official business to assess whether this program is suitable for his children.
He doesn’t wave or acknowledge me. Just finds a seat with a clear view of the ice and starts taking notes in a small notebook.
On the ice, Tyson spots his father and his face lights up with excitement. He waves enthusiastically before turning back to the drill, skating with extra intensity now that he has an audience.
My heart pounds as I watch Evan’s pen move across the pages. What is he writing? What infractions is he documenting? What reasons is he finding to shut this down?
When practice ends and the kids start skating toward the boards, Dex begins his usual routine of helping with gear and chatting with parents. He has no idea that one of the men watching from the stands is about to become a problem.
I make my way down to collect the kids, moving carefully, professionally. Just another hockey mom doing pickup.
“Good practice today,” Dex says as I approach. “Tyson’s really getting those transitions down.”
“He’s been working hard,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
Dex finishes helping another kid with his skates, then skates over closer to where I’m standing. Casual. Friendly. Completely unaware that we’re being observed and analyzed.
“So,” he says, voice dropping slightly, “seven tonight is still good?”
