She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing risks, calculating costs. But then she nods, just once.
“I’d like that too.”
This time when I lean in, she tilts her face toward me, eyes closing.
I pause for a second because fuck—she’s actually going to let me kiss her. After all the rejections, all the careful distance, all those nights listening to her voice through my headphones, she’s here. Waiting for me.
I’ve kissed a lot of women. But none of them ever made my hands shake like this.
Then I kiss her, and she’s soft and warm and better than anything I imagined.
“Wow,” I manage, eloquent as always.
“Much better than last time,” she agrees with a smile that makes my chest tight.
“So... does this mean you’ll go on an actual date with me?” I ask, because apparently over thirty years of life experience hasn’t taught me how to play it cool. “Just us? No kids, no team, no s’more disasters?”
Her smile widens. “I think I’d like that.”
“Friday?” I suggest. “Elliot already volunteered to babysit, actually.”
“Did she now?” Golda laughs. “Am I the only one who didn’t know this was happening?”
“Oh, the entire team knew before I did,” I assure her. “There’s an ongoing betting pool. Varga’s got money on us making it official before the end of the month.”
A crash from outside, followed by Blythe’s distinctive voice announcing, “THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT MY FAULT! THE MARSHMALLOW WAS POSSESSED!” reminds us that we’re not actually alone in the universe.
“I should probably go rescue whichever of your teammates has been assigned marshmallow duty,” Golda sighs.
“Probably,” I agree, but I steal one more quick kiss before letting her go. “Friday, though? That’s a yes?”
“That’s a yes,” she confirms, and the simple phrase feels like winning game seven of the playoffs.
13
GOLDA
The certified mailslip is waiting in my mailbox when I get home from grocery shopping Tuesday afternoon, that ominous green card that means someone has sent me something I probably don’t want to receive. The return address makes my stomach drop: Evan’s lawyer.
I have to drive to the post office to pick it up, the kids chattering in the backseat about their day while dread settles like a stone in my chest. Whatever’s in that envelope, it’s not good news.
“Mom, can we get ice cream after this?” Blythe asks as we pull into the parking lot.
“We’ll see,” I manage, my standard response when I can’t focus on anything beyond the immediate crisis.
Inside the post office, I sign for the thick manila envelope with hands that shake slightly. The postal worker gives me a sympathetic look—she’s probably seen enough certified mail deliveries to recognize legal documents when she sees them.
“Bad news?” she asks kindly.
“Probably,” I admit.
I wait until we’re home and the kids are settled with snacks and homework before opening it. Inside the cover page reads: Petition for Custody Schedule Modification.
The words blur together as I scan the pages, but certain phrases jump out at me specifically: “Mother’s recent erratic behavior,” “exposure to inappropriate social situations,” “children would benefit from increased paternal stability,” “current custody arrangement no longer serves minors’ best interests.”
Mediation date: Thursday. Two days from now.
He wants the kids every weekend. All of them. Which means no more hockey, no more Saturday practices, no more Sunday games. No more of the thing that’s brought joy back into their lives—and mine.
