He glances at his mom, who gives an encouraging nod despite her own lingering caution. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Fair warning—Blythe has probably already told everyone your most embarrassing stories and invited the entire team to your next birthday.”
He groans, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “She always does that.”
“What can I say? She’s a social butterfly. You’re more of a...”
“Strategic hawk,” Golda supplies, which makes Tyson stand a little straighter.
“Exactly,” I agree. “Different approaches, same game.”
The backyard is in full swing when we emerge. Blythe, as predicted, is the center of attention, currently teaching Rodriguez and three other players a dance routine that involvesa lot of spinning and what appears to be mimicking various animals.
“That’s her ‘jungle boogie,’” Tyson informs me with brotherly resignation. “The monkey parts get weird.”
“TYSON!” Blythe spots us and waves frantically. “COME DO THE ELEPHANT PART! I NEED YOUR STOMPING SKILLS!”
“Aaaand that’s my cue to pretend I don’t know her,” he mutters, but he’s smiling as he makes his way over.
I guide Golda toward the food setup, where Brody is holding court at the grill. “Everything good in the house?” he asks quietly as he hands us plates.
“All good. The memorabilia room was a hit.”
“Thought it might be.” His eyes move to where Tyson has reluctantly joined the dance circle. “Smart kid. Reminds me of my nephew—always figuring out the angles before he commits.”
“He just needed a minute to calibrate.”
“Don’t we all,” Brody replies with more perception than I’d like, then turns to Golda. “How are you holding up? I know we can be a lot all at once.”
“I’ve done studio sessions with metal bands,” she says with a smile that’s starting to look more genuine. “This is positively serene by comparison.”
“Wait until the karaoke starts,” Brody warns. “Rodriguez brought his machine, and he will not be denied.”
“Karaoke?” Golda’s eyes widen slightly, and I catch something that might be interest mixed with the concern.
“Strictly voluntary,” I assure her quickly. “And most of these guys can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“It’s true,” Luca confirms, appearing beside us with a plate piled impossibly high. “I am banned from singing after The Incident.”
“We don’t speak of The Incident,” Brody says solemnly. “There was structural damage.”
Golda laughs—really laughs—and something in my chest eases at the sound. She’s starting to relax, bit by bit, her natural warmth emerging as she discovers that behind the intimidating hockey exteriors are mostly overgrown kids with questionable fashion sense and worse singing voices.
The afternoon unfolds with yard games and challenges that Blythe approaches with the competitive spirit of an Olympic athlete combined with the coordination of a newborn foal. Tyson, more reserved but no less engaged, forms an unlikely alliance with Varga for cornhole.
“They’re good with him,” Golda says, appearing at my side with a beer she offers to me.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, watching as Varga demonstrates proper cornhole technique with surprising patience. “He brings out the best in people. That quiet focus thing.”
“Gets that from me,” she says with a small smile. “Blythe’s chaos energy is all her father.”
It’s the first time she’s mentioned Evan without tension tightening her features. Progress, maybe.
“You holding up okay?” I ask. “Not too overwhelming?”
“Better than I expected.” She watches Blythe now attempting to teach Rodriguez some elaborate clapping game. “It’s good for them to see this. Normal social stuff without having to worry about...”
She trails off, but her meaning is clear. Without having to worry about their father’s judgment, his disapproval, his ability to turn even good things into weapons.
