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Hazel looked at the tickets one more time, then clutched them to her chest. "I have to pick my jersey. I have to pick my best jersey." She slid out of Alex's arms and ran down the hallway, her socks skidding on the floor.

The apartment went quiet.

"How did you get those?" I asked.

"Called an old friend. He works for the Bruins organization."

I slid my arms around his neck. "You called someone you haven't talked to in years because a six-year-old asked for tickets at a coffee shop."

"She asked. I knew a guy."

"Thank you." I kissed him. He kissed me back, his arms coming around my waist, and when he pulled me closer his hand slid down and squeezed my butt. I laughed against his mouth.

"Hazel is twenty feet away."

"She's picking jerseys. We have forty-five seconds minimum."

TD Garden was enormous. The ice stretched below us, gleaming under the lights, and the crowd was already building toward something electric. The seats were good, close enough to hear the boards rattle when someone checked, close enough to see the players' breath in the cold air above the surface.

Hazel was vibrating. She pressed her face to the glass during warmups and narrated every drill to me and Alex like a play-by-play announcer who had swallowed a sports encyclopedia.

"Mama, that's the new defenseman. He's faster than he looks. And that's the goalie, he stops almost every shot."

The Bruins came out like they'd been waiting all week for somebody to hit. Fast, physical, every line change sharper than the last. By the middle of the first period the Garden was already loud, the building tightening around every shift like it could feel the win before the scoreboard caught up.

Hazel and Alex were a unit. She'd grab his arm before a play developed, and he'd lean down and tell her what to watch for, and they'd both sit forward at the same time, tracking the puck with identical focus. When the Bruins scored he lifted her onto his shoulders so she could see over the crowd, and she screamed into the noise like she'd been doing this her whole life. When a ref missed a call they turned to each other with the same outraged expression, and Alex held his hands up and Hazel held hers up, and for a second they were the same person in two bodies.

I watched my daughter bounce in her seat, elbow a man she'd known for two months like she'd known him her entire life, and felt something click into place. Before him, she'd loved a sport nobody in her family could talk to her about. Now she had someone who broke down plays, taped her stick, and showed up with Bruins tickets on the worst day of her season.

Our life had been the two of us for so long I'd forgotten it could look like anything else. The version without him already felt like something we'd outgrown.

During a stoppage in the third period, before the final horn, the Jumbotron camera swept the crowd. It found couples and put hearts around their faces, and the arena whooped and clapped as each pair kissed on the big screen. The camera moved through the sections, landing on one couple after another, and then it found us.

Alex's face appeared on the screen forty feet tall. Then mine. Then Hazel between us, looking up at the Jumbotron with her eyes enormous, realizing she was on the screen.

"That's us!" She pointed and laughed. "Mama, that's us!"

The crowd picked up the energy. Twenty thousand people clapping, waiting. Alex looked at me over Hazel's head. I leaned across and kissed him. His hand came to my face, and the Garden roared. Hazel was laughing between us, completely delighted.

Boston won 4-2. Hazel jumped out of her seat and threw her arms in the air and screamed until her voice cracked. Alex lifted her onto his shoulders and she pumped both fists above her head like a champion who'd won the game herself. The arena was still roaring when the lights came up, and Hazel was still talking when we filed down the concourse, recounting every goal to Alex as if he hadn't been sitting right beside her.

Outside the Garden, the air was sharp and the sidewalks were thick with Bruins jerseys. Hazel walked between us holding both our hands, swinging her arms, singing a fight song she'd learned from the crowd. The city felt alive around us, lit up with a win and the particular energy of a Saturday night in Boston when the home team has given everyone a reason to stay out late.

After we tucked Hazel in and cleared the takeout containers from the counter, I could still smell the arena on my skin. Beer, popcorn, twenty thousand people in an enclosed space. I peeled off my clothes in the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and let the hot water hit my shoulders.

I stood there with my eyes closed. The ringing in my ears was fading. The apartment was quiet, the water was hot, and for the first time in hours, nothing was loud.

The bathroom door opened.

I heard his shirt hit the floor. Belt. Jeans. The shower door opened behind me.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He stepped in. "I need a shower too."

"That was a good game," he said.

"It was." I tipped my head back under the water. "Hazel had the best time."