Page 79 of Pucking Daddy

"They can't do that. The photos don't show—"

"They show a man caught in a 'tryst' with his daughter's caretaker. Their words, not mine." His voice is clipped, professional, but I can hear the tension underneath. "They're requesting an expedited review of the custody arrangement."

"Expedited meaning—"

"Meaning the hearing that was six weeks out is now potentially three weeks. Maybe sooner, depending on the judge."

The walls close in. I make myself breathe, the way I told Kowalski to breathe just minutes ago. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Control what you can control.

"What do we do?"

"We counter-file. Document the stability of your home, the quality of care Lily receives, the consistency of your presence in her life." A pause. "The marriage would help. Significantly."

"It's happening. Soon."

"How soon?"

I think of Zara sitting across from me last night. Of the way she is with Lily, the way my daughter’s face lights up whenever she walks into a room.

"As soon as I can make it happen," I say.

I end the call and stand there in the tunnel, phone gripped in my hand, the weight of everything pressing down.

The custody battle I need to win. The media exposure I can't control. The woman in my house who has somehow become the center of all of it.

When I walk back to the ice, Nate takes one look at my face and calls for water break without being asked.

Practice ends badly.

Two more botched plays, a near-injury during a board drill, general sloppiness that would have been unacceptable on a normal day.

I keep it together long enough to run through film notes with the assistants, handle the press availability with monosyllabic non-answers that make Simone wince, and escape to my car before anyone can ask follow-up questions.

The drive home takes longer than usual. Rush hour traffic, construction on Seventh, a fender-bender that backs up three blocks.

I sit in the gridlock and think about Lily. About whether she'd heard anything at school. Kids are cruel, and the internet moves fast.

By the time I park in the garage, my shoulders ache from tension. My jaw aches from clenching. The elevator ride to our floor feels endless.

But when I open the door—

Zara's voice, humming something soft and low, drifts from the living room. I follow it around the corner and stop.

She is on her knees by the bookshelf, arranging Lily's collection of picture books by color. My daughter sits beside her, chattering about dragons, holding up a particularly battered copy of her favorite.

"This one has the fire-breathing song," Lily announces. "You said maybe you can learn the words."

"I say I'd try," Zara corrects, smiling. "No promises about hitting the notes."

They haven't noticed me yet. I let myself watch—the easy way Zara listens to Lily's rambling, the patience in her hands as she straightens spines and adjusts placement.

The scene is so domestic, so normal, that the chaos of the day feels suddenly distant.

Then Lily spots me.

"Daddy!" She launches herself across the room, crashing into my legs with the force of a small, determined rocket.

"Zara and me organized the books! And we made snacks! And she taught me a word in sign language!"