“Right. That’s why you’ve been playing like shit all week and checking your phone every thirty seconds.” He pauses. “She’s coming, right? The hockey mom?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Dude, after what we heard at the charity game, I was looking forward to some actual talent at karaoke night.”
“I doubt she’ll do karaoke for you.”
“Well if she does she’ll probably outsing all of us combined. Which, granted, isn’t saying much, but still.”
More teammates arrive, the backyard filling with comfortable chaos. Varga appears with his usual scowl, which softens marginally when Elliot hands him a beer. Luca comes bearing some elaborate frosted cake that he definitely made himself but will deny if anyone asks.
“Team content,” Kyla explains when she shows up with professional photography equipment. “Social media’s been dead this week. I need heartwarming BBQ material or the engagement metrics drop.”
“No cameras around Golda and the kids if they come,” I say immediately. “The ex is a problem.”
Her expression sharpens with interest. “What kind of problem?”
“The ‘he’s a cop who uses his badge to intimidate’ kind.”
“Got it.” She nods, instantly professional. “No photos of them. But you’re still fair game, Malone. Especially if you stop moping around like someone stole your favorite stick.”
“I don’t mope.”
“You’ve been moping all week,” Varga interjects, surprising everyone by joining the conversation. “It’s depressing. Like watching a sad Russian movie.”
“Thanks for that imagery.”
Varga continues with his usual bluntness. “This week your playing is worse. Much worse. So either fix the problem or find a new woman.”
“It’s not that simple?—”
“It’s always that simple. You want her? Fight for her. You don’t want her? Stop making the rest of us suffer through your terrible hockey.”
Before I can respond to Varga’s brutal assessment, my phone buzzes.
We’re here. Parked out front.
My stomach does a weird flip-flop thing, relief and terror warring for dominance.
“Go,” Brody says, noticing my distraction. “Before you cause an accident.”
I find Golda at the front of the house, helping Tyson and Blythe out of the car. She’s wearing a simple sundress that makes my brain short-circuit for a second, her hair loose around her shoulders. But there’s something guarded in her expression, like she’s braced for problems.
Tyson’s in what I recognize as his “nice” jeans—the ones without hockey-induced holes in the knees. Blythe, predictably, appears to be dressed for a completely different event, featuring a tutu over leggings and what looks like a superhero cape fashioned from a pillowcase.
“Hey,” I say, eloquence clearly my strong suit today.
“Hey yourself.” Golda’s smile seems genuine but careful. “Sorry we’re late. Someone had a wardrobe emergency.” She glances meaningfully at Blythe.
“It was an emergency,” Blythe corrects seriously. “There wasn’t enough sparkle.”
“The sparkle is definitely sufficient now,” I assure her solemnly, noting the liberal application of glitter across basically everything she’s wearing. “You might actually be over-sparkled.”
“Impossible,” she declares. “There’s no such thing as too much sparkle. It’s science.”
“Can’t argue with science.” I turn to Tyson, who’s hanging back slightly, that same cautious assessment I recognize from his first hockey practice. Then I notice Golda doing the same thing—scanning the street, the yard, like she’s checking for threats.
“Everything okay?” I ask quietly.
