Page 101 of Pucking Daddy

She studies my face for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes.

Then she nods once and heads toward the stands where some of the other wives and families will be gathering for the morning skate.

I watch her go longer than I should.

"Coach." Nate's voice cuts through my distraction. "Ice is ready. Players are waiting."

Right. Hockey. The thing I am supposedly good at.

I change into my gear and make it to the rink with three minutes to spare before warm-ups start.

The ice gleams under the arena lights, freshly resurfaced and waiting. Usually the sight settles something in my chest—home, purpose, the one place where everything makes sense.

Today my mind keeps drifting to curly hair and gray eyes and the way she says I had it like she means I don't need saving.

Which she doesn't. That is the whole point.

"Halberg!" Morrison's voice echoes across the ice as I step through the boards. "You planning to join us, or you want to admire the Zamboni tracks a little longer?"

I shoot him a look that would make a rookie flinch.

Jake just grins and skates backward toward center ice, stick tapping the surface in a rhythm that matches the thud of my pulse.

Practice starts rough.

The 1-3-1 formation we have been drilling all week falls apart in the first ten minutes. Rhys misses a pass that should be automatic, sending the puck careening into the neutral zone where Chicago would eat us alive.

I call for a reset, switch to the 1-1-3 setup, and watch the D-pairs rotate through their positions.

"Settle the neutral zone!" Nate's voice carries from the bench. "Coach, we need to—"

"I see it." I do see it. I also see Zara in my peripheral vision, seated three rows up behind the glass, her attention fixed on the ice like she actually understands what she is watching.

Focus.

Morrison moves to center on Line 1, a shuffle I have been considering for weeks but have not pulled the trigger on.

The change clicks something into place—his skating smooths out, his positioning sharpens. The team notices. Energy shifts.

I run them through board-battle drills until sweat drips and complaints start. Then I run them again.

"Penalty kill meeting in twenty," I call out as they filter off the ice. "Nobody leaves early."

The meeting runs long.

I walk them through adjustments, field questions from the younger guys, watch Morrison demonstrate proper stick positioning for a power play defense. Normal. Necessary.

The kind of work that builds championships.

Except nothing feels normal with the gala still playing on repeat in my head. With Zara's I had it echoing alongside the photographer's sneer and the way her hand has felt in mine—solid, certain, refusing to let go.

"You okay?" Jake materializes beside me as the room empties out. His voice is low enough not to carry. "You seemed... elsewhere out there."

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "It's handled."